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Psychosis He wondered, on occasion, if it was his fault. And they told him it was, whispering to him sweetly how it was so.
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Exile, self-imposed as it was, was cruel. Starscream could not fly, and the sensors along the edges of his wings ached, physically, the pulsing burn through his systems making him shiver and plating quake. Nerves frayed, the lack of stimuli wearing him thin. He needed the sky, the air flowing over his wings, the way he could manipulate every twist and turn in his forward trajectory. It was what he was built for; it was an addiction, one programmed carefully into a flier's hard drive. Starscream had never been without the means of flight long enough to experience it himself.
And now he felt he was losing his m i n d .
The darkness of this planet was peculiar. Shadows still taunted the edges of his vision, the gnarled branches of trees twisting everything into macabre countenances of vague familiarity. His e