A/N: Sorry for the wait! But the third chapter is already in progress, so hopefully it won't take too long.

2. Starscream

Not a breem into the first lesson and I had already decided that Starscream was easily the most impudent slave I’ve ever had the misfortune of being trapped with. He stopped when we reached the open area that Optimus had directed us to and faced me, arms crossed.

“Listen closely,” he said. “I’m doing this for Prime, not for you, but my respect for him has its limits and so will my patience with you. I have the higher ground in this skirmish—I know what I’m doing and you don’t. I’m bigger than you, I’m older than you, I’m stronger than you, so you have to do as I say.”

Of all the impudence! I clenched my fists in an attempt to curb my temper. Think of Optimus, I told myself again and again. What would Optimus do? Ha, Optimus would probably cater to his every whim.

Still, I knew Starscream had a point. Whether I liked it or not, he had power over me. Considering I was shortly to spend a great amount of time in the air with him as my sole spotter and safety net, I had no choice but to do what he said. But there were other ways to assert my superiority short of open rebellion. I would do what he said, but I wouldn’t like it. I nodded, glaring at the same time. The glare didn’t even seem to affect him—he countered with an infuriatingly knowing smirk.

Flying was harder than it looked. I didn’t even leave the ground for a few orbits, though now that I had to learn I was eager to try. Starscream flew before I did, and I had to endure the sight of him darting off into the sky, soaring about, twirling, looping, barrel-rolling, the sunlight flashing off of his almost-grey armor. When he landed, his optics were bright. It must have been his first flight in vorns, I realized, maybe even astrocycles, but I couldn’t imagine what he must have felt, and it didn’t matter. He was a Decepticon. Decepticons weren’t programmed to feel like Autobots were.

Only once were we hailed by an Autobot security squad. The mech in charge sternly ordered Starscream to the ground, guns trained on his descending form. He demanded to know what we were doing and in return I databurst the contents of my permit to him. He turned to Starscream, extending a hand. Starscream sneered at him, unafraid of the ion blasters the mechs still aimed his way, but handed over his permit without a word. The security mech looked it over suspiciously, but he couldn’t deny the Prime’s seal. He handed it back and shook his hand distastefully, as though he would be contaminated by touching something a Decepticon had touched.

“Pay attention to those restrictions,” he ordered, casting a disdainful optic over Starscream, who said nothing in response. The three transformed and drove off. The Decepticon watched them go with unashamed loathing written over his faceplates before turning back to me as if nothing had happened.

“Shall we continue?”

Word must have gotten around, for nobody bothered us again. As the orbits passed, my flying grew steadier. Starscream stayed immediately beside me, even physically supporting me the first several times I left the ground. I grew slowly accustomed to his rasping voice in all of its variations, whether it was snapping corrections, stating fact, pointing out flaws in an annoyingly superior manner, or even… rarely… giving praise. And I grew to have a grudging respect for his skill in the air, even to trust his taloned hands, which many a time had caught me as I fell or straightened me as I wobbled or repaired my armor and circuitry after I crashed. They were small, slender hands with a disproportionate amount of strength—gentle enough, when he was in the mood, to correct an awkward flight path; agile enough to replace wires half-buried beneath armor; powerful enough to bend dented plating back into place.

Starscream’s moods were as inconstant as the wind. One moment he would snarl a biting criticism, the next, laugh in his never-quite-genuine way. But there was always something agitated in his manner, lurking beneath the surface.

Sometimes I could have sworn that there was something almost tender in his optics when he regarded me, some surprising gentleness of his touch, some softness in his voice. Every so often, if I happened to look at just the right moment, he would be watching me intently, some indescribable emotion blatant on his fine face for a fraction of a nano-klick. It would vanish as soon as he saw me looking, to be replaced by a haughty glare or, more unsettlingly to my mind, a bold and unflinching stare.

Slaves weren’t supposed to look their masters in the optics. They were to bow, to obey, to be silent. They were supposed to cower in fear of punishment if an Autobot so much as glanced at them the wrong way.

But not Starscream. It disturbed me for reasons I could not fathom. I dismissed the Seeker’s defiance as the result of Optimus’ soft treatment and resolved to teach my own slaves more respect, when I owned any. If it were in my power, I would have him beaten for his insolence. As it wasn’t, I kept my opinions to myself.

Once Starscream didn’t meet me at out usual training ground. Incensed, I troubled myself to descend to the slave quarters and pounded on his door (Optimus had never given me any override codes). When he answered the door I was startled in spite of myself. He was grimier than usual, scuffed and dirtied. There was a dent in the side of his helm and his cockpit was cracked.

“What happened to you?” I asked automatically, and then, lest I should sound like I actually cared, I added, “You look like slag.” He looked down his nose at me, optics flaring in irritation, and that gave me an idea. “You mouthed off to the wrong mech?” I guessed.

His expression looked remarkably like a pout. “No lesson today. Go away before I say anything I’ll regret,” he muttered.

“Huh… you’re either brave or stupid.”

I’d expected a glare, but he surprised me with a lopsided smirk.

“Or just insane, which becomes more and more a possibility. Now go away.”

Under Starscream’s tutelage, I grew into my birthright and soon I took to the air with ease. I responded to the mutters of my classmates with something else I’d learned from the Seeker: unconcerned contempt. I was above them and I knew it. I refused to consider the implications when Starscream used that same attitude on me. He was a Decepticon, lower than slag. I was his superior.

How I survived Starscream those first few vorns is a mystery even to me. I imagine I became desensitized to his biting remarks and acidic wit through prolonged exposure. Not an orn went by that I didn’t hear his rasping voice complaining about something, uncaring of who heard him. Anything could be griped at.

Only one mech escaped Starscream’s ire: Optimus Prime. The Decepticon, it seemed, respected Optimus as much as any Autobot did.

As I matured, I began to venture further from my comfortable home and mingle with others. Not only was I introduced to a variety of Autobots but also to a variety of Decepticons. In doing so, I came to a startling realization: There was a vast difference between the Prime’s slaves and those of others. Most of the slaves I saw were weak, stunted creatures missing plating, optics, even limbs. Though they were as silent as slaves were expected to be… some of them had missing vocal processors, I noticed… there was hatred in every action. They frequently disobeyed and insulted their Autobot masters, and were more frequently beaten. It was a cycle, I understood. The pain fueled their anger, leading to disobedience, leading to further pain. Prime’s slaves were different. Ironically, Optimus’ soft treatment made them more docile, rather than more rebellious as I had thought.

When I mentioned my findings to Prime, he watched me silently for a long moment. I couldn’t tell what his expression was behind his facemask, and I shifted uncomfortable under his piercing blue gaze.

“We’re all Cybertronian,” he said finally. “And we all want to be treated as such. In my experience, a kind word is better incentive than all the electrowhips on the planet.” He retracted his mask and smiled. My Spark stirred in pride; Optimus’ smile meant more to me than a hundred words of praise. “Remember that, Nova, and you will find your life to be much more satisfying.”