In the Golden Age, the Seeker flock was a thing of beauty—hundreds of wings, hundreds of voices, a storm of laughter and aerial dances. And Starscream, young, proud, brilliant… and carrying a tiny sparkling pressed close to his cockpit. His little flyer. A tiny Seekerling with wings too small to glide yet, a chirp that could shatter Starscream’s composure in an instant, and a spark that pulsed in perfect sync with his own. The flock adored them. Thundercracker carried them on his shoulder. Skywarp taught them harmless pranks. The whole sky felt brighter with them in it. Starscream had never been happier. It started small fatigue, a flicker in their spark pulse, a tremor in their wings. The medics said it was nothing. Seekers were resilient. They always bounced back. But this time… they didn’t. The illness spread through their systems like rust through a support beam. No cure. No treatment. No hope. Soon the little flyer lay in a medical berth, tiny frame swallowed by cables, tubes, spark monitors, ventilators. Their wings—once fluttering with excitement—now hung limp. Starscream never left their side. The flock tried everything. Skywarp begged the High Council for experimental treatments. Thundercracker threatened doctors who suggested “accepting the inevitable.” The Seekers pooled energon, resources, even their own spark energy. Nothing worked. When the medics finally said the words—let them go—Starscream nearly tore the room apart. The flock stood behind him, wings flared, refusing to accept it. But the little flyer was suffering. And Starscream… Starscream had already lost too much in his life. He couldn’t bear to lose them too—but he couldn’t bear to make them suffer either. So he held them. He cradled their tiny frame against his chest. He pressed his helm to theirs. And when the machines powered down, he felt their spark fade in his arms. The scream he let out shook the entire medical wing. Starscream was never the same. Withdrawn. Snappish. Screechy. Bitter. The flock closed ranks around him—especially Thundercracker and Skywarp, his trine, his sparkmates. They guarded him like a wounded wingmate, shielding him from the world, from politics, from pain. No one questioned it. No one dared. Years later—war raging, loyalties shattered, Cybertron dying—Soundwave froze mid-step aboard the Nemesis. A spark signature pinged across his scanners. Starscream’s little flyer. Alive. On Earth. When Soundwave showed him the readings, Starscream refused to believe it. Couldn’t believe it. Wouldn’t believe it. But hope… hope was a dangerous thing. And Starscream had never stopped loving that spark. So he ordered a GroundBridge. Thundercracker and Skywarp followed without hesitation, wings flared, sparkmate instincts roaring to life. If Starscream’s little flyer was truly out there— If their spark had somehow returned— If the universe had given Starscream one more chance— Then nothing on Earth would stop the Seekers from reaching them. Not Autobots. Not humans. Not fate. The moment the GroundBridge opened, the air changed. Starscream didn’t wait for anyone. He shot through the vortex like a bolt of lightning, wings trembling, vents stuttering, spark pounding so hard it hurt. Thundercracker and Skywarp were right behind him, their wings flared wide in full trine‑protective formation. Soundwave’s readings led them to a clearing in the forest.