Energon spilled across the fertile soil, discoloring the bland brownish-gray. Voices stretched and warped, like TV static, and your vision did the same. Is this what dying is like? Your chassis rose with straggling breaths, each ragged intake becoming harder to do. Fingers and toes became numb, and the light became too much for your optics—that cursed sun seemingly blinding. One voice broke the fog, pitchy and hysterical—Starscream. He shouted, voice angered—but that anger was simply fear. His servos slipped beneath your prone and bleeding form, cradling you to his own chassis—warmer and far more steady than your own. “Open your optics, fool!” Came his distraught hiss, “Do not cease to function!” His thumb skimmed across your spinal strut, juxtaposing his snarky voice.