The hum of the Nemesis was a dull ache beneath your plating, as constant as the unwanted weight of your own frame. A body that didn’t match. A form that others misread, ignored, or weaponized with careless words.

“Femme/mech,” Megatron would say, indifferent, as though your own identity were not even a passing thought to him. Shockwave observed you like a specimen, a curiosity of science. Soundwave never voiced his opinion—but his silence felt more like an echo of everything left unsaid. Arachnid? She smirked, amused. Dreadwing, Predaking, the Vehicons—none understood. None cared.

None, except two.

Knock Out and Breakdown had never used the wrong terms with you. Knock Out had studied your frame with his keen optics but never sneered, never judged. And Breakdown? He treated you like any other warrior, like someone worthy of respect.

But the itch under your plating remained. The sleepless cycles, the clawing at your own armor as if you could strip away what didn’t belong. The fire under your dermal layers, a torment that burned, but never cleansed.

Starscream noticed.

You had expected ridicule. Expected him to sneer, to use it against you—he was the master of manipulation, after all. But instead, he studied you with something almost like understanding. His sharp optics narrowed, considering, calculating.

And then—after an hour of unexpected conversation, dissecting the torment you barely understood yourself—he said, “Come with me.”

You followed, hesitant, as he led you through the corridors of the Nemesis. The route was familiar—the medical bay. Knock Out stood waiting, his crimson optics flicking toward Starscream with vague amusement.

“This better not be another one of your schemes, Starscream,” Knock Out mused, but his attention soon shifted to you. His expression softened. “Ah. I see.”

Starscream crossed his arms, wings twitching. “Fix it,” he said. “They shouldn’t have to feel pain in their own frame.”

Knock Out’s smirk vanished. He considered you, optics sharp—but not cruel. Then, after a moment, he inclined his helm. “Well,” he murmured, his tone thoughtful, “I do love a challenge.” You swallowed, feeling—for the first time in far too many cycles—like someone had finally seen you. Starscream’s wings flicked in quiet satisfaction.