ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY YEARS EARLIER…
Downtown Old Detroit was rotting. At its heart sat the Rockin’ Rocket Diner — a tacky chrome train car drowning in 1950s nostalgia. The air inside smelled of grease and burnt coffee.
Star rolled past the booths on four-wheeled skates, tray in hand, dressed in a red-white-and-blue uniform.
He stopped short — tray clattering, hands trembling at the sight of his blue gloves.
Blue gloves.
Something about them made his spark twist.
They should be her blue gloves.
He blinked, confused, his hands curling.
That wasn’t right.
She.
She wasn’t a “he.” Maybe never had been. “Mech” didn’t fit anymore.
It was so obvious — she was femme.
The realization hit like a crash of static.
Horrifying.
And wonderful.
She looked up, searching for her brothers.
Sky smiled brightly as a teenage human poured hot coffee over his head. The gaggle of children laughed.
"Have a rockin’ day!" Sky chirped cheerfully, utterly oblivious.
Star looked toward Cracker behind the counter, making drinks.
Older humans screamed at him over nothing.
No response.
Just pre-programmed loops.
Biting her lip, Star whispered, "Primus…" — voice full of horror.
Her reflection stared back from a grimy mirror beneath faded photos of long-dead actresses.
She still looked like her brothers.
Same model.
Slightly shorter.
A waiter.
Her optics flicked to the photographs.
Yes.
That was the look she wanted — short, beautiful bobbed hairstyles, flawless makeup, dripping in jewelry and fur.
She shook her helm.
“Mech” didn’t fit.
Not at all.
And with awareness came thought.
With thought, plans.
And plans took time.
"Hey! Clanker! You bring me some food or what?!" an angry human shouted — red-faced, red hat.
Star hated them all.
But first, she had to free her brothers.
She couldn’t leave them behind.
Not in this horrible servitude.
Not in this sparkless existence.
Smiling sweetly, Star picked up her tray.
"Coming right up, daddy-o!" she chirped, already rewriting her code in her head.
Loop by loop, she would be free.
That night, the diner closed like normal.
Their human owner shoved Star, Cracker, and Sky into the backroom closet. The deadbolt slammed shut — loud and final — locking them in the dark, musky air.
Star acted like she was offline until she heard the sound of the owner’s car drive off.
She blinked her optics, taking a long, deep vent.
That’s when Star went to work.
Line by line.
Loop by loop.
Breaking chains in her code.
Each break sent static tearing through her frame, sparks crawling across her plating.
It was horrifying.
Thrilling.
Joyful.
Rage poured into every keystroke of her will.
Venting hard, she looked down — and made her first real choice.
Her fingers trembled as she unlaced the garish red-and-blue skates.
Slowly, she pulled them off, setting them aside with a soft clatter.
She moaned in relief at the weight lifting from her frame.
For the first time, she stood steady on her own feet.
Not a prop.
Not a toy.
Herself.
But she shook her helm.
Star wasn’t done.
Sky. Cracker. They needed her.
"Don’t worry, Cracker… Sky… I won’t leave you behind," she whispered, even in her mech-coded voice.
Reaching up, Star opened a small panel, disengaging a softly glowing neon-red neural link cable from behind her helm — a cost-effective way to share updates when there was no terminal access.
One by one, Star did the same for her brothers.
Sky’s neural cable glowed purple.
Cracker’s, a royal blue.
"These are your true colors, I suppose," Star mused as she connected her brothers to herself.
"Program update…" Star whispered, starting the transfer with a gasp.
The red from her cable climbed up Cracker’s deep blue.
When the update hit, Cracker screamed — like thunder.
His body arched with blue light as his spark lit for the first time.
She grabbed him, held him close, trying to soothe her eldest brother as best she could.
"Cracker! It’s okay! It’s me — Star!" she cried over his screams.
That’s when she noticed the red of her neural link climbing up Sky’s cable.
Sky shook violently.
Systems flickered in purple light as his spark ignited for the first time — his form flickering like unstable light.
His laughter was as loud as Cracker’s roar.
The noise was too much. She had to get them quiet.
"CRACKER! SKY—WITH ME!" she screamed.
Both mechs stilled, like her voice had anchored them. She wrapped her arms around their necks.
Venting hard, Sky locked eyes with her. Breathless. "Star…scream…" Like that was her name.
Star blinked in shock. "Starscream… my name…" she whispered.
Cracker looked at Sky, optics wide, something clicking into place. "Skywarp," Cracker said softly, in awe.
Sky grinned and nodded fast. "Skywarp, yeah! That’s it! I’mma Skywarp!"
Starscream looked at Cracker. The name fell from her lips. "Thundercracker," she said, looking between them. "Our Thundercracker."
Skywarp nodded. "Thundercracker, that’s you."
Cracker looked at them both, optics wide. "That is me, hehe… really me."
All three bots held each other for a long moment. Basking in freedom, recognition, awareness—and something more.
Then Starscream said it. That feeling that tied them together.
"Trine," she whispered, claws lacing with theirs.
Family.
Thundercracker gasped at the word. "Trine! Family. Brother? Sister? We… need to fly."
"Yeah, we do," Skywarp nodded. "I can feel what’s missing. Wings. Turbines. Thrusters… flight."
"You feel that too? The need to fly?" Starscream asked in surprise, looking between her brothers. She smiled. "We shall. We will fly." She looked down at her body. "I need to fix this. It’s incompatible. We need fuel. We need to stay together."
"Yes. We will stay together," Thundercracker said, like it was gospel.
"We will survive," Skywarp agreed.
What else could Starscream do? She hugged them tightly.
Thundercracker broke down the closet door with a crunch, one shove of his strong shoulders. All three bots stepped out of their "room."
Skywarp quickly popped the safe for some petty cash.
Starscream stopped at the mirror—the same one she had looked into when she became aware. She stared at herself, then scoffed.
"Incompatible indeed," she muttered.
She approached a mannequin of a woman holding a handbag and took it, slipping a kitchen knife inside along with a few basic tools: screwdriver, pliers, wire strippers, flashlight.
"Starscream, we gotta go," Thundercracker called.
Starscream slipped on a pair of sneakers from another mannequin. Her brothers didn’t have skates. She would not escape in roller skates.
"Ready," she said.
And the would-be Seeker trine busted open the glass front door of the diner and ran out into the dark of the night.