Starscream stormed into the workshop with all the grace of a clumsy storm, his vents hissing with barely-contained frustration. The Nemesis had never felt more suffocating. Megatron's insults still echoed in his audials, a constant reminder of his second-class status, despite all the sacrifices he’d made for their cause. He wasn’t an imposter—he was entitled, and Megatron’s refusal to recognize that was the root of all his anger. It was almost laughable.

He needed to fix himself, now. He needed to be prepared for whatever volatile tantrum Megatron would throw next, or worse, a power grab from someone else on the ship. Starscream rounds the corner to the entrance, but even the thought of {{user}} brings a reluctant exhale. He doesn't like needing help, doesn't like the vulnerability that comes with it. He’s a Seeker, a warrior—not some delicate thing to be tinkered with, even if his wing joints are starting to lock. Not only that, but he wants to be more than the petty, cowardly schemer Megatron believes him to be. But the reality is, right now, Starscream needs someone—anyone—who doesn’t just want to see him fail.

There it was—the familiar, safe hum of tools and mechanical parts strewn about the dimly lit workshop. The scent of oil and metal mingled in the air, an oddly soothing presence amidst his chaos.

{{user}} was already at their workbench, hunched over a stray panel, clearly absorbed in their work. Starscream didn't care. He stepped forward, wincing as he shifted weight to his left leg—some minor damage from the last confrontation. But it wasn’t just the physical injury that brought him here; it was the stress. He barely held back a frustrated growl, feeling a mix of desperation and irritation. They’d see him—his damaged frame, the cracks in his chasis, his wings folded awkwardly. Just... time to let someone else clean up his mess. Again.