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Life	By : Rockinmuffin Category: Transformers > G1 > Het - M/F Views: 2036 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: Transformers belong to Hasbro/Takara. I claim no ownership over any recognizable characters, settings, etc. and own only my own ideas and the plot. I make no money by writing this story.

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And now, a glimpse inside Screamer's mind. No flash-photography and keep your arms and legs inside the fighter jet at all times. Thank you and have a nice day.

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She is disgusting.

She is a disgusting, vile, human-made piece of scrap and no one can see it but him.

Starscream growls as he furiously works on buffering out the scratches marking his armor. Each stubborn nick that refuses to be eradicated reminds him of that dreadful ninja bot. It’s all her fault. Never mind that it was not the first time Megatron had handled him in that way. Never mind that he had challenged Megatron’s ideas and tested his patience yet again.

It’s all Nightbird’s fault.

She doesn’t belong here. His optics narrow and glow brightly, bleeding through the dark within his private quarters. She does not belong.

He’s worked hard to get where he is today. Yes, he’s lied, he’s cheated, he’s plotted, he’s backstabbed to get what power he has, but so has every Decepticon that holds any position of power. It’s what makes the Decepticons so strong. They are not afraid to do what is necessary in order to win. There is no need for things like honor; honor is for those who are too afraid, too weak to sacrifice and gamble away what they are familiar with, what they are comfortable with, in order to become stronger. Honor is for self-righteous fools who see the world in black and white and feel that they can do no wrong because they fight for what they consider to be the greater good.

Honor is for the weak.

Honor is for the Autobots.

His fist curls in frustration, shaking with rage, but he quickly collects himself and continues to work feverishly on cleaning his armor.

Starscream grits his dental plates, the sound of them scarping together painfully loud within the silence of his chambers. Nightbird is the revolting brainchild of an equally revolting flesh creature and yet she’s already becoming one of Megatron’s favorites. Could they not create something more advanced than the fleshling’s creation using nothing but the spare, unused scraps of metal and wires scattered around the base?

The Decepticons are superior to all. She is nothing but a joke. While she may be of the most advanced technology on earth, she’s severely outdated in comparison to even the oldest of mechs. She can’t even transform. What good is she?

But, for some unfathomable reason, Megatron is impressed; he sees something in her that no one else can. The fool. Starscream scoffs. The leader of the Decepticons is going senile, his head full of nothing but loosened bolts and half-witted schemes.

“I should be leader.” Starscream frowns, optics glaring in the dark; glaring at nothing and everything all at once. He can see Megatron, an ugly smirk planted firmly on the fool’s face, and Starscream clenches his fists. It’s not enough. He punches the ground, over and over, until his knuckles are leaking energon and the purple tiling of the floor is dented and cracked. Better, but it’s still not enough. It won’t be enough until Megatron is the one on the ground, buffing out his own scratches and licking his wounds.

The thought brings a grin to his lips. The Decepticons have followed Megatron blindly for far too long. It’s time for a change; a change in leadership. Whether they know it or not, they need him. They need a leader who won’t waste time and resources with petty plans.

Sometime soon, Megatron will be nothing more than a pile of useless parts, abandoned in a scrap heap, and his precious Nightbird will join him, the two rusting for eternity within the pit.

The thought of that sad excuse for a femme causes his cooling systems to work overtime as his engine heats. He hates her, no, loathes her and everything that she is. She follows Megatron’s orders blindly, like a drone; and she very well might be a drone. She was not created as a sentient being so who’s to say she was ever given sentience? After all, Megatron doesn’t want warriors; warriors can think for themselves, question that which they don’t understand or agree with. Megatron wants slaves; blind, ignorant, obedient, and willing to follow orders without hesitance.

Starscream is not, and never will be, a slave.

He is meant to lead, was created for this purpose, and he knows so. Starscream will not allow anything to get in his way in his conquest for power, least of all some earth-made abomination.

She is weak. One blast of his null ray had been all he needed to take her down, scrambling her circuits long enough for Optimus Prime and the rest of the Autobots to capture and return her to the humans. The only reason she had lasted so long against the Autobots in the first place was because they were under strict orders not to damage her.

Megatron’s threats of replacing him with Nightbird had been ludicrous. While she may have proven to be stronger than some of the weaker, more pathetic Decepticon forces, she was no match for him.

…So maybe she got a lucky punch on him once. She had surprised him. In the end, it had meant nothing, anyway. After all, it was the blast from his null ray that made her fall into enemy arms.

Starscream had worked too hard to become second-in-command of the Decepticons and there was no way he’d ever allow himself to be replaced by some inferior fleshy-made junk. Not then, not now, not ever.

He shakes the thoughts out of his processor; now is not the time to brood.

Starscream gives his armor another once-over, making sure that no stray nicks remain to mar his paint-job. Satisfied, he grins, admiring his own reflection in the metal plating of his arm.

“Your good-looks are just yet another positive quality that you have and Megatron doesn’t” he says to his mirror image with a sly grin. He takes another breem to marvel at himself before deciding it’s time to get back to work. After all, there is still much that needs to be done.

He still has a throne to usurp and a couple bots to destroy.

Starscream laughs; “Enjoy your precious Nightbird while you can, Megatron,” he sneers, the red lights of his optics illuminating eerily, “Because the two of you won’t last another orn.”

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If I didn’t know any better, I’d say Screamer is just jealous.

As for the units of time, a breem is a little over eight minutes and an orn has no specific earth time to compare it to but is defined as “one Cybertronian lunar day.”

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Life