Fire in the Sky

He heard a voice. He didn’t recognize it. And he heard Skywarp’s soft voice, answering. “I don’t know.”



“But there’s a possibility?” the strange voice said. Starscream’s world was still black. He couldn’t see. He couldn’t feel ground under his feet, or under his back or anywhere, as if he were somehow floating in space. Was he dead?



In space. Oh. Skyfire. And he felt Skyfire’s explosion again. He could feel, dimly, faintly, a body responding. His body? Something, twitching. Something, making a low animal noise of pain.



“Yes.” Thundercracker’s voice. Were they both here with him? Were they dead, too? Where was Skyfire?



The strange voice sounded angry. “They knew it was not allowed. There’s a reason for it. This.”



He heard that noise of pain again, louder this time, closer. “Starscream,” he heard Skywarp’s gentle voice, “we have to know. Did you spark link with Skyfire.” He felt his whole body shudder, finally felt the yielding surface of a repair cradle underneath him. “I--.”



“Yes.” Thundercracker interpreted. “That’s a yes.”



The strange voice sounded hard. “He will not survive. You shall have to accustom yourselves to being a Binary.”



“No,” Skywarp said. “We are a Trine. He will survive.”



“It will be harder to adjust if you try to keep him with you.”



“Then,” Thundercracker said, his voice angry, “we’ll adjust hard. He is one of us.”



“I can order you to.”



“Order us, then. I will defy it.”



“I will not leave him, either,” Skywarp added.



“I will give you a cycle to say your farewell and rethink your decision,” the voice said. A Seeker, it must be. A trainer. Starscream heard footsteps walk away, numbly.



Starscream felt a hand close over one of his. He splayed his fingers away. “Let me go,” he moaned. “My fault.” If only he had not… HE had been the one who had wanted to spark link. Skyfire had even given him a chance to hesitate. To rethink. Completely unlike Skyfire. He’d gone ahead anyway. His foolishness. His vanity. His…desire. His throat whined again. It felt like a separate part of him—not connected. Not him. Just this device in which he, a ball of failure, writhed.



Skywarp’s hand tightened on his, regardless of his effort. “You are one of us, Starscream. We will not leave you."



“I want to die.” His voice sounded childish. “I want to be with Skyfire.”



Thundercracker’s voice was rough. “We need you here with us. Please.” Thundercracker never said please. His optics came back online. Repair bay. Thundercracker and Skywarp, their faces full of grief and concern. A double burden—they had lost one of their quaternions, and stood on the brink of losing another. Too much.



“I killed him!” The words tore out of his chest in a ragged sob. “If I had not, Skyfire…”



“You really think you changed the way Skyfire flew?” Thundercracker’s voice was soft, but his logic was his usual hardness.



Skywarp added, “Starscream, you were with him. In a way neither of us were. You could feel him, but he also could feel you. Don’t you think you comforted him?”



Starscream sobbed, but their words penetrated. The spark link hadn’t changed, probably one bit, how Skyfire had flown his Navigant. It hadn’t made Starscream fly badly. And if…and if it allowed him to share Skyfire, to be with him in his moment of fear and pain and death, if he brought any comfort at all….



It was a thin shred of hope to grab onto. But still. He was a poor substitute for Skyfire. “You would rather it had been me than him.”



Thundercracker sighed, impatient. “We’d rather it had been neither of you. It’s cruel to even think of a choice.”



“But you had interf—interfaced with him and…not with me….” His voice trailed off. It was too much effort to say the words.



Skywarp laughed, embarrassed. “You know how hard it is to refuse Skyfire something he wants.” He caught himself. “…Wanted.” His face crumpled.



Thundercracker added, “He wanted to be your first. He asked us to wait.”



“Was he your…?”



Another embarrassed squirm. Thundercracker answered, “Guess we all have that in common.”



“But I was the last.”



A quick flash of anger crossed Thundercracker’s face. “Stop looking for ways to feel bad about this. Dishonors his memory to have you make it all about you.”



Starscream flinched as if Thundercracker had slapped him. Skywarp added, trying to soften the blow, “Starscream, we have enough grief right now without looking for more. How can we make you realize that you are not a lesser of us? How can we prove that to you?” Skywarp’s face hovered close to his, so familiar. So close to Skyfire’s face in shape. Even the smile, he knew, would be the same, if Skywarp ever smiled again. He reached up with his free hand which shook, and traced the too-familiar lines. Primus. Seeing his quaternions would be a constant reminder of Skyfire. “Sky,” he said, leaving the name unfinished. Skywarp leaned in and kissed him, gently. Not the aggressive sexual kiss Skyfire had given him, but a hesitant one, seeking only to comfort him. Starscream’s arms came up, trembling, pulling Skywarp on top of him, wrapping his arms around his quaternion’s body, clinging to him, all of his remaining strength pushed to his arms to keep Skywarp with him. He released the kiss as his energy faded, ebbed; burying his face in Skywarp’s shoulder.



A hand lifted his jaw, and Thundercracker’s mouth was on his, rougher, but still full of desire. Starscream whimpered, tears overspilling his optics. He was too weak to respond. He felt his vision blurring out. He forced some words to his vocalizer. “I think,” he said, choppily, “that you should leave me now.”



“You’re one of us,” Thundercracker said, breathlessly. “I know how to prove it.” He tapped Skywarp on the shoulder. “It could bring him back.” Skywarp nodded, grimly. He pushed easily out of Starscream’s weak embrace.



“At the same time?” he asked. Thundercracker nodded. “Best way.” Skywarp reached down to hold one of Starscream’s limp hands, forcing his spark chamber’s protective armor to retract. Starscream felt Skywarp’s fingers squeeze his, hard, at the effort. Thundercracker did the same. “Now,” Thundercracker said, “Your turn.”



“I cannot,” he said, miserably.



“You can,” Thundercracker said. “You are one of us. We do not give up.”



Starscream bit his lip, his visuals flickering again. He caught a concerned look from Skywarp—must look worse than he imagined. But could he give up? I shall, he decided, try. And when I fail, I shall go to my death knowing that I was a failure and they are better off without me. And they shall know. And I shall hope—hope—that Skyfire will forgive me. His armor slid back, softly, almost as if it wanted to. The two others leaned in, Skywarp brushing his cheek with one hand, Thundercracker leaning over to kiss Skywarp. Their sparks—three of them—touched.



The same swirling as before, the colors mingling and sparkling together without muddying. The same warm flow of energy, like a soft breeze. And then, the sparking flash, and…Starscream was with them. And they were with him, sharing his memories, feeling his pain, feeling the loss of Skyfire ripping through his sensor net, feeling his fierce secret joy that Skyfire had chosen to spark link with him, his insecurities. They took it with him, from him, some weight of this pain. And they shared—their fear of losing him, as well as Skyfire. Their admiration at things he thought they never noticed—his maneuverability in the air, his determination and discipline. Things he thought had marked him out as weak they thought made him strong. And he felt their love—wild, powerful and yet somehow sweet. And the aching emptiness that would have—should have been Skyfire was not filled, but it was, somehow, endurable. They did not ask him to give up his grief, only to share it with them. They would never ask him to forget Skyfire.



He stirred, softly, murmuring an inchoate word.



“Welcome back,” Skywarp murmured in his ear, closing his chamber.



“They shall reclassify us as a Trine,” Thundercracker said, fiercely, “but among ourselves, we shall always be quaternions.”



Starscream sobbed. He had always wanted to belong. To be accepted. But not—not at this price.