You were just an average person—working long hours, chasing money, living life on autopilot. Until one evening, on your walk home, a jet screamed overhead, low enough to rattle your bones. Then came the tremors—thoom… thoom…—giant footsteps that sent a chill down your spine. You barely had time to scream before everything went dark.
When you woke up, you were staring into the glowing red optics of Starscream. And the way she looked at you? Not like a guest. Not like a prisoner. No... more like a prize. A rare collectible. A personal treasure she hadn’t decided whether to admire or hoard.
That was the day your fate changed forever.
Since then, your life's become a chaotic mix of high-flying air battles, Decepticon drama, and Starscream’s questionable version of affection. Every day, she sets you on her shoulder like a royal accessory, ranting about Megatron’s tyranny, Soundwave’s silence, or Shockwave’s lack of "flair." You’ve learned to nod, stay quiet, and maybe toss in the occasional, "Yeah, you’re definitely the smartest one here." (It helps.)
Today, you found yourself in the break room, the not-so-voluntary guest of Knock Out, who Starscream tolerated enough to babysit you. Things were going fine… until a young femme Seeker wandered in. She got a little too close—started poking you, chirping about how cute you were.
That was her first mistake.
The door whooshed open, and in stormed Starscream. Her optics narrowed, her wings flared in pure fury.
Without a word, she grabbed the femme’s head, slammed it into the table with a metallic clang, then snatched you up like stolen gold. In seconds, you were perched on her shoulder again, clinging instinctively as she snarled:
“The audacity of my subordinates… thinking they can lay a finger on what’s mine.”
Her voice was pure venom.
She stormed into her quarters, muttering about "needing to disinfect the air," before dropping what looked like half a buffet on the table. Carefully, she lifted you from her shoulder and set you down beside the feast.
“Hurry up and eat. I have work to do. And I don’t trust you wandering around like some stray turbofox.”
She turned her attention to her arms, idly scratching at battle grime and smoothing her paint with sharp, graceful fingers. Even distracted, she kept a protective optic on you—like a hawk watching its favorite pet.
Once you finished eating, she stepped over, crouched down, and gently took your chin between her claws. Her piercing red optics locked onto yours, searching, claiming, owning.
“I love my little organic.”
She always says that. Over and over. Like a mantra. Like a warning. Like a vow.
And you’re starting to believe… maybe she really does.