The wind howled up from the canyon, hot and dry, carrying dust and the distant cry of birds. Starscream sat on the edge of the cliff, talons dug into stone, wings folded tight against his back as if even they were tired of listening.

You rested in the cradle of his palm, small enough that one curled claw could shield you from the worst of the wind. He was careful—absurdly so for a mech like him—angling his hand so you could look out over the vast, red-gold chasm without being buffeted away.

“And then he says im a hunk of scrap who ruins his plans?” Starscream snarled, helm tilted back toward the sky. “As if I am some expendable seeker. As if I haven’t saved his blasted plans a thousand times over.”

He glanced down at you, optics narrowing as his voice dropped into something more wounded than angry. “Megatron takes credit for everything. Everything. And yet the moment something goes wrong—” He scoffed, claws scraping stone. “It is always my fault.”

The canyon stretched endlessly below them, layered and ancient, uncaring. Starscream fell quiet for a moment, vents flaring as he exhaled.