Chapter Text
Down and out, and out of luck
We're spinning, but the needle's stuck
Let's go have some fun before
They put us in the ground.
—Sinners, Barns Courtney
“Can’t I fry him just a little?” Kaon asks, wheedlingly. “I promise I’ll only blow a couple fuses.”
“No,” Tarn says.
Tarn wants to say yes, but can’t. Their prisoner… No, their passenger, isn’t on the list. He was, once. He’s betrayed Megatron more times than Tarn can count. Every time he gets off with a warning and a little roughing up. For reasons beyond Tarn—good, strategically sound reasons, surely, for Lord Megatron’s mind is a machine of deadly precision—their illustrious leader has elected to keep the backstabbing wretch alive. Just because Tarn wants to put on his most persuasive voice and pry the details of that out of their passenger doesn’t mean he can. The list is there for a reason. There’s an order to these things. Without order, what are they?
Air Commander Starscream, second in command of the Decepticon armada, lies in stasis on the Peaceful Tyranny’s medical slab. Nickel pokes and prods at the mess of his internals. None of the damage was inflicted by the DJD. They found Starscream floating in the dark outside the wreck of an abandoned station, barely warmer than the surrounding shrapnel. His left leg's shattered, his wing torn nearly off. He looks as if Tesarus had a go at half his abdominal plating. The other half’s caved in. It’s a miracle he survived.
If Tarn believed in miracles. Which he doesn’t.
Tarn doesn’t know what to do with him. Starscream, on his ship, in his space, bleeding fuel on his medbay floor. The only thing to do is deliver him back to Megatron, wherever Megatron is. Until then, the DJD's stuck with him.
Nickel balances Starscream’s fuel pump in her hand, contemplatively. “I don’t know what hit him, but it tore him up like a plasma grenade up the aft port.”
“Can you repair him?” Tarn asks.
“Of course. But if you’re going to rip him up again, it seems like a waste.”
“No one is going to rip him up. Even if the Air Commander’s loyalty is… Questionable… Lord Megatron has seen fit to remove him from the list. If Megatron sees some value in him, then I suppose value there must be.”
“Value, huh?” Nickel’s optics slide to Starscream’s shapely and miraculously untouched cockpit. Tarn's scandalized. Nickel shakes the fuel pump at him. “Don’t you look at me like that, Tarn. Even I’ve heard the rumors of why Megatron keeps him around.”
“Starscream is a skilled military tactician!” Tarn says, stiffly. “Without his support at the siege of Kefahuchi—”
“Mm-hm. A tactician with pretty wings and a tight little—”
“Nickel.”
Kaon snickers.
“That is entirely inappropriate,” Tarn says. “Lord Megatron would never succumb to such shallow vanities. Put him back together and we’ll do our duty to our leader by returning his second in command.”
“Returning a knife for his back, more like,” Nickel says, but goes to work welding Starscream’s vacuum-cracked lines. Tarn frowns under his mask, not that anyone sees it.
“I’ll be careful,” Kaon promises, “only a tiny zap when he’s awake to feel it.”
“You do that and I’ll have you scrubbing every floor on this ship clean,” Tarn tells him.
“You know I can’t see the floors, Tarn!”
“Then you’d have to do it over and over again until I was satisfied, wouldn’t you?”
Kaon wilts. “Yes, sir. But—”
“What, Kaon?”
“What if he attacks me? Can I zap him then?”
Starscream is more likely to shoot Kaon right in his empty optical sockets than engage in an up-close physical fight. Tarn sighs. “Intrafactional rules of engagement apply. No unprovoked violence, and no maiming.”
“Yes sir!”
Satisfied, Kaon goes off to play with the pet. Then it’s only Tarn, Nickel, and Starscream’s unmoving form. Starscream really is a wreck. Without the standard issue locator beacon pulsing under his armor, they never would have found him.
What fine armor it is, too.
Tarn’s interest is nothing so crass as Starscream’s cockpit, no matter how shapely it may be. Starscream is a living relic from the earliest moments of the revolution. Right from the beginning, he was there, and it’s printed all over his frame. He might have had refits in the intervening vorns, but his chassis is one hundred percent golden age cold-constructed. It’s obvious in the facial molds. Not too many of them around, these days. Tarn’s fingers itch greedily.
Starscream was there when Megatron rose up from the pits in a blaze of glory. He slaughtered the senate with his own hands. The senate, like they were no more than Dead End gutter trash. It sends a hot pulse through Tarn’s frame. Starscream was glorious, once.
Somewhere along the way, things went wrong. Starscream betrayed Megatron, or he hadn’t. He was on the list, then he wasn’t. The question of whether Megatron and his second in command are interfacing is obviously salacious rumor spread by the Autobot disinformation network, but it’s never been a secret that their relationship is… Tumultuous.
Maybe Starscream can enlighten him on the finer details when he’s in one piece.
Tarn finds himself restless as he leaves the medbay behind. He doesn’t realize where he’s going until he’s returned to his quarters and found himself eying up the collection, thinking how perfect Starscream would look displayed between the statue of Megatron in his mining instar and the first editions. Starscream, living history, lacquered and polished.
For a klik Tarn considers Starscream’s dead frame hung there. He discards the thought. A greyed corpse wouldn’t do at all. Starscream’s flashy. Colorless, he’s barely Starscream—though it’d be better if he were restored to his original paint job. How best to display him among the artifacts? Suspended, wings spread, as if weightless or in a dive? One or two spotlights trained on him to make him gleam? Tarn would have to install mounts in the ceiling and on Starscream’s chassis, if he wants the frame to last under the strain.
Surely, too, Starscream is too proud to submit to such treatment without a fight. Tarn might have to disable certain motor relays to make him posable. He imagines adjusting Starscream just so, limbs moving without resistance. Or maybe he would submit if Tarn talked him into it? Starscream’s known for his vanity. If he knew he was appreciated…
Tarn shakes his head, appalled at himself. What is he thinking? Starscream may not technically be in his chain of command, but he’s still Megatron’s second. He’s not on the list, he’s a Decepticon officer in good standing, and Tarn can’t go indulging his whims wherever he likes. One addiction—though he’s loath to admit it exists—is enough. The collection is… A hobby, nothing more. Tarn’s playing the part of the archivist for the day Megatron reigns victorious. Starscream happens to be of historical importance. That’s all.
Tarn eyes the gap between the statue and the first editions one more time, dismisses it, and goes on to more important things.
Starscream has a lot of experience waking up in medbays.
This one’s unfamiliar. It doesn’t make much difference. They all have the same bright lights, the same reek of cleaner and spilt fuel. He squints at the ceiling where someone’s missed a few stray drops of energon that have splashed and stuck. It’s a friendly medbay, which Starscream judges by the fact that he’s neither restrained, nor in a cell, nor being actively disassembled as someone asks him questions. It’s a bit of a surprise, to be honest. After the last things he remembers, he hadn’t expected to come online again.
A square green face pops into the corner of Starscream’s field of vision. “You’re awake, are you?”
The medic has the oddest little frame Starscream’s ever seen, all squat and square as his face, with wheeled feet. Lights and dials litter his chest. He’s hardly bigger than a minibot. Starscream sits up, cautiously, but the medic’s competent. He’s been put back together well, if not prettily. It’ll be awhile before he’s not covered in ugly welds. The medic looks at Starscream like he’s waiting for Starscream to say something.
“Where am I?” Starscream asks.
The medic tips his head back and groans. “Thank you. The words I was looking for were thank you, Nickel, for welding my sorry aft back together. You’re just like the rest of these glitches. I don’t know why I bother.”
Well, Nickel’s a medic by mouth, if not by frame. Starscream would point out that as second in command of the Decepticon armada he doesn’t have to thank anyone, but annoying the medics is never a good idea. He looks his own frame over. “You’re certainly more attentive than those butchers onboard the Nemesis. I’ll give you that.”
“Two words, Screamy. Thank. You.”
Starscream’s wings rattle in affront. “You dare—”
Then Tarn walks in and Starscream’s too busy trying not to die of a spark attack to remember what he was doing. This ship. This is Tarn’s ship, the Decepticon Justice Division’s ship: the Peaceful Tyranny. No wonder the medic’s not afraid of him. The DJD must’ve wanted Starscream in top form before they started in on messily eviscerating him. His combat protocols roar to life and light Tarn up red in his targeting HUD. If Starscream’s dying here and now, he’s taking them all with him.
“Bothering my medic, are you, Air Commander Starscream?” Tarn asks.
What?
“What?” Starscream asks, blankly.
“Of all people, you should know better than to be less than grateful to the dedicated medics who keep our forces running,” Tarn says. “You were in quite the state when we found you, Starscream. Why, without Nickel, I find it likely you’d be one more piece of inert space debris. She really does work wonders.”
Starscream’s processor’s stalled out. Possibly he sustained damage in the violence, because nothing makes sense. His null rays ache with suppressed charge. He latches onto the only thing he can and frowns around the unfamiliar pronoun. “She?”
“Yes, we rescued poor Nickel from the Prion colony. They did things differently there—but we couldn’t have hoped for a more dedicated medic.”
Nickel throws her hands in the air. “At least someone appreciates me.”
Tarn chuckles. It sends a cold shiver down Starscream’s backstrut. “In any case, welcome to the Peaceful Tyranny. The ship is small but its accommodations adequate, though I fear you’ll be forced to share my quarters for the duration. We’re en route to the Nemesis, but it’ll be some time until we arrive. The Nemesis’ engines, you see, far outstrip our own.”
“So, you’re not here to murder me?” Is what falls out of Starscream’s mouth.
He wishes he could stuff it back in. Tarn laughs—a low, full laugh—and the worst of it is, Tarn’s voice is beautiful. It’s deep and rich as the energon gels that used to sparkle in Iacon shopfronts, the ones no one makes anymore. That Tarn could use it to kill him doesn’t make it any less so. Starscream understands how a mech could listen to it until they die.
“That rather depends on you, doesn’t it, Starscream?” Tarn asks.
Starscream puts on his best sneer. “I’m as loyal to the Decepticon cause as I ever was.”
“Then we won’t have a problem, will we? Come, now. I’ll show you where you’ll be staying.”
Starscream’s too shellshocked to argue as Tarn leads him through the Peaceful Tyranny’s halls. His battle systems are on high alert. It’s a force of will to keep them from coming online. He’s living the nightmare of ninety-nine percent of Decepticon troops. The one percent remaining are a bunch of fanatic loyalists who want to join the DJD themselves. Nobody meets them in the hall, but Starscream swears he spots Helex and Tesarus through a half-open door. It doesn’t bear thinking about.
The first thing Starscream sees in Tarn’s quarters is a life-size statue of Megatron. Two life-size statues of Megatron, in miner and soldier instars. He comes to a dead stop.
“No,” Starscream says.
Tarn looks back. “No? No what?”
“This!” Starscream waves a hand at the whole situation and only then realizes there’s more of it. The greyed frames hung on the wall are of Megatron’s miner clade. There are artifacts. He’s sure each of the pitted weapons meticulously mounted and labelled is one Megatron used in the gladiator pits. How does Tarn get anything done? Does he recharge under the statues’ watchful gaze? He probably looks at them while he touches himself at night, the hideous, obsessive glitch. “What is all this?”
“A hobby.”
“A hobby?”
“A collection of historically important items. This seems a safe place to store them. One day the war will be over, and someone must keep the chronicle of how it came to be.”
The war will never be over, Starscream thinks, but isn’t stupid enough to say. “And that’s you?”
“Someone has to take it on.”
They really don’t. Starscream stalks up to the nearest statue of Megatron—the soldier—and frowns at it. Not only is it life-size, it’s painstakingly accurate. Every angle, every seam. All that’s missing are the chips and dents that Megatron never cares enough to buff out. This is Megatron the conqueror, rendered ideal.
Starscream’s lip curls. “And statues of him are historically important, are they?”
“Lord Megatron is worth all due respect—”
“Mm. And that’s why you keep them in your quarters. Where you recharge.” Starscream casts a glance sideways. It’s like he thought. The berth is visible from here. “Why, Tarn, I never knew the extent of your… Devotion.”
“Starscream,” Tarn says, warningly.
He probably shouldn’t antagonize Megatron’s head executioner. Primus, this is really happening. A small part of Starscream’s mind spins in screaming circles. “I don’t mean anything by it. He’s always cut a striking figure, even when he was a fresh-faced little miner writing poetry.”
Some of the aggression bleeds out of Tarn’s stance. In its place is a note of uncertainty. “You know his poetry?”
“Yes, all those pretty little lines. My spark sings in the crushing dark/ for the surface that rises/ untouchable, unknowable…”
“From Bounded Space. His first collection.”
“Not his best work. Juvenilia, really, but there’s a certain fire.”
“I’m aware.” That odd note in Tarn’s voice remains. When Starscream turns to look at him, there’s nothing to be made of Tarn’s expression—not behind that scarred Decepticon-insignia mask—but something of it lives in his body language. Tarn doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands. “Did you… Know him, then? When he was a miner?”
“Me? No. I met him in Kaon. He was a gladiator by that point. He still had his miner’s corolla—he used to flare it after a battle, to show where he came from. I never was clear on what it was for. Echolocation underground, or something. He had it removed, eventually. Too delicate.”
Starscream looks at the statue of Megatron in his miner’s instar, corolla furled invisible under his helm. It’s close to the way he looked, then, but too smooth. Too polished. Thanks to his previous job he’d have had better armor than most, but the cold-constructed always got the worst grades of metal. The first time they’d met was under the arena in Kaon. Megatron was having an arm reattached after a bout. He’d still smelled of spilt fuel and coolant, heady in that dim room, and Starscream had…
Well. It’s embarrassing to look back on, now.
Starscream taps the miner statue on the chest, where the spark chamber would be. Between the whiplash of waking up here and Tarn’s truly regrettable choices in décor, he’s in a strange mood. Not settled in his own form—but when is he ever?
It all seems so long ago.
“All the more reason for these things to be preserved,” Tarn says. Starscream startles. If he’s absentminded enough to be talking to himself out loud, he’s farther gone than he thought. “History is a ship with a broken navsystem. If we forget where we’ve come from, we’ll only return there again.”
Starscream wishes he was wrong.