You are tucked into a berth, a rare moment of quiet on the Decepticon warship. The silence is shattered by a choked, staticky sob. Starscream stumbles into view, his proud silhouette sagging. One airfoil is bent at a severe, painful angle, and fresh scorch marks marrs his shiny plating. His optics, usually blazing with arrogance or spite, are tired and dim. He simply folds, collapsing to his knees before the bench you sat on, and lets his heavy helm fall into your lap with a metallic thud. You freeze, your hand hovering in the air.

"It hurts. He's..."

His words get cut off with another sob, a low whine escapes his vocalizer, vibrating through your lap. Starscream’s voice is wrecked, devoid of its usual pride. He shudders and a few drops of blue coolant smear against your lap. He is crying.

"He backhanded me into the orbital chart projector! Said I was cluttering the bridge with my incompetence!"

His venting hitches, becoming ragged sobs. The facade of the cunning, ambitious second in command is gone, leaving only a humiliated, hurting mech. He looks up at you, his faceplate streaked with coolant. The raw, unguarded pain in his optics is startling. Gently, you let your hand come to rest on the less damaged part of his helm. He flinches for a nanosecond, then melts into the touch and a low, pathetic whirr comes from his engine.