Chapter 1: Beginning
Summary:
Sociopolitical tension simmers in Iacon City as Megatron and Orion Pax unite to change the order of things in favour of fairness, though their notions as to what is truly fair, or fair enough, differ without reconcile. Maccadam's Old Oil House is a place of escape for most of his patrons, but not all. Devastatingly beautiful and charismatic to a fault, Windblade emerges from the ether and unknowingly dooms the young and hapless Slipstream. Fashionably late, as usual, Bumblebee is always happy to make a new friend.
Notes:
[The Cyberverse continuity is the primary inspiration, with references made to the 2019 comic reboot and other sources of events, lore and characterisation.]
Chapter Text
Before the Autobot and Decepticon divide, there was an old oil house.
An archivist and a gladiator, poised in serious sociopolitical discussion, sequestrating a booth all to themselves. Their meetings span over months, intensifying.
Supporters naturally hover around the two who would challenge and change the order of things, thus business is booming even more than usual. The crowd steadily grows, and lines are being drawn.
Slumped over her rather depleted drink, chin propped on a servo, gazing forlornly at nothing, young Slipstream has yet to find her faith. All her brethren seem so convinced. She was built for a trine. Why can she never seem to feel at home?
“Hi. This seat taken?”
Her wings shift with her non-committal shrug. “Go for it.” Most Seekers retract their wings when not in use. She does not. She does not want to appear small.
“Thanks.” Someone thus moves to sit alongside her, filling the gap. “Bit crowded in here, huh. I was supposed to meet a friend, but I can’t find him anywhere.”
Seekers are laughing uproariously and arguing among themselves, taking up far too much room.
“Hopefully, he’s not got himself into any trouble.”
A non-committal grunt.
“I should call him.”
She mostly ignores the conversation that follows, the stranger apparently managing to link comms with whoever she has been looking for, giving him a sisterly talking to.
“Okay, Bee, so long as you’re safe. Yeah, I’ll be here.” A feminine chuckle, affectionate. “Don’t keep me waiting too long. See you.”
Slipstream takes the final sip of her drink, bending the powerful cords of her neck, tipping her helm back as she polishes the dregs. Then she sets her cup down, contemplating another.
“Looks like you’ve had a bad day,” says the stranger, apparently taking notice.
“It was…” She contemplates a suitable response to this conversational display of empathy. “A day.” Clumsy and brusque.
“Ah. One of those.”
“Mmhm.”
Silence between them, again, for a while longer.
“…Hey, Mac?”
She does not pay further attention, until a fresh cup is pushed over to her. This makes her revive just a little bit. Someone bought her a drink. Is it compassion, or pity?
“You look like you could use it,” says the stranger. “Hope you don’t mind.”
Slipstream finally lifts her helm and looks up.
The pretty stranger with a painted face and big blue optics smiles sweetly, reassuring and kind.
Oh, no.
“I’m Windblade. What’s your name?”
Marvelling at possibly the most gorgeous femme, Slipstream succumbs to social anxiety yet again. “Uh.”
“Uh?” Windblade’s smile only deepens, optics twinkling good humour. “Hey, that’s easy to say.”
Ever unfortunate, Slipstream bites her dark, plump lower derma to prevent herself from saying something even more stupid. She has well and truly botched this encounter already. She hates herself. She always screws up with her incompetence.
The anxious yet sensual gesture catches the undivided attention of those blue optics, Windblade’s friendly and curious gaze drifting downwards accordingly, flickering with interest. “I get the feeling that’s not really your name.” Gently teasing.
“It’s… not.” Directing a look of utter terror in any other direction, the Seeker bemoans that she does not know how to talk to femmes outside her own kind. Even then, she can barely speak to Nova Storm, and their relationship is not like that at all. “Sorry. It’s Slipstream.”
“Slipstream? Now, that’s a lovely name.”
Her Spark chamber is about to burn a hole in her chassis. She clears her ventilation duct with a throaty rumble, timidly forcing herself to look over at Windblade again. “Thanks. Yours, too. It’s… noble. Strong, but flexible. A warrior’s name.”
It is now Windblade’s turn to look coy, dragging a slender digit across the counter, optical ridges gently lowered, an aside look. “Okay, fine.” A giggle. “That was really smooth.”
Slipstream perks, wings erect. “…It was?” She does not feel so anxious, all of a sudden.
“Right, let me try it. Ahem.”
She waits, surprisingly eager.
“So…” Windblade leans on one bent arm, the other raised to present her cup, from which she takes a delicate sip. “You come here often, big guy?” That sounded very flirtatious, just now, and intended to draw out a laugh, if her brows wiggling were any indication. Deliberately awful.
It works. Slipstream actually does offer a shy, breathy chuckle, flushed with Energon that pumps close to the flexible membrane of her angular face plates, blooming under the surface. Her cooling fans roar softly as her temperature readings rise.
“How was that? Was that good?”
“Terrible.” Her strong jaw frames a handsome smile. “I liked that.”
Windblade has succeeded in cheering up Slipstream. “Great, ’cause I’ve got more corny come-ons where that came from.” With no intention on stopping. No femme should be left alone and miserable whilst surrounded by uproarious company. “You got time?
“I think I’m available.”
“Shall I wax lyrical about your penetrating gaze, or perhaps your stately warframe, or…”
“Be still, my beating Spark.”
“It’s working, huh? How about I whisper sweet nothings in your audial?”
“About to break another Spark, Windblade?”
“Bee!” She beams, turning to embrace a bright yellow figure suddenly between them.
“Hey, bestie! How’s it going?”
“Great! I’ve made a friend.”
“Yeah, I noticed. So, who’s tall, dark and handsome over here?”
“Slipstream?” offers Slipstream in a question itself, unsure if she really is all that dark and handsome, although she is tall.
“Hi, name’s Bumblebee!” He sticks out a servo. “Nice to meet you!”
She is instantly socially anxious all over again as she awkwardly accepts, offering a firm shake whilst smiling thinly. He seems nice. A little loud, maybe.
“Hey, a booth just opened up towards the back, so we’ll have some space if we grab it quick. Come join us!”
“Oh, sure. Okay.”
Windblade and Bumblebee do most of the talking from then on.
The nice part, though, is that Slipstream actually winds up being included in actual friendly conversation, for a change. She gradually relaxes her powerful warframe, sinister facial rigging adopting a quiet smile, and does not flinch when Bumblee slaps her over the pauldron to punctuate a particularly good joke, or when Windblade eventually lays a delicate servo on a thickset wrist when it comes time to say goodbye.
“Let’s do this again, okay?”
“Yeah, Slip, link up with us sometime!”
“Sure. I’d like that.”
Maccadam’s smile has faded where he stands, polishing an empty cup.
Chapter 2: Temptation*
Summary:
After some time has passed, Slipstream opens up enough to become emotionally vulnerable and confides privately in her friends Windblade and Bumblebee, confessing that the Captain of the Seekers, Starscream, has taken a worrying interest in Megatron, returning from their private meetings energised in strange ways. Although initially rejecting an offer to dance, Shadow Striker soon decides that she rather likes the way Bumblebee moves, honing in on the little guy to the astonishment of onlookers, sealing her fate without realising it.
Featured sex scene: M-rated Shadow Striker/Femme (courtesy clean-up of partner after orgasm, followed by gagging with a cum rag and prompt departure without cuddling).
Notes:
Please note, I generally avoid using the canonical jargon for measuring the passage of time because these terms seem inconclusive between uses, thus too variable to be relied upon. Also, as much as I’ve tried to keep things light, this is where the darker adult themes start becoming more prevalent, hence the rating. It's likely to get very grim and intimate. If there’s anything I deem particularly triggering (such as the entire abusive Starscream/Megatron dynamic as I've imagined it, beginning now), I’ll try to warn you beforehand. Please keep safe and read responsibly.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Shadow Striker is excellence incarnate, precision-engineered to surpass. Her activities in berth are no exception. “It’s been fun.” Lust is just another conquest.
Her undertone elicits a shudder.
“I’ll be going, now.”
A whine of complaint.
It makes her smile.
If the crumpled femme spread below, twitching and cooing in a puddle of mixed lubricant and begging not to be left alone, is any indication of a job well done, then clearly Shadow Striker has done it again.
“Here.” She is not without her manners, stooping her impressive frame, her movements quiet, her armour plating sleek and dark, fit for a predator. “Let me get that for you.” She retrieves a strip of sterilised textile from her kit, kept within a subtle compartment of her warframe and usually intended for polishing a disassembled gun or patching minor wounds prior to proper repairs.
A whimper. A lurch. Optics rolling back. Like a dying target.
“Shhh.” Shadow Striker’s lens flares, focused on her work as she gently drags the increasingly damp textile, wiping away the slick lubricant. “Stay still.” It only takes moments of her time, to be this cruel.
The poor femme is inconsolable when Shadow Striker withdraws without a kiss. Unsurprising. Femmes are usually needy immediately after interfacing. They desire to talk and to embrace. They desire to connect beyond.
Shadow Striker is not like most femmes. She wipes herself off with professional courtesy, quick and efficient, and neatly folds the impromptu lubricant rag before gently prying the femme’s intake apart and stuffing the damp fold between the glossy stretched dermas, pushing over the wantonly hanging mandible, navigating the writhing glossa, scraping against dentas and muffling a moan. A momentary pause, as if to mutually adjust. Another push, this one a little more savage, allows the digits and their payload to slide deeper than the sensors are comfortable with, eliciting a reaction, as if detecting a swallowed obstruction. It feels like seeking shrapnel in a wound, within spasms of agony.
The femme gags on their taste.
Shadow Striker lets herself out with a swagger, still smiling long after the retching evades her keen audials. She is not on an assignment right now. She has time to kill. And, after all that excellence, she feels like a drink. She knows just the place. She goes there to refresh herself, maybe pick up a sweet little number she likes, and she enthrals with her stories. She has forged for herself a reputation that she intends to linger on as legend.
The old oil house is a nexus for bots with their differences. It was there long before the war, and it will stand long after.
“My Captain has these private meetings with Megatron.”
“Whoa! Starscream knows Megatron? As in, retired gladiator and total badaft Megatron?”
“Mmhm.”
“Whoa,” Bumblebee repeats, optics wide with wonder.
“It’s been going on for months now,” Slipstream confesses quietly between Windblade and Bumblebee, unheard by anyone outside their unusual trine thanks to Soundwave’s taste for spontaneous loud music and choreographed dance routines. “And I think these meetings are why he’s been acting… strange. I’m worried for him.”
Windblade and Bumblebee share a look.
“Strange how?” enquires the femme.
“Our Captain always returns to us with such a fire in his optics. An inward passion for things he won’t mention to us. Sometimes, the way he carries himself, the way he moves… I’m sure I’ve seen him tremble, but his smile is just… full of himself.”
“You mean, more full of himself than he already was.”
“C’mon, Bee.”
“Guy’s gotta be overflowing by now.”
Windblade gives Bumblebee a look.
“No,” murmurs Slipstream. “This goes way beyond his usual, errm… abrasiveness.” Very polite.
“You’re way too nice.”
“Perhaps. It’s making things uncomfortable for our Seekers.”
“He picking fights with you guys?”
“Not exactly. But he really does seem superior to his own. We sometimes have our disagreements, but we’re Seekers. All of us. Now, he acts like he’s the special exception.”
“Hey, why’s Starscream in charge, anyway?”
“He was promoted by our prior Captain. The others have always revolved around him. It seemed natural that he’d lead.”
“Huh…” Bumblebee sits back with a handsome smile. “Well, maybe Starscream’s got a crush, and Megatron’s been making moves, gassing him up?”
“Bee,” Windblade gently reprimands, reading the discomfort in Slipstream’s face plate.
“No judgement! Maybe the guy likes big bots and he can’t lie, so it’s got him acting all wired and stuff. Making him feel like a big bot, too, so he’s even worse than he was before. And he was pretty bad.”
“Bee!”
“I think he’s preparing for something to happen to him.”
Windblade inclines her helm.
Bumblebee’s grin fades away.
“And as his Seekers, what happens to our Captain ripples over. It affects us all.”
“…Oh.”
“He’s ready for it. He’s welcoming it. He knows things we don’t. Things he must’ve discussed in private, with Megatron.” Slipstream taps a tune over her arm guard in tandem with Soundwave’s beat. “Acid Storm is the only one who seems troubled by this, other than myself. They’re smarter than the rest. But I can’t talk to them about our Captain. It’s just not done.” Slipstream looks up. “I know you both assume he’s egotistical.”
“He is, though.”
“And I will concede, Captain Starscream has always been, uh… eccentric and ambitious. But I feel like Megatron is twisting him. Making him… worse.”
“As in, insufferable.”
“Bee, please.”
“Seekers always suffer our Captain. It’s just the way we are. Where he goes, we follow.”
“Wow. You guys really are a tight bunch, if you’re so bent out of shape over Starscream.”
“You don’t know him like I do.”
Windblade softens. “Aw, Slip.”
Bumblebee sighs, sagging. “Okay, sure, I can’t stand that guy, but… I hate seeing you so upset. Anything we can do?”
“You’re already doing it,” Slipstream answers in her shy bluntness. “Thanks for listening to me.” Very few do.
“You’re not alone, okay?” Windblade gently captures Slipstream’s larger, clunkier servo, squeezing it. “Whatever happens, we’ll be here for you.”
“Yeah, Slip.” Bumblebee does the same, taking her other servo. “You can count on us, no matter what.”
Slipstream looks from one to the other and makes a rattling sound of emotion when she is met with affection and understanding, radiating back at her from within the face plates of her friends. It is exceedingly mushy.
For a while, they just sit together like this, holding servos.
Soundwave grooves past their booth, bringing his music with him.
“…You know,” Windblade intones playfully, with levity that brings them all ease, “I kinda feel like dancing with that guy.”
“Go for it. He’s having a blast.”
She hops to her pedes with a crooked grin. “Any other takers?” Wiggles her optical ridges.
Slipstream hurriedly shakes her helm. “Oh, no-no-no, I don’t dance.”
“I think I’ll hang back with Slip,” Bumblebee adds, winking. “Might join you later, though.”
“Alrighty, then! I’m gonna go tear it up!” Windblade shoots the pair with her digit-guns, then joins Soundwave, who is only happy to oblige.
“You can go dance with them, if you want to,” Slipstream mumbles shyly. “Don’t let me hold you back.”
“Nah, I wanna chill with you.”
She chews her lower derma. “Bumblebee, can I ask you something awkward?”
“Go for it, Slip.”
“Why are you so nice to me?”
He squeezes her servo. “Because you’re nice to me, and to her.”
“The other Seekers...” Slipstream trails off, very aware of their reputation as being vain bullies who travel in packs through lack in singular ambition, following the whims of the one who is deemed the best of them all. It is a reputation she shares simply through the guiltiness of association.
“You’re not like them.”
“But, I am?”
“Nah. You’re way more chill. You haven’t called me a grounder even once, and you’re not getting all smarmy with Windblade for being my friend.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Bumblebee shifts over, snuggling up to Slipstream, significantly shorter.
“I won’t allow them to tease you again.”
“Thank you, Slip.”
They watch Windblade dance with Soundwave.
“Hey, she’s really getting it!”
Slipstream’s optics are wide, following. “She can certainly move.”
“Yeah.” Bumblebee sighs contentedly, resting his cheek on the Seeker’s arm. “She’s awesome.”
“You speak of her with such fondness.”
“She’s my bestie.” What he does not expect, however, is to feel Slipstream’s arm slip neatly around him, drawing him in. He does not comment on it, oddly tactful.
“You’re an excellent friend.”
The soft sincerity makes his vocaliser hitch.
Windblade is laughing as she misses a step, catching Soundwave’s servo and following his lead.
“She’s beautiful.”
"Slip, why do you sound so sad?”
“She's good in all the ways I wish I could be."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, I mean a lot of things. She’s self-assured, and graceful, and if she makes a mistake, she just brushes it off, no shame. I'm not jealous, though. Does that sound… pathetic?”
Bumblebee gives Slipstream’s chassis a pat. “Nah. I get it.” He allows his digits to stroke small circles over her glossy paint-job. “I’m not some big, strapping warframe who turns into, like, a tank or something. You won't see my warframe on the cover of the latest Hot Motor Oil. But I know beauty comes in all sort of shapes and sizes. Bravery and kindness, too.”
“Even mine?”
“Uh, yeah! You big hunk of chiseled metal.”
“I like your shape and size, too,” she offers rather sweetly.
He pokes her chassis. “You saying you think I’m pretty, and fun sized, and sweet all over?”
“I am.” She has grown so much more comfortable in his presence, these latter months. “I do.”
“Easy, now. You’ll make me overheat.”
“I can carry you to the medic.”
Soundwave and Windblade are the centre of a storm, gathering the debris of other bodies joining them in movement.
Shadow Striker lingers at the entrance, staring, momentarily stalled by their dance. Even a professional can be taken pleasantly by surprise, sometimes. It has been weeks since she last walked in on so much joviality.
Maccadam welcomes her within. “Shadow Striker, hello there!”
She straightens up again, sauntering powerfully and purposefully through mingling warframes, smirking at their happiness, barely brushing past as they gawk after her. Things have been so tense, lately. She almost forgot what harmless, good fun could look like. It is enough to make her Spark feel something.
“Let me guess,” greets old Maccadam with his paternal smile. “The usual?”
“The usual,” she echoes, turning casually to lean back on something firm, so she can drink and watch while looking cool. “Thanks.”
Thundercracker tries his luck, proving himself an excellent dancer.
Windblade is clearly the learner, here, but she and Soundwave seamlessly integrate, drawing Thundercracker in.
Slipstream grins at that. “Go get it, Thunder!”
“I’m getting it! I’m getting it!”
Seekers back each other up. Others cheer, too. Nova Storm in particular, Thundercracker’s closest and most constant companion.
Infected by good vibes, energetic young Bumblebee laughs.
Shadow Striker notices him. He is bright yellow, making considerable noise, and awfully cute. Not her type at all. She might, though, if particularly bored, even if he is canoodling with a rather fetching Seeker. She is awfully cute, too. Why not try both? Perhaps they like to share. Maybe later. Shadow Striker is still tender after that femme whose designation has been discarded with the regularly scheduled temporary memory dump.
“You’re buzzing,” Slipstream murmurs into Bumblebee’s audial, her rumble overheard despite Soundwave’s song. “Excited?”
“Yeah, I’m getting pumped! Everybody’s having a great time, I can’t help it!”
“Then you should probably go dance with them. Let loose.”
“Oooh, I’m gonna have to! Be right back, ’kay?”
“Have fun.” She lets him go, slipping out from under her arm, hurrying over to the other dancers. She watches him just as fondly. A part of her Spark wishes she could join, but she appreciates that they do not cajole or pressure her to participate.
Shadow Striker is about to take another sip when Bumblebee dance-shuffles his way over to her. She pauses, unimpressed. “What.”
“Hi.” With a sunny smile, he offers her a servo, unafraid. “Wanna dance?”
The larger femme quirks a sharp optical ridge, her modified lens glaring down at him, a scope she had fitted within her helm to improve her already lethal capabilities.
“You too cool to dance?” Does this little thing not know who he is speaking to?
“Normally.” It intrigues her.
“That’s okay!” He withdraws, unoffended. “Cheers!” How refreshing. He did not cower, nor did he push the matter. He just respects her wishes, whilst seemingly totally unaware of who just brushed him off – she could have gutted him so easily. He dance-shuffles away, joining the moving throng.
She watches him go. Her motor ticks. “Ugh, scrap it.” She likes the way his hips move. Flexible. Stamina. Stronger than he seems. Durable, for one so compact. His small size may prove convenient. Who can say no to such a pretty face, either? Not even the infamous Shadow Striker. She sets her cup down and follows him.
“Changed your mind?” he shouts over the music as her presence draws close. “Sweet!”
“Hope you can keep up.” She scoffs. “I don’t humour scrubs.”
“Okay, tough guy, show me your moves!”
Slipstream chuckles into her cup as Bumblebee gives it everything he has got to give. Takes an easygoing sip, almost forgetting about Starscream.
Despite her fearsome appearance and infamous reputation, Shadow Striker shall excel on the dance floor, as well. She brings a rather different tempo, dancing as she is with Bumblebee. Few get to witness her, like this. It draws stares.
“Is he serious? He barely reaches her chassis! Got big ball-bearings, I guess.”
“No way! Do you know who that is? That’s Shadow Striker!”
“The merc? For real?”
“She’s scary! Bumblebee’s lost his brain module, that’s for sure.”
“Hey, he’s not half bad. Look at them go…”
“She’s smiling, check it!”
“She can smile?”
“Looks like she’s enjoying herself. Whew, her warframe can really move.”
Slipstream agrees with that latter sentiment. She almost forgets to swallow, coughing on a mouthful of her drink, slamming a fist into her own chassis. Thankfully, nobody notices. “Ugh.” Always with the femmes.
Notes:
Thank you for sticking by me while I cover the pre-war stuff. I know it’s very self-indulgent of me, but I want to provide context for what happens next, especially as I play with canon for my own ends. The past won’t be the focus for too much longer, nor will Maccadam’s remain the centre stage. Constructive feedback is welcome. Also, Hot Motor Oil is a real thing, courtesy of Alex Milne and those he may work with (I am only making a cheeky reference).
Chapter 3: Dismissal
Summary:
Starscream has far more important things to attend to, so he leaves Slipstream in charge of taking responsibility over her fellow Seekers, which is not unusual, however what is unusual is that this time he temporarily conveys upon her his title of Captain, thus willingly surrendering his own authority and power to someone else. She is very freaked out by his out of character behaviour and he reassures her with a kiss in a rare display of actual affection between them. He goes, yet an impression of him stays, lingering with her.
Notes:
Possible trigger warning – bodily issues and crippled self-esteem, as Starscream may be having something of a nervous breakdown.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“I’ll be taking a brief leave of absence,” Starscream rasps with his back turned, vocaliser warbling more than usual. His wings flutter, trembling as he is within his warframe. His digits clench and unclench, creaking over the soft purr of his overworked cooling fans. “Just for a few days.”
“Understood, Sir.”
“However, I acknowledge that this will be longest we’ve been apart, and so, I must entrust the care of our own to the one I deem sufficiently capable of temporarily fulfilling my station in my absence, to remotely satisfactory standards.” He can be very verbose and is the master of insulting compliments.
“…Acid Storm, Sir?”
“They do not possess sufficient personal responsibility over others. None of them do. For all your mistakes, you are the most responsible. I want you to take charge while I’m gone.”
Slipstream could be bowled over with a mere flick to her chassis. Starscream has never, ever willingly given over an inch of his power to anyone else, before. “…Captain?”
“Yes, you shall act as Captain, in my absence. I’m glad you grasp your assignment.”
She anxiously grinds her mandible. This is unprecedented. She has never considered herself ambitious, before, but he has defended his title with jealousy, even from the likes of her. Why the drastic change of Spark?
“You can do this, can’t you?”
“O-of course, Sir!” She hopes so. She stands rigidly to attention, squinting both confused and horrified at his back plate, as if watching him spontaneously sprout an extra arm out of his spinal seam. “I won’t disappoint you!” She instantly wishes she did not just say that. Why did she just say that.
“Excellent. Then I shall prepare to depart shortly.”
She flounders. “Sir, uh…” Gathers herself, never having been a coward. “If I may…”
He does not refuse.
She sighs, taking it as permission. “Is everything alright?” She asks it ever so kindly.
He makes a sort of sighing sound, letting out pressurised air in a hot gust. “Everything will be, soon. Very soon.” It is spookily vague enough to be foreboding, rather than reassuring.
“Forgive me, Captain, it’s just that you’ve been acting a little… unusual…”
“Oh, have I.”
She flinches when he suddenly twists to face her, her soldierly posture admirably maintained.
“You shall permit my excitement. I have… something to look forward to, you see.” As a fellow Seeker, he is her mirror image in all but paint-job and limited engendered craftsmanship. But his expression is alien to her. “Things are going to change, and I’m going to be right at the head of this beautiful new beast. I shall be it’s crown.”
“…What does that mean, Sir?”
“You’ll understand, in time. Everyone will.” His optics are wild with excitement, as if burning from within. He is smiling just as intensely. At least he is not yelling, or bawling. He is known to throw tantrums when things do not go his way. “I’m out to collect my dues from the universe.”
“…Does the universe owe you something, Sir?”
“It’s a gift, actually.”
She offers a stiff little nod. “Oh, okay, that’s… nice, Sir.”
“Indeed. Great things are ahead of me.” He lays his palm over her pauldron, companionable, familiar. “And I shall personally ensure that my Seekers partake in these great things, through me. Just do your small part. You shall anticipate my return, in the meantime, and keep the others in line.”
She salutes. “Yes, Captain!”
He assesses her closely. “This is just the start. I’ll have everything I have earned, and more. I deserve this. I deserve all that’s coming to me.”
“Of course, Sir!” she barks back, as is appropriate, even if she is terribly concerned. “You’re the greatest!”
“Indeed, I am. Finally, my greatness shall manifest, made living metal.”
“…Okay, Sir!”
“It’s all I’ve ever wanted – to be witnessed by all. You’ll never look at me the same way again.”
“…Sounds great, Sir?”
He leans in.
She genuinely expects he is about to kiss her.
He does not. Instead, he allows his helm to rest against hers, an intimate gesture in and of itself, not atypical among Seekers.
She is a bit disappointed.
His optics bore into hers up close, yet his gaze is somehow so faraway. “Oh, Slipstream, I…”
“…Captain?”
“…I need this. It has to work.”
“Sir…” She cringes softly. “Are you feeling unwell? You’re burning up.” Touching his chassis with a servo.
“It’s all for me. All for me. I am worthy. We will have a place in the new order. I’ll save us all.”
“Worthy of what, Sir? Save us from what? What’s this new order?”
“My ascent! I will rise higher than the northernmost star, shine brighter than any sun. You’ll see. You’ll be so proud.”
She feels an ache, as he breaks her Spark. “But I’m already so proud, Sir.”
With a whimper, he crumples against her. “You don’t get it! Nobody does, except…”
She lays her servos on his back, stroking slowly, soothingly up and down. “I just follow you, Captain. You don’t need to change.”
“No, no, I must. I’m not enough, for me.”
“Sir…”
He pulls himself together, shuddering, hissing, retracting himself from her arms. “I shall not lead you astray. Fear not. Believe me. Believe… in me.”
“I do, Sir.”
“I am not enough for what’s coming, not like this. I will return anew.”
“Captain,” she intones more firmly, now, “I’m very worried about you.”
“Don’t be.” He stretches a little to kiss the brow of her helm.
She is certain her brain module just short-circuited. It burns her. An invisible impression of where his dermas once touched her shall remain for a long, long time.
“Just do as I say, and watch me.”
She gazes softly, anxiously back at him.
“I’ll have my purpose.”
“…I hope it makes you happy, Sir.”
He shuts his bright optics. “Ugh, bless your soft, gooey Spark.” He has been miserable their entire lives. Nothing has ever been enough. “I’m certain it’s a start.” His optics flutter open, momentarily lucid. “Be good while I’m gone, okay? Take care of them.”
“I will do my utmost for you, Captain!” She salutes.
He smiles fondly. But the smile turns sour and his optics sear over again. “Excellent. Excellent!” The lucidity fades as he turns away, staring at his reflection as he had before. “I knew, in my Spark, I was always destined for more than this. I have always known. But after my promotion, I have remained unfulfilled. Searching. My dreams seemed unreachable, until… I met him.”
She knows better than to ask whom Starscream is referring to.
“He has opened my optics to the future.”
She grimaces handsomely.
“Now, go. Attend to the others. When I return changed, rest assured, you will already have my favour. There’s a place for obedient, reasonably competent loyalists like you, Slipstream.”
“…As you wish, Captain.”
He says nothing more. Just looks at himself.
The place where he kissed her is still burning once she has left his presence. It is still burning when she assembles her charges. It burns as she finds herself addressing the Seekers under her temporary command.
“He left you in charge?” Thrust manages after some prolonged staring.
“Yeah,” Slipstream murmurs. “Apparently so.”
Thundercracker and Nova Storm exchange a look.
“So, we gotta call you Captain and Sir and stuff?” he enquires.
“Yes.”
“And do whatever you say, no matter how humiliating?” she adds beside him. “Are you going to laugh at us, Sir?”
“I’d really like to avoid that scenario.”
Acid Storm nods. “Good enough for me.”
“I dunno. No offence, but, uh…” Thrust folds his arms across his chassis. “This is weird. Anybody else finding this weird?”
Slipstream nods emphatically, more so than any of the others. “Oh, you’re telling me. I don’t even want this job.”
“It’ll be good for your service record,” Acid Storm says mildly. “If that helps.”
“No. It doesn’t.”
“Sorry.”
“You guys know me. I’m not a leader. I’m…” Slipstream hesitates, for she does not really know. “…Very anxious about all this.” There. That is what she is.
“Did he say why he chose you?” asks Acid Storm gently, their servos turning over something metallic and complicated, evidently their latest technological fixation.
“He said I’m the responsible one.”
“That’s true,” Nova Storm intones with a raised digit. “You’re always worried about somebody else. You’ll blow a gasket someday.”
“Thanks, I appreciate that.”
“Hey! We should have a party,” Thundercracker suddenly declares. “With him gone, we can do what we want!”
“As long as I permit it,” Slipstream reminds them all, rather lamely.
“We don’t gotta sneak out to Cube games, either!” adds Nova Storm, apparently not listening.
“Dumb game,” Thrust mutters superiorly. “No wonder he hates it.”
“Your face is dumb!”
“You wanna go?!”
“Enough,” Slipstream snaps, in a rather big voice.
They actually all shut up at once, staring back her with shocked optics.
She deflates gradually. Maybe this Commander thing will not be so hard for her.
“Not bad,” Acid Storm intones.
“Thank you.”
“Aw, but you’re gonna be mostly cool about this, right?” Thundercracker seems hopeful, still. “You even hang out with that cutie and her yellow grounder boyfriend all the time!”
“First order – don’t use that word to describe terrestrial alt-modes. It’s offensive.”
“Eh, okay, Sir, but I still say we gotta party!”
“He never lets us have any fun,” Acid Storm agrees with Thundercracker. “It’s so unbecoming, y’know.”
“Guys, be nice.” Slipstream rubs her helm, right where Starscream kissed her. “Even if he’s not here, you must how him respect.” It is burning. Burning. “We’re his Seekers.”
“He sure does act like he owns us, nowadays.”
“He’s under pressure, okay.”
“Hey, maybe the break will do him some good, then. And with him being gone, well…” Thundercracker high-fives Acid Storm. “Any excuse for a party, am I right?”
“I like parties!”
“Frag, yeah!”
“C’mon, Captain, make it your first order!”
“…You want me to order you to have fun?”
“Uh, yeah! You’d be the best Captain ever if you did!” Thundercracker grins handsomely, Nova Storm hugging his arm with hope in her optics.
“I wanna be Captain,” Thrust mutters to no one. “I never get to boss anyone around, for fun or otherwise.”
“You’d make an awful Captain.” Acid Storm placidly fiddles with their gadget, unbothered.
“Ouch! Mean.”
“Ha, you tell him, Acid!”
“I just did.”
“Tell him again!”
“Very well. You would make an awful Captain, Thrust.”
“Hey! Don’t gang up on me!”
Slipstream looks at each one of them in turn, despairing. They are all idiots, but they are her idiots, and she has been left in charge of them.
Starscream’s kiss still burns her.
Notes:
I'd like to just briefly mention that there will not be any strictly evil characters in this story. Everybody has their sins, but nobody is that simple to read. Also, I am aware that standard issue servos have been depicted with four digits rather than five, but that weirds me out, so I'm ignoring that detail and referring to it as high-fiving - servos shall possess five digits henceforth, unless someone has a claw thingy, pincer, hook, tentacle, etc.
Chapter 4: Dread
Summary:
Megatron gives Starscream a gift, courtesy of Shockwave's operating table. Whilst the friends Clobber and Thundercracker share in existential dread, Bumblebee celebrates Slipstream's unwanted promotion until Shadow Striker has him quite distracted, though their flirtation is interrupted by a mysterious caller.
Chapter Text
“How do you feel?” Megatron asks gently, cradling a dainty servo within his mighty palm.
“Mmm.” Starscream smiles foggily up at him. “Better for seeing you.” He giggle-snorts. “Handsome.”
“…Shockwave.”
“The effects of deep stasis may not have entirely worn off yet,” he intones dully, in explanation. “His brain module shall return to normal functionality in–”
“I don’t want to be normal! I want to be… enhanced!” A dramatic flair. A flinch. “Ow!”
“It is alright. Don’t strain yourself so soon.” Megatron patiently endures Starscream’s efforts at touching his masculine, battle-scarred face plate, smiling ruggedly.
“You are… so big! So splendid! Kiss me, you – ow! I hurt?”
“Shockwave.”
“No cause for concern. Some discomfort is to be expected as the sensors acclimatise to–”
“Am I beautiful?”
“Errm. I am not qualified to make that assessment.”
“Tell me I’m beautiful, Megatron! I did it for you!”
“See for yourself,” rumbles the retired gladiator, helping his Seeker sit up.
Within the reflection of a proffered holomirror, Starscream beholds his new facial rigging for the first time, optics bursting with awe.
“He’s done a fine job of it, hasn’t he.”
“…Wow…”
Megatron gives Shockwave a nod. “Well done, talented surgeon.”
“I am gorgeous!”
The featureless helm turns aside, almost modestly. “It was a simple procedure. I appreciated the practice.”
“I wish to fly with my new wings!”
“Continue down this path, and you will prove an invaluable asset, worthy of great reward.”
“Based on all probable outcomes, it is logical that I ingratiate myself within your favour.” Shockwave busies himself at a terminal. “I intend to survive. Expect further successes in the future.”
Megatron cradles Starscream, who is vainly delighting in his newfound shape. “That’s the attitude I like.”
“Do you ever feel like you’re here, but you’re not here?”
Nova Storm squints up at Clobber, processing her cumbersome words.
Thundercracker, however, cups his face plate with a shaky gasp of realisation. “Yes! All the time!”
“And does it feel like,” Clobber continues on ponderously, reassured that she is not alone, “we’re all stuck in some sorta… fake real stuff?” The hulking femme clutches a little cup of Energon to her chassis, optic wide.
“A simulation?” Nova Storm offers.
“Yeah! I think?”
Thundercracker gasps again, reeling. “I do feel that way! I just never put it into words before!”
“We gotta call our feeling something cool, otherwise we’ll sound crazy.”
“The Simulation Theory!”
“Perfect!”
Nova Storm looks between them. “That does sound cool, actually.”
“I just hope this doesn’t give me existential dread,” Thundercracker bemoans.
“What’s that?” asks Clobber.
“I dunno, I overheard Acid mention it to Thrust one time after a meeting with Captain Starscream. I think it’s some sorta tank disease?”
“You’re not a tank…” That singular optic narrows. “Are you?”
“No, I meant like a digestive–” Thundercracker pauses. Ponders. His optics are bulging. “Am I?” He clutches his helm. “Ahh…”
Clobber drops her cup, clutching her own helm. “Ahh…”
“First time?” offers Lockdown, returning with a fresh set of drinks.
Nova Storm gives him a look he recognises well.
“The things we do for love.”
“You got that right.”
They tap their overflowing cups together.
“You got a promotion!” Bumblebee slaps his palms over the counter in a neighbouring booth. “You’re knocking Starscream outta his job!”
“Um, no.”
“I can’t wait to see his smug face!”
“Like I said, it’s just a temporary assignment.”
“No, it’s a promotion!” Bumblebee punctuates this with a tap to Windblade’s pauldron, garnering a gently reassuring smile from her. “’Cause the other Seekers won’t want him back! Ha!”
Slipstream grimaces softly. Her responsibility for others aside, the prospect of being made Captain permanently is actually making her feel a bit indisposed.
Windblade has already determined that. She gives the bigger femme’s servo a squeeze. “Hey, you’re doing great. Don’t worry about it.”
Bumblebee means well and fully intends to say more about it, however Shadow Striker emerges from the periphery like a bad dream. “Whoa.”
“Bee?”
“Oh, scrap,” he murmurs. “She’s that baddie from before.”
Windblade and Slipstream turn together to look.
Shadow Striker saunters on in with sleek grace, movements unhurried, yet deliberate. Her modified scope scans the patrons and various furnishings, revolving in its socket and adjusting its zoom. Her unmodified optic gazes stoically ahead, fixed and determined. It is not disorienting to her.
“Oh, she’s gorgeous,” murmurs Windblade. “I was too distracted with Soundwave to have a better look at her, before.”
“Great dancer, too,” adds Slipstream.
“Wonder if she’ll remember me,” Bumblebee murmurs, tempted to wave. Curious if she will still notice him, if he does not.
Shadow Striker seems intent on pretending not to have seen his distinctive yellow, drifting past their booth without so much as a glance, when she suddenly stops. “Hey, scrub.”
He perks, delighted. “Hi, tough guy! How’s it going?”
She turns to smirk back at him from over a pauldron. “Fine, thanks. Yourself?” This is astonishingly cordial for her.
Windblade and Slipstream dare not interrupt.
“I’m great!” Bumblebee winks. “But, I never got your name.”
Shadow Striker shrugs silkily, sauntering onwards. “You didn’t ask.” Thus they are dismissed. She is really impressive, and she knows it.
“How rude of me! One second, guys.” He hops out of his seat and hurries after her.
Windblade and Slipstream share a look.
“We can’t keep calling each other funny nicknames, huh?” The blaring holoscreen drowns Bumblebee out as he passes below it.
Shadow Striker settles with Maccadam at the bar. Her enhanced, fine-tuned audials are different from most.
“Lemme start us off. I’m Bumblebee!” He holds out a servo. “And you are…?”
“You really don’t know.”
“Uh, no? But I’d like to!”
“Shadow Striker,” the ominous femme purrs back, all angular features and sleek combat armour and a cruel lens. She accepts his servo within hers, larger digits firm, but not painful, offering a proper shake. “Let me buy you a drink.”
“Dude.” His optics widen. “That is the coolest name ever. You can totally buy me a drink.”
Maccadam does not intervene beyond pushing two full cups over.
“Thanks, Mac.”
“Anytime, scout.”
“Scout? Now that’s a sweet nickname. I like it.”
“Yes, and you shall certainly grow into it, my friend!”
“Looking forward to it!” Bumblebee grins at Shadow Striker, who is rubbing her angular chin. “Guy knows everything. It’s like he can tell the future!”
“Huh. Your build would make for a decent scout.”
“Yeah?”
She inclines her helm to him. She likes the size difference, in tandem with his courage. He really does something for her. “Hmm…”
“Hey, uh, since we’ve finally been introduced, you should totally meet my friends. They’re super chill.”
The lens flickers, befalling Windblade and Slipstream huddled like a couple in their booth from across the bar, holding servos. “They’re cute.”
“They sure are. C’mon, I’ll introduce you.”
“You sure about that?”
“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”
“Might spoil their little date.”
“They won’t mind! They go on dates all the time. Sometimes, they take me along!”
“What do you think they’re saying?” Slipstream asks Windblade, holding her servo without thinking about it.
“Ugh, I dunno! Why is this holoscreen so loud?”
“They haven’t stopped looking my way since you came over,” Shadow Striker remarks casually. Too casually. “Clever femmes. They seem scared of me. Of what I might do to you.”
“What? No way!” Bumblebee playfully flicks her on the pauldron, reaching up to achieve it, failing entirely to recognise that he is being flirted with. “They’re just impressed by your dance skills from before. We have gotta do that again sometime! Wow, I had no idea such a big warframe could be so, like… fluid!” It is clearly a compliment.
“And you keep your hip joints very well-lubricated.” It is unmistakably a come-on.
Maccadam awkwardly clears his intake, shuffling off.
Bumblebee ticks. He blinks back his surprise. “Are you hitting on me?”
“Do you like it?”
His disbelieving smile turns decidedly flirtatious. “Maybe I do. But I gotta ask, when you danced with me, earlier, where were your optics straying…”
“Where a femme’s gaze should be.” Shadow Striker sips her drink. “You have a great aft.”
“Okay, I’m just going to go get another batch of Energon out the back.” Maccadam lumbers off.
“My, my!” Bumblebee fans himself. “You clearly don’t waste any time.”
Shadow Striker smirks.
He bites his lower derma, fluttering his optic shutters alluringly.
“…You busy, later?”
“…Nope.”
She nods. “You won’t ditch your friends for some fun, I’m guessing.”
“Sorry, handsome.” He puffs out his chassis. “I love my friends. We’re hanging out right now, and I don’t wanna cut that short.”
“Very well.” Her smirk deepens. “Bring them along.”
His optical ridges arch.
“I admit, even for a filthy little grounder, I do prefer jets. Just like you do, clearly.”
“That is… so disrespectful. And hot. Scrap. I’m conflicted!”
“Their wings are incredibly sensitive… I can subdue a Seeker in battle with just a squeeze.” She demonstrates, crushing air within her fist. “Pain, or pleasure. The border between is nebulous at best, to me. I blur the line.”
At this, his square mandible drops, cheeks flush with Energon. He has never been this aroused before.
Amused, she drags a digit up the cords of his throat, along his jawline and under his chin, neatly snapping his intake shut with an upwards flick.
Windblade and Slipstream collectively gasp.
Shadow Striker is about to say more when she pauses, helm tilted, gaze aside, steadily frowning. Apparently she is listening to something Bumblebee cannot hear. Most likely a private comm link.
He dumbly stares up at her.
“…Great.” She sighs, straightening out. “Perfect timing. Just when I got my engine revved.”
He is hot to the touch when she squeezes his pauldron. It makes him shudder.
“Sorry, Bumblebee. I gotta go do a thing.”
He snaps out of the spell she had cast. “Aw, really?”
“Mmhm.”
“That sucks! Hey, can I have your comm link? I’ll call you! We can meet up when you’re free, if you want?”
“When I want you, I’ll find you.” She turns and stalks away.
“That’s… vaguely threatening.” He watches her go. “And still super hot? Ugh, I gotta problem.”
“Hey.” She offers a nod to Windblade and Slipstream in passing. “How’s it humming?”
They gawk.
Shadow Striker disappears with a chuckle, leaving Bumblebee with some explaining to do.
“Guys… I think she likes me.”
Chapter 5: Pursuit
Summary:
A rather delicate Starscream enters Megatron's personal habitation suite for the first time, sharing in a tender moment together. Orion Pax and the campaign to reinvent Cybertron get in the way. Officer Strongarm encounters the culprit responsible for defiling property with spray-painted purple insignias affiliated with Megatron's movement, but Flamewar is not an easy culprit to catch.
Notes:
Apologies, this update took a little longer than anticipated. I hope you enjoy it. Thank you for your readership and patience. Let me know if you have any ideas or constructive criticism. If you believe this work deserves a motivatory gesture, a Kudos costs you nothing but an instant of your time.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Now that I have been changed, and you find me so fragile as I acclimatise to my new self…” Starscream leans on Megatron’s bent arm, the Seeker Captain gripping the retired gladiator for support and as a claim of ownership, all outward stares surely envious to behold such a beauty at the behest of this brawn. “Don’t you fear the gossip?”
“I fear nothing.”
It makes Starscream swoon, internally. He is a little too sore right now to do much outward swooning.
“Though, I apologise if this seems… overbold,” comes a subtly shy rumble as the door slides open. “Please, make yourself at home, my friend.”
“Oh, not overbold at all.” Optics are bright, teasingly wandering, grip loosening but not quite breaking away as Megatron steps aside to admit Starscream entry, their digits lingering at the tips. “I was wondering when you’d show me to your habitation suite.”
The former gladiator flushes. Clears his vents with a grunt.
The Seeker’s elegant pedes thus pass over the threshold, heel struts producing an arresting click-clack with each alternating step, accentuating a sway to the hip joints and providing added height that will allow for wonderfully imperious gazes down the bridge of an olfactory sensor redesigned to enhance the profile.
Shockwave claims no appreciation for shallow and fickle concepts such as the social estimations of trending beauty standards, but he is surely an artist with his tools, masterful within his means.
Megatron rumbles deep within his dented, scuffed chassis, optics following Starscream’s admirable efforts at not limping too noticeably. The tired old gladiator’s fans whirr, cooling his battered internals. Burdened by such noble dreams and such a noble character, he is a fantasy of many. He seals the door behind them, listening for the faint bleep of the locking mechanism. “It’s not much, I’m afraid, but you’re welcome to it.” Indeed, the furnishings are simple, modest, functional.
A smile that could melt one’s Spark chamber is tossed casually over a pauldron. “It could use a few personal touches.” Seekers have always been beautiful, but now, their Captain can claim the closest stake to perfection. “I shall help you.”
“You have… already helped me.”
Starscream had been intending to flirt further, when he is felled by the sheer vulnerability in that low utterance.
“You have been a companion to me, in these trying times. Hence, this gift.”
“…Megatron…”
“Do not think I am weak. However, for you, I will say this.”
Slender digits are recaptured within a mighty servo. They offer no resistance.
“I often find myself surrounded with like minds, yet so alone. I have thought upon my lot in life, and wondered… no, how can this be?”
It just makes him sigh in a rattling rasp, moving in to embrace Megatron, stumbling against his supporting bulk, cheek pressed to chassis.
“A gladiator faces his adversary alone. As Orion and I drift further apart, unable to reconcile our differences with our world at the precipice of this great change… so close, now…” A rumbling sigh. “I am reminded again, that I stand, and I am not alone. You… stay with me.”
“I… I will!”
“Please.” There is no boasting of fame, and such emotional openness without the shield of bravado would be death, in the Energon-soaked arena.
“He is a fool! Forget him, I am here!”
“Were it so easy.”
“If he chooses to walk away, so be it! You’ve tried! He won’t understand you, not like I do!”
“I do not wish to believe that he cannot see things clearly. His is a brilliant mind, a fierce Spark… I admire him. I wish you knew him as I once did. And yet, he denies me. Defies me. Was he not with me, before that braying crowd? Did he not grip my servo in camaraderie, as I unveiled our united symbol for the first time?”
Starscream had been in the crowd, once. Now, he tightens his grip as Megatron grits his dentas, seething.
“…But I must do this. With, or without him.”
“You only need me.”
“And you… have been by my side. My little helper. My confidant. My friend.”
“You noticed me!”
“I did. But, then again, you demanded my notice. There were moments I almost considered relenting my dreams, for my dear Orion’s sake, but you… inspire me with your hunger, your ambition. I need a Spark like yours at my side. A conqueror’s Spark.”
“Oh, Megatron. I wish I’d known you, soothed you, since aeons ago!”
“You’re here, now… Starscream.”
The Seeker looks up.
The old gladiator smiles tiredly down. “Let me not allow myself to become too impassioned. Forgive me.”
“I like you, all impassioned.”
“Yes, well… Hrrm-hrrm. I shall provide you a safe place to recuperate, without entertaining the many demands of your station. Here, you shall rest.”
“With you.”
“Eventually. Let me attend to today’s rally. There will surely be a meeting with Orion afterward. When I have concluded business, I shall return to you. We shall be alone, then.”
“Ohh, but I grow impatient with want! Take me with you. I may be a little, uh, tender, just now, but I am strong enough.”
“No. Rest.”
“Megatron!”
“When you have fully recovered, I intend to take you everywhere I go, Starscream.”
“I will follow!”
“Until then, I will return. Wait for me.”
Starscream’s optics flutter shut as Megatron’s chin comes to rest atop the Seeker’s helm.
“You’re trembling.”
“Hold me until I grow still.”
“…I am a brute.”
“…I trust you.”
The former gladiator rumbles, arms timidly returning this embrace, as if he barely comprehends physical affection, as if he fears his own strength. His permanent memory storage is filled with pain, plans, politics and poetry. And now, this – wordlessly, he saves this moment as a core memory file, something that even a hard wipe cannot erase without causing integral damage to his brain module. He will always have this. No enemy will take it away from him.
“If I weren’t so sore, right now…”
“I’m sorry you hurt. It was a gift, I only wanted to–”
“Shh. It’s worth it.”
Starscream and Megatron lapse into perfect silence for some time.
“Defacing of public property,” Officer Strongarm dictates with blunt stoicism, in the process of adding another entry to her diligently updated audio logs. She can’t help but think of that punk troublemaker Sideswipe and his bouts of property damage, their repeated run-ins and all the things he said to make her reconsider everything she stands for, a great sundering rendered all the more self-destructive upon his first admittance of an actual smile, directed at her. “Database indicates a previous–”
“Don’t interrupt art!”
She actually pauses, a little stunned that such a big voice could come from a two-wheeler.
“Almost done,” Flamewar barks whilst she hurriedly moves to finish the design. “Just gimme a sec…”
Strongarm sighs, shrugs her mighty pauldrons as if physically dismissing Sideswipe’s smile from her memory banks, lumbering over and readying the stasis cuffs. “Drop the paint. Servos where I can see them.”
“There,” Flamewar coos, her shapely, flame-emblazoned little warframe quivering with pride upon the final spray of bold, ominous purple, forming the stylised face plate insignia. “Done!”
Strongarm is almost upon the two-wheeler, now, towering by comparison, a servo reaching for the femme’s arrest, the other gripping primed cuffs.
Flamewar turns on her heel struts and suddenly turfs a partially depleted cannister of spray-paint as if lobbing a grenade into enemy lines. A wickedly good throw, with far more force than one would anticipate.
The makeshift missile, treated far too violently, whacks Strongarm across her stout, heavily armoured bosom, bursting with a spray of purple across her powerful warframe. Squinting into a jet of paint to the face, she inadvertently takes a few steps back, giving nimble little Flamewar just enough of an avenue of escape. Indeed, Strongarm deals with quirky characters all the time, but this is a first.
“Purple suits you!” The fiery two-wheeler assumes her bike alt-mode and speeds off through the gap, throatily gunning it. “See ya, handsome!”
“H-hey!” The officer spits purple. “Stop! Bleaugh!”
Illicit modifications have most likely been made, enhancing Flamewar’s abilities outside of permitted parameters. She is speeding. She would be dangerous if persuaded to do worse. For now, she flees from her mischief, giggling under the thunder of her engine.
She is long gone in the mere moments it takes Strongarm to wipe paint from her face plate, smearing purple on her burly forearm. “Update: add assault of a police officer to the record, and driving over the speed limit.” Pouncing into her rugged alt-mode, the officer follows. “In pursuit. Ugh. Paint tastes awful!” She is glad she did not get any in her optics.
Flamewar is lost to the twisting alleyways and roving warframes.
Strongarm eventually returns to the station, humbled in purple.
Notes:
Is Megatron in love? I think so. Anyway, nobody panic – I am not relying on RID (2015) for canon here. I just like some of the characters, most of whom have varying appearances within different media anyway. I also fully approve of Strongarm’s stockier femme body shape. I wanted to do something with her, if only to add a little world-building and some appearances scattered throughout. This story is likely to feature a number of other familiar faces in background roles, hopefully fleshed out with relationships and motivations.
Chapter 6: Discord
Summary:
When a rally organised by Megatron and Orion Pax descends into a riot, Shadow Striker ends up being Bumblebee's awkard heroine and helps him home, with the sneaking suspicion that she might like him for more than just his body and dance moves. Orion Pax gives Megatron a lecture about responsibility which does not go down well. It dawns on them both that one mech must leave the other behind.
Chapter Text
Bumblebee can taste Energon. His own Energon. Who struck him, just now? He did not even see the blow coming. When bigger warframes, clashing together with terrible noise, upset his perch upon a tall speaker and he fell into the tide, he evidently added further upset to already heightened tempers. He struggles to pick himself up, jostled betwixt crushing movement.
A servo reaches through, seizing his arm and pulling him upward.
He dribbles from his split intake, his brain module throbbing.
"Bumblebee!"
"Ugh… Shadow Striker?"
She is forcing herself through the crowd, pulling him after.
He stumbles to occupy the path her bigger warframe clears for them.
A heated mech takes offence to being shoved aside and throws a fist her way.
She catches it, lens alight.
Bumblebee is very glad to have the femme on his side, gawking up at the warframe sent careening overhelm with an almost comedic bellow.
"C'mon!"
He is thus haplessly rescued, yanked free from the rowdy rabble. Looking back at the stage, he sees the appalled expression upon Orion's facial rigging, whose booming voice calls for order from beside the grim resignation of Megatron's silence.
This is not how Bumblebee hoped to get Shadow Striker to come back with him to his habitation suite.
"It's nothing serious."
"Ow."
She cleans his face plate with a strip of textile. She is not exactly gentle. It is brusque, deliberate. But she is not unkind. She is not inconsiderate.
He looks so miserable. A femme just cannot resist.
Not even Shadow Striker. She sighs as she eases back, standing whilst he sits. "Bumblebee."
"I'm okay. Thanks for rescuing me."
"You want me to call someone for you?"
"Nah, I'll call Windblade." His vocal processor is unstable. He clears his intake with a cough. "In a minute. Soon as I've stopped buzzing. Heh."
"Should I stay?"
Bumblebee wants to give Shadow Striker a hug, just then. Manages a weak smile up at her softened scowl.
After a moment of optic-contact, she actually smiles weakly back.
"My hero."
Her face plate flushes. She turns her helm aside, directing her optic elsewhere, scope whirring as she zooms in on a holoposter mounted to his wall, its glowing interface flickering between images, bearing the chiselled warframes of various famous teams in their uniform colourschemes. "…You like Cube."
"Yeah! I love Cube!"
And as it turns out, she does, too.
"Megatron… I cannot condone many of the things you have said at today's rally."
"I spoke only the truth, Orion."
"You incited a riot."
"Does that not prove the urgency of our movement?" The retired gladiator paces the barren room, rumbling with passion. "Cybertron grows tired of waiting for our livelihoods to improve, in feeble increments!"
"Change takes time."
"It has taken too much of our time! Many of my brethren still rot in the mines to fuel our factories, while the pampered elite take pleasure in the bittersweet spoils of the arena. Do you think I chose this life? It was the only escape I had."
The former archivist lowers his gaze with a wince.
"I cannot allow more Sparks to suffer as mine."
"Megatron… I love you."
A seething hiss through bared dentas. "Then do not reject me, Orion!"
"I could never reject you. I know your frustration. I do not intend to overshadow your pain with my ideals."
"Bah!" A dismissive toss of a servo. "You keep doing this to me. You frustrate me endlessly with your refusal to see things as they must be."
"I will not give up on you. And so I will remind you, that inciting chaos is a misuse of your platform." Optics rise again, gleaming. "I will not allow you to do this to yourself. It is an encroaching darkness that has befallen other great mechs throughout history."
"Chaos! Darkness! How dare you? It is righteous anger! You must know that no victory has been won with just talk!"
"Innocents will be harmed, if you continue down this path."
"Oh, do not be so naive, Orion! Sacrifices must be made, for the betterment of the greater whole!"
"No. Mark my words, Megatron – I will obtain that audience with the powers that be, and I will persuade them of our cause, without further violence."
"They want nothing to do with us! They ignored us for months!"
"You will not incite another riot. Not so long as I stand with you."
Megatron looms before Orion Pax, their face plates hovering closely. One is impassioned, the other compassionate. There is a limitless connection between their lingering optics.
"I have reassured you before. But now, I swear it."
"And if these powers that be actually cared for your rational arguments, they would have done something significant enough to show it, by now."
"I will do this."
"We shall see. As for this… 'riot,' that's what you call it?" The retired gladiator, once a slave to the mines, captures the other mech's cheek in the palm of a heavy, massive servo, gently cradling. "You have such a noble spark, my Orion. But the events of today only prove our resolve. All the more reason for those powers that be to finally heed our stern warning and act! We will be ignored no more. I will make something great of this day! Do not despair."
"At the risk of further harm?" The former archivist and, before then, a mere dock worker, sadly shakes his helm. "Our ideals were so peaceful. How can you not find this unconscionable?"
"I will only allow as much harm as is necessary to save you. To save us."
Orion allows Megatron to kiss his other cheek.
"Because I love you."
Their warframes radiate far too much heat.
"Do not deny me this."
"…Megatron, wait."
The hulking mech had intended to depart, yet he draws to a heavy stop some paces away, turning his battle-scared helm to gaze over a reinforced pauldron. Scuffed dermas are softly drawn in a lopsided line, optic shutters are partially lowered – a little too intense to be stoic, it is an unknowingly sultry expression overall. "Yes, my Orion."
It makes him ache within his Spark. "I am not angry, old friend."
Grunting softly, Megatron shifts almost anxiously within the dull layers of his dented armoured shell, optical ridges seemingly bending under the weight of his own thoughts.
"I do not wish to part ways in anger."
"Neither do I."
Orion's movements are measured and gentle as he approaches the other mech from behind, drawing close enough that the air dispersed from his vents can be felt, faintly ticklish and warm, upon a spinal seam. "Then you know what you must do."
"For you, I would do almost anything, my Orion. But here, I cannot relent."
"Please, Megatron. Hold off on the rousing speeches. I have failed you before, but I will find a way to reach them. Somehow. Soon."
"I cannot help it," the retired gladiator rumbles softly, with a handsome wince. "My Spark throbs with it. My mind is consumed with it. So much… anger. Justice must be done. I have waited a lifetime for this change."
"Great injustice was done to you, old friend." The former archivist embraces the other mech from behind. "I fear your way will only perpetuate further harm, to yourself and to us all."
"I only mean to set things right."
"I know, old friend." A nuzzle to the tender cables of a guarded neck, before a masculine chin rests atop a pauldron, helms tilted together.
"It is… painful."
"And I deeply regret that pain."
"I miss you," comes out ever so quietly. "Come back to me. I cannot reach you, now."
"Just give me one final chance, to make this right."
"Orion… I cannot wait for you, for much longer."
He reluctantly allows Megatron to step out of the arms that would hold him.
"Things got real ugly, real fast. I'm kinda shaken up about it, I guess."
"I'm sorry, Bee. I should've been there."
"Nah, it's cool. Those rallies were never your thing. I just… I never really thought Megatron would preach that sorta stuff, y'know? He always seemed so…" Bumblebee dwindles off.
Windblade strokes his back plate, sitting beside him.
"I feel betrayed. I thought I knew him."
"Oh, Bee."
"He was my hero. Does he really think these things? Like, yeah, I see where he's coming from, he's not… wrong. But…"
Slipstream is rather large, as far as most femmes go. She is thus capable of enveloping the rather small Bumblebee in a way that is very reassuring, drawing him into a big hug and kissing him atop his helm.
He sags against her chassis.
Shadow Striker remains silently propped against the wall, arms crossed across her chassis, expression stern. She is, evidently, thinking deeply. But not too deeply to notice Windblade directing a soft, pretty smile of gratitude her way. Answers it with a handsome nod.
Megatron returns to find the lights dimmed throughout his habitation suite.
Starscream is peacefully splayed out in recharge, a datapad upon his chassis. Evidently, he enjoys to read whilst gradually powering down. His beauty is somehow greater, now that he does nothing to flaunt it.
The retired gladiator expects that the coming weeks will be especially difficult. But throughout whatever he must endure for the betterment of Cybertron, he shall have this to look forward to.
The Seeker is left to his rest, through which his sensors can properly recalibrate, adjusting to his unique warframe without strain that would prolong his pain.
Chapter 7: Allure*
Summary:
Suave and smooth, Starscream happily adjusts to his new construction and makes a move on the rather shy Megatron who does not know what to do with himself, allowing the younger mech to take the lead. Shadow Striker shows up at Bumblebee's place, intending to briefly check in on him before leaving again, until Windblade offers an invitation inside that leads to a game of Dead-Dark-Drone and a lot of tension. Later on, back at Maccadam's, Windblade really wants to make out with Slipstream and this infatuation does not escape her notice.
Featured sex scene: M-rated Starscream/Megatron (neck bites, handjob/stimulation of ambiguous genitals, consumption of cum and licking one's own cum off another's soiled fingers, strong verbal component with dirty talk of possessive nature, smaller mech dominates bigger mech physically and verbally, self-restraint of stronger partner, violent undertones but consensual).
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Bumblebee is roused from his recharge ever so gently, his engine purring in response to the softest kisses upon his brow. He is sprawled over a familiar shape, cuddling another frame against his own.
“Hey,” Windblade murmurs as he stirs atop her, warm within her arms. Evidently, she revived first, his guardian, having kept him safe and comforted in his rest. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.” Her Spark is simply too pure.
“Hi.” He stretches his cables, which still ache, arching his spinal strut and nuzzling under her curved mandible. “Mmm.” He is delighted whenever she opts to spend her recharge cycles with him. “This is the best way to wake up.”
“How’re you feeling?”
“Tender. But it gives those ol’ self-repair protocols something to do, I guess.”
Her digits trace, then lightly pinch one of his horns. It is a very intimate thing to do, to touch another this way.
He giggles. A sweet, masculine sound she knows so well.
She smiles into his helm. “I’ll still be here when next you reboot.” Another delicate little kiss. “If you wanna go back to recharge.”
“Windblade, you’re awesome, you know that?”
“Mmhm.”
He pushes himself up on his stocky forearms, in turn leaning over her, face plates only a nuzzle apart.
She sighs, perfectly relaxed, gazing up at him, gazing down at her. Draws shapes over his chassis, her servos delicate, slender. “Oh, Bee.”
“I love you, bestie.”
“I love you, too.”
He grins, glowing and handsome. The minor wound in his intake has already been sealed, knitted together.
She narrows her optics playfully. “What’re you thinking about, right now?”
“I dunno. Wanna make out?”
“Bee!”
This gets a laugh out of them both, rolling over together and embracing in an affectionate, intimate heap. They end up falling off the edge of the berth, with a combined thud.
“Oof! We’ve gotta stop doing that.”
“Like I said, get a bigger berth!”
They’re in no rush to right themselves.
Megatron sits up slowly. His optics flutter online. His battered old frame always aches after it has been still for too long. He recharged slumped back in his favourite chair, which is not ideal. He dared not share the occupied berth.
Starscream is perched on the edge of said berth, idly scrolling through his datapad for amusement. As the larger mech shifts with a metallic groan, the Seeker turns his helm and greets the retired gladiator with a smile too beautiful for this world.
Megatron stiffens all over. He does not know what to say to that.
The Seeker manages to look so gentle, somehow. Kind. Caring.
The retired gladiator finally settles for smiling humbly back, grateful. He wishes he had the courage to march across the habitation suite, seize those pauldrons and kiss that soft, full intake with fearsome passion. Would it be indecent? He must be terribly boring. Or he will be, soon as the celebrity novelty wears off. And he must always restrain this urgency, or his terrible strength may do harm. It is a frustrating life.
Neither mech says a word for a surprisingly long time. They just sit and stare.
“I no longer hurt,” Starscream purrs eventually, in his distinctive rasp, rendered low and seductive.
Bladed optical ridges arch as Megatron processes the implication. “Good. I am glad.” A polite, sincere reply.
It garners a fond chuckle. Suddenly, the Seeker rises, tossing his datapad aside and sauntering on over to the seated old gladiator.
Megatron moves to stand, as is respectful, only to be promptly returned to his seat with a light touch to the chassis.
Starscream uses but a single digit to effectively control a much larger mech. That smile turns lopsided, now, optic shutters narrowing alluringly.
“…I, um…”
The Seeker runs that digit slowly across, tracing the breadth of the retired gladiator’s armoured chassis.
“I hope you recharged comfortably.”
“I feel incredible. So alive. So… powerful. Better suited to my own body, than I have ever felt, before.”
“Excellent. I will pass that over to Shockwave. He will be pleased with his work.”
Starscream inclines his helm. It is such an avian gesture.
Megatron gazes upward, adorably uncertain.
“Although you just revived, and I acknowledge it is rather forward of me…” The Seeker leans in, stooping to hover his face plate a little above the retired gladiator’s, whose rugged facial rigging is rendered with awkward romance. “I believe I have waited long enough for this.”
Megatron shudders as his chin is delicately cupped.
“May I?” Starscream’s elegant servo is wonderfully warm.
With a shaky gust of recycled air, a clumsy, larger servo rises, timid and careful not to crush the cables of a slender neck, capturing it gently to convey a far more violent desire. “You may.”
The Seeker leans in.
The retired gladiator’s face plate feels like it is going to melt, moments before his battle-scarred intake is met with Starscream’s flawless dermas in a kiss that young femmes dream of.
“Mmm…”
It is real, and it is happening to Megatron.
Windblade answers Bumblebee’s door for him, leaving him to finish his turn. This game always brings out his inner strategist.
Shadow Striker offers a curt nod. “Hi.” Very cool and casual. Femmes love that.
Windblade offers a soft smile back. “Hey, you.”
“Just checking in. He’s fine, I take it.”
“Thank you. He’s doing much better.”
“Good.” The bigger femme intends to dismiss herself and go.
But before she can, the flier has stepped aside, providing an alternative route. “Come on in.”
“It’s fine.” A raised palm. “I’m not here to interrupt.”
“Don’t be silly.” A painted smile deepens. “He likes you.”
Shadow Striker’s cool, casual facade drops a little bit. If anything, the display of actual emotion makes her more handsome and easily desirable.
“It’d mean a lot to him.”
“…I’ve got time.”
“Is that Slip?” Bumblebee enquires from deeper within, hearing femmes using low voices. His louder habits have left a perpetual ringing in his audials which he really should get checked out.
Windblade inclines her helm invitingly.
Shadow Striker sighs, straightens, and saunters inside the habitation suite. The door slides shut in her wake, sealing her fate.
“My hero!”
Windblade giggles softly at the sheer delight in Bumblebee’s voice.
Shadow Striker flushes, unable to decide what her facial rigging ought to express, and grunts feebly as she is suddenly hugged about the chassis by the considerably smaller mech. She has no idea where to put her servos, either, so she just pats him awkwardly on the helm a few times.
“You came to see me,” he intones more softly, now, his cheek pressed to her chassis.
“Yeah. Just, uh…” She rubs her sharp jawline. “Checking in.” Clears her intake with a rumble.
“That’s so sweet of you.”
“Uhh…” The femme reels at the prospect. “…You doing okay?”
“I’m doing just fine. Windblade takes good care of me.” Bumblebee finally steps away. “We’re playing some Dead-Dark-Drone.”
Shadow Striker quirks her helm in recognition. “Yeah?” Undeniably interested.
He perks. “You play, too?”
Put at greater ease with another shared interest, she puffs out handsomely. “Sometimes.” And they all know, based on her posture alone, that she excels at it, as she excels at everything else – everything except for dealing with her softer emotions.
“Not to be funny, but you are absolutely checking all my boxes.”
She smirks.
“Mine,” Starscream reminds Megatron lowly. “Say it.”
“Y-yours.”
“Again.”
“Yours.”
“With feeling,” the Seeker intones, gripping the curve of the heavy helm and forcing the retired gladiator to bend his neck, to be thoroughly ravaged by pinching dentas. The smaller mech’s other servo remains below, slick, squeezing hot metal tightly.
“Yours!” comes out in a low, rumbling gust of anguished delight.
“Good,” Starscream hisses into those bruised cables, then sits back, his wings fanning outward. “You will remember who you belong to. Am I understood?” He takes his servos away.
“Yes.” Relief combatting with disappointment.
“Very good.” Slick digits rise to a delicate intake. The Seeker makes a point of dragging his glossa over each of his own digits, kissing and sucking at the tips.
Megatron is holding back his sheer strength, even as he rumbles and takes that dripping servo, kissing the knuckles with reverence and gnawing softly with restrained hunger.
A giggle. “Do you like your own taste?”
“Mmhm.” A dumb nod.
“This pleases me.”
Orion had taught Megatron.
Starscream does not need to know that. All he needs to know, is that he shall return to his Seekers triumphant in his new frame, the most powerful and glorious among them, and he will restore their former greatness. He shall bring with him a prize of his own, the key to securing their future in the dawn of a new Cybertron.
“Hey, uh…” Clobber leans over a bit, her curious optic peering downwards. “Whatcha doin’?”
“Working on my screenplay,” Thundercracker replies cheerfully, having been typing avidly away between sips and the occasional comments to his friends.
“Oh,” she drawls without quite comprehending. “Cool!” Just happy for him.
“…What,” Dead End intones with impassive bewilderment, eventually.
“He’s an undiscovered genius,” Nova Storm purrs, snuggling up to Thundercracker, who flushes and chews his derma coyly.
“Ohh, I dunno about that…”
“Well, I’m telling you so.”
“Uh.” Dead End knows better than to argue. “Okay.” Sips his drink placidly.
“Aw, Nova, you’re always so encouraging. I couldn’t do it without you.”
“Sure you could! But you don’t have to.”
“Good. You’re my inspiration, you know.”
“It’s the least I can do. I’m so proud of you, Thunder.”
The Seekers share a little nuzzle.
“Relationship goals,” Hot Rod coos, leaning his pauldron against Dead End’s.
“Uh-huh.”
“They’re so cute,” Lockdown tells Clobber much the same way, elbowing her.
“I know!” The mighty femme cups her pincers together, beaming fondly at her best friend. “Like us.”
“Yeah, like–” He pauses for a moment, reconsidering this, then grins back at her with utmost conviction. “Yeah. Like us.”
“Aw!” Hot Rod looks delighted. “That is so like you guys!”
Dead End sighs quietly into his cup. Oh, he hates this.
“The way they kept looking at each other…” Over at the bar, Windblade leans on Slipstream, sighing.
The Seeker is very conscious that this is where she and the other femme first met. “Was it romantic?”
“In a way. But also – whew! It was getting hot in there.” A dainty servo fans a painted face. “If you know what I mean…” Playful, teasing.
Slipstream bites her lower derma, tugging on it with a husky grunt.
Up close and personal, like this, inevitably the gesture catches Windblade’s attention and utterly arrests it.
“What an odd couple, huh?”
“Yeah.” The smaller femme thus stares up at the Seeker’s intake, cheek pressed snugly against her pauldron.
Slipstream is thinking unwise thoughts, if her adorable flush and utterly bewitching derma-chewing are any indication.
“She’s… really sweet on him. Like, actually sweet. Not just because he’s so easy to want, you know?”
“Yeah. He’s wonderful, I don’t blame her one bit.”
“And I could tell how safe she makes him feel.”
“That’s very comforting.” Slipstream props her handsome mandible upon linked servos, leaning on the bar. “I really hope he gets some.”
Windblade sucks in air, then bubbles forth with gorgeous laughter.
The Seeker inclines her helm, giggling alongside, swinging her legs under the counter.
“Ahh, me too, Slip.” A painted face nuzzles a pauldron. “Me, too.”
“Lucky little mech.”
“Aw, d’you wanna big, strong, tough, oh so bad femme to swagger on over and sweep you off your pedes?”
“Who doesn’t?”
“…Does she have to be big and bad?”
Slipstream looks over at Windblade.
Windblade is caught staring at Slipstream’s intake, again.
“Nope,” murmurs those dark, plump, smiling dermas.
“Okay.” The femme nods with some distraction. “Good to know.” She is a great listener and multitasker, thankfully.
“I’m already big enough, I think.”
“You are so big. It’s great. I love it, how big you are.”
“As for the oh so bad part, well.” The Seeker actually smirks. She does not usually do that. She tends to be all shy smiles and, if one is lucky, awkward grins. “Perhaps in… the right context, I could be that, too.”
Windblade shudders. Finally remembers to look up, making optic-contact for the first time in far too long a period to be played off. Flushes.
Slipstream quirks an optic ridge.
“Okay.” The femme flutters her shutters. “That was way too smooth.”
The Seeker eases back handsomely and directs her digit-guns. “Pew-pew.”
It makes Windblade laugh again.
Slipstream loves that laugh.
“Seriously? That’s your finisher? ‘Pew-pew’?”
“Yeah. They’re my seduction ray guns.”
“Stahp!” Windblade wants to grab Slipstream by her handsome helm and kiss her hard, before throwing her over the bar to do frankly wicked things with her aft. Settles for a giggle and a hug instead, the slender femme hanging off the Seeker’s powerful neck and pauldrons. “Oh, Slip, I love you.” If only to spare Maccadam the shock.
“Love you, too.” Slipstream draws Windblade under a burly arm, servo laid out a safe distance above a slender hip joint, stroking the sleek panels of her side. “You’re just wonderful.”
Maccadam’s smile is sad. Even he appreciates the moment of silence that passes between the two femmes.
“So, tell me, handsome.” Windblade draws shapes over Slipstream’s chassis. “How was your day?”
“Heh, nothing special. Just Captain stuff.”
“And what does that entail, exactly? I’ve been meaning to ask.”
“Honestly? Not much, turns out. I have to find things to do.”
“Huh.”
“I can see now why Captain Starscream has enough spare time to… Uh…”
“…Go around, being so eccentric?”
“Yeah. That.” Slipstream modestly rubs her chin, clearing her intake. “We Seekers are more, uh… ceremonial, without a war to fight. Flying over parades and such.”
“Everyone loves a parade,” Windblade intones, in her very kind, reassuring way.
“Absolutely. So, um, I’ve been keeping everyone busy with all the basics, you know, like maintenance and combat drills…”
Flames emblazoned over a dark, shapely frame catch Hot Rod’s optic in passing. He gasps softly. “Whoa.”
Even Dead End spares a curious gaze. “Huh.”
“That fiery paint-job kicks total aft!”
“Actually, you’re right about that. It kinda does. Hers is way better than yours.”
“I have gotta go over there and compliment her.”
“Uh, maybe you really don’t?”
Hot Rod hurriedly stands, departing their booth.
“Try not to be weird about it, okay,” Dead End calls after the other mech in monotone, and sighs. “What a bolt-head.”
As Slipstream and Windblade chat between themselves, another femme thus casually drapes herself over the bar a little way along, slouching in such a fashion that exaggerates her ill manners and gorgeous curves, in turn projecting outward all the sharper parts of her small frame.
“Hello, Flamewar.”
The two-wheeler directs a wickedly adorable grin up at Maccadam’s paternal disapproval. “Hiya, Mac.” Her drawl is entirely relaxed, playfully at ease.
“You’ve been getting yourself into trouble again, I see.”
“Pffft. I am trouble.”
“Now, now. You know I worry.”
“Don’t! And don’t mind the cops, I’m not a priority right now. They’ve got their servos full. Lotta unrest on the streets, y’know. They won’t bother looking for me, here.”
“Never mind my establishment. I do wish you’d take better care of yourself.”
“I’m fine! I can protect myself. Always have done.”
The bartender sighs, shaking his helm as he smiles indulgently down at her. “The usual, mm?”
“You goddit.”
“Uh, hi?”
Flamewar looks lazily over at Hot Rod, initially unimpressed, until she sees the flames on his chassis. “Ooh.” Her optics glow with renewed interest. “A mech with style. Finally!”
“Me? Thanks! Actually, that’s why I…” He flushes, gathers himself, and offers his winning, handsome smile. “I just wanted to compliment your paint-job.”
“Mmmyeah?”
“Yeah, I love it! Flames all over! Makes me wish I got more than just the strip done. Maybe I really was a little conservative…”
“Meh, maybe a little conservative suits you.” She grins crookedly up at him. Quite unusually, some of her dentas have been filed into points. Or perhaps they broke that way, after being punched in the face plate, or crashing into something full-speed, or falling from a great height, or some other terrible accident, and she never bothered with repairs because she likes the fanged look? Who knows. She is rugged and wild enough that anything is possible. “What’s your name, cutie?”
“Oh! Uh, Hot Rod! I’m Hot Rod. That’s me. But my friends call me Rod. Or… Hot?”
“Flamewar,” she purrs back, with a giggle-snort at his expense. “Just Flamewar.”
“Whoa. Even your name’s hot!”
“Lemme buy you a drink.”
“Please, do!” He might very well be smitten with her already.
Notes:
Dead-Dark-Drone is a game of some sort that Shadow Striker plays in her downtime with her fellow Decepticons in the 2019 comic reboot (another cheeky reference – this story shall be full of those, I suspect). My rendition of Flamewar is based on multiple iterations of the character, thus I simply had to restore her awesome flames and fangs, as befitting a handsome little gremlin.
Chapter 8: Foreboding*
Summary:
Shadow Striker has her way with Bumblebee, confirming that she is his type of femme. Waddling on over to Maccadam's later on, Windblade and Slipstream both wonder what exactly happened to Bumblebee's aft to leave it so sore, until Shadow Striker joins them for a casual drink and makes a few sort-of friends. Wheeljack and Shockwave take an interest in the tech genius Seeker, Acid Storm, but Starscream's poorly timed call cuts them off. The Seekers are met with the new and improved Captain Starscream, accompanied by none other than Megatron himself, the mysterious benefactor who inspires them to action, except for Slipstream. She just worries a lot, because the great change being promised sounds rather ominous.
Featured sex scene: M-rated Shadow Striker/Bumblebee (smaller mech makes the first move on bigger femme, smaller mech on top of bigger femme's lap, dirty talk with threatening undertone, spending the night together, eating ass, sex scents, valve spasms due to arousal without stimulation, mech teasing femme to rile her up, femme is physically assertive and dominant, mech likes being bodily manipulated into position and restrained).
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Sometime during reruns of old Cube games, their casual chatter about strategy and star players had abruptly ceased.
Bumblebee had pretended for long enough by then, that the sultry heat of Shadow Striker’s glaring scope upon him was going unnoticed. When he shuffled a little closer to her, she was not surprised.
She had smirked, more than willing to receive him, an upward tick of the helm all the encouragement he needed to climb into her lap. Her large servos snugly encompassed his narrow waist.
“I’m just a little guy,” he had purred against her, gripping her gleaming chassis and straddling the sheer breadth of her thighs. “But don’t let that stop you from showing me a good time, okay?”
“Mmm. I am curious…”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” She had nuzzled his cheek, murmuring into his audial, “I wonder how much of me you can take…” A swipe of the glossa along his jaw. “Before incurring structural damage.”
“Ohh, that’s so hot.”
They had kissed each other to the background noise of a famous Cube absorption, the details of which were narrated monotonously for the wailing crowd by none other than Shockwave himself, perhaps the most popular announcer in Cube history for his unintentionally humorous and dry delivery via aerial surveillance drone.
Shadow Striker does not tend to recharge with her conquests. She rarely ever frags hard and long enough to require even a brief stint operating in rest mode, let alone necessitating an actual recharge cycle. She is very energy efficient. And yet she wakes in Bumblebee’s habitation suite.
The holoscreen is still playing old Cube game reruns at a lowered volume – Shockwave’s voice was becoming something of a comedic hindrance to the mood, as nice as it can be to laugh together whilst passionately interfacing.
Bumblebee is sprawled out at her pedes, aft up, aimed in her direction. The mere sight of him spikes her temperature readings, her cooling fans working far too hard. He is as he left her, still slick with mixed lubricant, peacefully in recharge despite the awkward position.
She covers her face plate in her servos, servos that smell like him, as her olfactory sensor reminds her. She shudders, then groans quietly at the reflexive clench in her valve. It has been millions of years since any mech has made her feel this way. The realisation leaves her sitting like this for some time.
Eventually, he too revives, optics fluttering online, moaning as he shifts a little, processing the discomfort in his prolonged posture. “…Ahh, my back strut…”
His squirming is only exciting her further, her servos dropping defeatedly into her own lap as she checks him out from behind. “Wanna get your aft ate some more?” Straight to the point.
“Well, hello to you, too.” He giggles, lifting his helm to peer playfully back at her from over his pauldron. He is so handsome. “You’re spry first thing, aren’t you?”
She can feel herself flushing with Energon her frame pumps close to the surface to help cool her more sensitive internal components. “You’re already in the position. Don’t wanna waste the opportunity.”
“A compelling argument.” He slowly wiggles his hips, aft swaying distractingly back and forth.
Her combat scope follows the movement of his aft.
“Especially since I’m all… sensitive.”
“You keep talking like that and I’ll do something about it.”
He offers an exaggerated moan, still lazily wiggling.
Her scope still follows. “Don’t tease me.” She drags her glossa across her smirking intake. “It’s cruel.” She can still taste him from before.
“I’m just stretching my cables.”
“You hot little slag,” she snarls softly, now, seizing his hips within her large servos, groping at the seams between his panels. Her strong, tactile digits easily capture him.
He sucks in air with a shudder. “Mmm! That’s me, alright.” Chin at rest upon his folded arms, his aching back strut tightly arched and knees planted apart to keep his swaying aft hiked up, he lowers his voice into a purr, uttering below her, “Good thing I keep my hips well-lubricated, huh?”
“Right. That’s it.”
“Help yourself.”
With a rumble of her engine, she braces him in place between her spread legs and stoops face-first into his aft, hefting him neatly upwards to meet her partway.
His cry of pleasure is silent, lurching. Clearly, he has a type – big, strong, domineering femmes who could frag a little guy like him in half.
Femmes like Shadow Striker.
“Ugh, I can’t get her outta my mind.”
“You mean the femme you only just met the other day?”
“Flamewar. Flamewar. Flamewar. Even her name just… works.”
“Yeah, that’s the one.”
“Her wicked paint-job, those burning optics, the way she smiled at me, and the curves on that little frame…” Hot Rod sighs dreamily. “I got so caught up, I forgot to ask for her comm link. What if I never see her again, outside of my memory files?”
“How tragic,” Dead End intones dully.
“Ugh, I know! And we really hit it off, too!”
“Oh, well.”
“…Have you ever been in love?”
“Uh, I am really not the one to talk to about this sort of thing.”
“Who shall I ask? Who’d understand the stirrings within my Spark?”
“Ask Clobber.”
“Ask me what? Sorry, I wasn’t listening just now.”
“Have you ever been in love?”
Before she can answer, a familiar shade of yellow moves within the periphery of their conversation.
“Hey, guys!” Bumblebee salutes in passing.
With a chorus of confused greetings, their optics follow him as he stiffly shuffles along, on his way to a neighbouring booth.
“…Is he walking funny?”
With a sigh, Hot Rod returns to his lovesick moping.
“Bee!” Windblade exclaims, waving him over quite unnecessarily. Evidently, the mere hours apart were enough for her to get so genuinely excited to see him again, one would think it had been months at the very least. She does this every time. It is rather sweet.
Slipstream’s optic ridges skyrocket upon taking in his condition. He looks normal, that is to say effortlessly handsome and infectiously cheerful, except for the way he walks. Or rather, waddles.
“Hi!” Bumblebee offers a playful wink. “Missed me?” And gingerly takes a seat next to Windblade, who is already seated opposite Slipstream, the femmes holding servos on the counter betwixt their drinks, as per usual.
They stare at him.
“Ah.” His grin turns crooked. “Is it obvious?”
“That’d be my doing,” Shadow Striker reports coolly, suddenly looming at their booth. She made absolutely no noise, and his distinct shade of yellow combined with that awkward gait distracted the other femmes sufficiently that they did not notice the approach until within striking range. “Sorry.” She does not sound sorry in the slightest. “Brought him back in one piece, though.”
Slipstream flushes as Shadow Striker slides in to sit alongside, elegant and casual.
“Well, then.” Windblade glances meaningfully at Bumblebee. “I guess you’re part of the squad, now.”
Shadow Striker may have just winked. Or perhaps she just blinked. It is hard to tell, on account of the constantly glaring scope. Forever a mystery. Femmes love a good mystery. “Maybe.”
“Sooo…” Windblade loops with an arm around Bumblebee’s pauldrons, giving her best friend a squeeze. “I’m buying the next round?”
“That’d be awesome. I’m thirsty!”
“I bet you are, you stud.”
“Nah, she’s the stud, not me. I’m just a lucky little guy.”
Being called a stud pleases Shadow Striker. She puffs out handsomely, the smooth panels of her frame gleaming with polish. A discerning optic would notice that she is littered with battle-scars, but she takes care of herself. And she took care of him, too. Over, and over again.
“Ooh, is that a gadget you’re workin’ on?” comes a sudden, masculine voice from further along the bar, loud and jovial.
Acid Storm tends to occupy a world of their own when fiddling with their technology. They finally pause their endless fiddling, placidly looking up, stunned with mild-mannered disbelief.
“A doohickey? A thingamajig? A contraption of some sort?”
“Oh,” they murmur, barely able to gather their wits, “it’s just a small project. Experimental.” No way. No fragging way is the brilliant Wheeljack speaking to the humble Acid Storm.
“An invention?!”
“…Yes?”
“Wonderful! I can’t even tell what I’m lookin’ at, but it’s fascinatin’!”
The Seeker actually blushes.
Wheeljack claps his palms together, almost giddy. “Always delighted to meet a fellow tech enthusiast! And so young!” A meaningful look at the equally renowned mech beside him. “There’s hope for the future of Cybertron, after all, Shockwave! With bright brain modules like this one around, we’re gonna be just fine! I told ya not to be so negative!”
“Mmm.”
Acid Storm must be dreaming.
“C’mon, now. Don’t be shy!” Wheeljack prods Shockwave in the chassis, garnering something of a frown from the featureless helm. “Come take a look! See what you make of it.”
“Affirmative. May I inspect the device?” the mech asks with due respect.
“Don’t you worry none, we’re real gentle!”
“We are professionals. No damage will be dealt.”
Unused to anyone else appreciating their hobby, Acid Storm smiles placidly and passes over their project, inwardly reeling at finally being noticed by mechs who may as well be their idols.
“Hmm…” Shockwave turns the device over very carefully in his servo. “Interesting,” he concludes, in a thoughtful undertone. “An emitter?”
“Oh! It’s mounted to your frame, like so?” Wheeljack’s digits inspect the seams.
“What is its function?”
“It’s a generator of localised weather conditions, within expected parameters, and adverse.”
The mechs look up, intrigued.
“I, um… I’ve always wanted to control the weather,” the Seeker confesses with a modest chuckle, rubbing their helm. “Then my name might actually mean something. Of course, it may also prove useful in future terraforming efforts.”
“Control the weather,” Wheeljack echoes with a gasp. “That’s brilliant! I love it!”
“Curious.” Shockwave inclines his helm, optic glinting. “This device could be weaponised.”
“Yes. Potentially.”
“Imagine a neural link! You think it, and poof! Your own personal lightnin’ bolt! That’s so cool!”
“And what is your designation?”
“Acid Storm.”
“Noted. I am Shockwave.”
“And I’m Wheeljack! This clunker here’s my old study buddy, we go way back.”
“We are not buddies.” The featureless helm directs a scowl at the grinning mech alongside, shrugging off his arm moodily. “We are scientific peers. Act like it.”
“Oh, don’t be so borin’! You act like we never dated!”
“Irrelevant.” Shockwave rolls his optic. “That was a long time ago.”
“Don’t mind him.” Wheeljack chuckles amicably. “Hey, you studyin’ just now?”
“No. Just… tinkering.”
“Got your own workshop, lab, somethin’ of the sort?”
“Not really.”
“Well, have ya ever considered an apprenticeship?”
Acid Storm’s throbbing Spark may explode. Of course, something has to ruin this moment, and that something is Starscream’s distinct rasp from within their helm.
Slipstream hears it, too, over the shared Seeker comm link. She jerks upright in her seat and salutes on impulse. “Yes, Captain! Right away, Sir!”
Windblade, Bumblebee and Shadow Striker stare back at Slipstream with bewilderment. They do not hear Starscream’s voice.
“Sorry,” Slipstream mumbles with some embarrassment. “I gotta go. Seeker stuff.” She reluctantly leaves her seat.
Shadow Striker obligingly shifts, allowing Slipstream to pass.
“Aw, seriously?” Bumblebee frowns sullenly, arms folded. “But this is our friendship time.”
“I’ll catch up with you guys later, if I can. Have fun without me.”
“Ugh. Don’t wanna.”
Slipstream kisses Bumblebee on the brow, before stooping again to echo the gesture on Windblade’s cheek, as natural as can be. Automatically, Shadow Striker gets a peck, too, deposited on the handsome angle of her jaw.
She quirks an optic ridge above her scope, but does not react otherwise.
“Oh, sorry!” Slipstream cringes. “Habit. We kiss each other all the time. I got so used to–”
“It’s fine.” A relaxed shrug. “I don’t mind.” Actually, Shadow Striker rather enjoyed that unthinkingly cute little gesture.
“Bye, Slip.” Windblade waves sadly at the hastily departing Seeker. “Love you.”
“Love you guys, too.”
“Don’t let him be a huge jerk to you, yeah?” Bumblebee calls after her. “Or I’ll kick his aft!”
“Okay!”
Acid Storm joins Slipstream at the exit. “Captain Starscream sounded especially excitable,” they intone, hugging their weather generator to their chassis, sullen. “It’s concerning.”
“I’m sure it won’t be so bad,” she mumbles back, trying to reassure herself as much as her fellow Seeker.
They give her a doubtful look.
“C’mon. Before he yells at us.”
“I’ve had a little work done.”
Even Megatron’s imposing presence is secondary to the gorgeousness incarnate that is the new and improved Starscream.
“Do you like it?” the Seeker Captain rasps with a beguiling smirk. Before anyone else can answer, “Of course you do,” is interjected with a wink. “I’m stunning! Ah, and so much stronger than I was, before. Bask in my glory, my Seekers, for I, your benevolent leader, did it for you!” A pose worthy of the stage.
Thrust burns with envy, Thundercracker and Nova Storm applaud together, Acid Storm admires the technological feat of this custom frame, and Slipstream is very anxious about everything. Starscream’s Seekers thus exchange stupid looks of awe between themselves, then return to gawking at their glamorously transformed Captain.
“I’m not just here to show myself off, of course,” he purrs immodestly, jutting out his hip and laying a servo upon the joint, accentuating his curves. “My new body is a manifestation of the glory that is to come, glory we shall all share through my radiance. You know that I have met frequently with a handsome and brilliant revolutionary these past months, whose company I so very much enjoy…”
Megatron flushes, shifts almost shyly in place.
“Indeed, with his vital input, I have cast my keen intellect to our future. I have insured our place in this bold new Cybertron, in accordance with his great vision! You’ve all heard his speeches, you’ve all clung to his wise words. It is clear to me where our loyalties must lie.”
Slipstream shivers when Megatron just so happens to meet her optics.
He almost smiles at her, attempting to look less fearsome, which is kind of him to do.
She awkwardly tightens her intake in reply, trying to look less terrified. This is all so foreboding. She has no say in any of it.
“My Seekers, great change is imminent.” Starscream has been so drastically rebuilt, he only resembles their kind, sauntering among the ranks and projecting his voice effortlessly. “Your careers have led to this pivotal moment. Now, although I have already pledged our undying allegiance to his will, he would still like to address you himself. And so I must step back. Megatron, darling, go right ahead. The floor is yours!”
“…Thank you, Starscream.”
The Captain bows deeply, and sashays off.
Megatron clears his intake. “Greetings, noble Seekers.” He has a truly impressive voice. It reverberates through the floor, up into the pedes of the smaller frames lined neatly before him, right into their Spark chambers. “I am Megatron. You may have seen me in the gladiatorial arena, or perhaps you have attended my rallies, or read some of my literary works.”
They murmur their agreement. They are, indeed, familiar with the celebrity before them.
“Rest assured. Indeed, great change is coming. For I know the plans I have for you. The powers that be would love nothing more than to convince you that the golden age has been upon us, an age of decadence and peace. They claim we dwell within a utopia, yet inequality and injustice persist. No more!” A fist slams into a chassis, with great feeling. “The old ways end now, with necessary force. You… will be a show of that force.”
Starscream grins.
Slipstream wants to sit down.
“You will make those arrogant fools, the pampered and the elite, bend and break like the backs that have toiled in servitude to ensure their comfort for millennia. You will humble your betters, humiliate them in defeat, drive them beneath you as we establish the proper order. Do you not know who you once were? Seekers!”
They all jerk with fright.
“I shall restore you, remnants of an ancient guild of aerial warriors, defenders of Cybertron past, defenders going forward!” Megatron throws up that fist. “You will prove instrumental in the dawn of a truly free, fair Cybertron for all – you will be heroes, you will fight the good fight, and you will prevail, ’til all are finally one!”
Starscream flutters his optics up at Megatron, enraptured.
“I intend to make more of you than this ornamental servitude your proud kin have been reduced to. You have been neglected and left to stagnation for far too long! The powers that be fear you! And so they should! We will do such great things together.”
Slipstream really wants to sit down.
Notes:
If you’re curious, a past iteration of Acid Storm could control the weather.
Chapter 9: Futility*
Summary:
Starscream gives Megatron access to the Seeker airbase. This deeply troubles Slipstream, who confides in the smartest Seeker, Acid Storm, to no avail, for they have no choice - their kind can only do what their Captain tells them to, even if Starscream has his Spark set on fulfilling Megatron's promise of a bold new Cybertron with force. On a happier note, Chromia returns to Cybertron, to the delight of Windblade most of all, but conversation sways to the trouble that has been brewing and it seems that leaving Caminus might have been a mistake.
Featured sex scene: M-rated Windblade/Chromia (Cityspeaking as a telepathic intimacy in addition to physical touch, verbal and physical teasing, tender and romantic with cuddly element, some frustration and amusement, service top with attempted power bottom).
Notes:
Possible trigger warning: references to actually depressive existential dread (not the tank disease) and feelings of hopelessness warring against personal accountability within a highly peer-pressured environment.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Megatron’s inspection of the Seeker airbase and the Seekers themselves is thorough and carried out with grim stoicism that never comes across as outright hostile. Occasionally, he shows a charismatic depth to his personality, such as when patiently indulging Thundercracker and Nova Storm’s many questions about those gory gladiatorial experiences in the arena, Starscream growing increasingly irritated with being less than the centre of Megatron’s attention.
“Oh, oh! And what does it feel like, to crush a brain module in your fist?”
“Ah, it is warm, wet, and surprisingly soft. It just sort of… gives way. I had expected greater density, the first time.”
“That is so cool!”
“Indeed, perhaps you shall experience it for yourself someday, young warriors.”
Nova flushes when Megatron winks at her, the mighty mech offering a paternal squeeze to Thundercracker’s pauldron that has him glowing.
“How many brain modules have you crushed, Megatron?”
“Now, now, do not distract!” Starscream all but shoos the two subordinate Seekers away. “Forgive them, my dear. Their Sparks are in the right place, albeit they may not be the brightest among us.”
“I do not mind. They are in need of discipline and direction, but the potential is within them.”
“Well, I do hope you intend to… direct and discipline me, too, of course.”
“Most soundly, when we are alone together.”
“Mmm. I look forward to it.”
“At this rate,” Slipstream murmurs discretely to Acid Storm whilst they lug a heavy storage crate between them, “Megatron will have seen our whole airbase and he’ll know everything about us. All our operational secrets, our weaponry…”
“Wow. He just grabbed his aft, real quick. Did you see that?”
“Nice. Ugh! Acid, focus! This is serious!”
“Sorry. You were saying?”
“We have to do something.”
“We are doing something.”
The two Seekers set the crate down, before loping together to collect another.
“We’re doing what Captain Starscream tells us to. And he told us to organise and review our inventory, preferably without getting in the way.”
“We haven’t been a military force for millions of years, Acid. We’re the cool guys who fly over parades! And now all of a sudden we’re told to mobilise for possible combat in the near future? It’s all so… deeply concerning!”
“Perhaps it’s just precautionary. Megatron always did preach for peace as his ultimate goal. Wouldn’t a war contradict that?”
“We’re already at peace! It’s far from perfect, but does changing the order of things really call for… us?”
“I was oversimplifying his argument. Though I do grasp your concern.”
“Thank Primus. The others don’t. They’re all so excited to be actually doing something.”
“They don’t know any better.”
“Exactly. I think this warrants a group discussion… without Captain Starscream.”
A warning glare from over the sharpened corners and hard edges of the heavy crate. “That is dangerous talk, Slip.”
“Acid, he’s acting worse. We’ve all noticed.” A wounded scowl answers that glare. “You know I’m loyal.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
“Normally, I would never speak against him, especially not with a fellow Seeker, but… I need someone to listen to me!”
“I am listening. And I hear you. You don’t think this is right,” Acid Storm intones quietly, a little tersely from their end of the crate. “And neither do I. But what we think, doesn’t matter.”
“Acid!”
“Am I wrong? Somehow, Megatron got Captain Starscream that exquisite, technical marvel of a new body. Was it a bribe? I don’t know. But I imagine nothing will be withheld in exchange. Including us. This is our place as his Seekers. And his place seems to be with Megatron. Where our Captain goes, we Seekers go, too. And if Captain Starscream goes to Megatron’s war…”
Slipstream shakes her helm. “It’s not fair.”
“This discussion is pointless.”
The two Seekers set the crate down with a dull thud.
“You won’t get anywhere trying to convince them, and I don’t require convincing.”
“Why are you mad at me?” Slipstream leans on the crate, in turn drawing closer to Acid Storm. “I’m only looking out for us.”
“I’m not mad at you. I know you mean well. I’m frustrated by my inability to help you. To help them. To help myself.”
“Acid…”
“We were forged as Seekers. We all share a common frame. Well, we used to. Captain Starscream is now exceptional. But the rest of us Seekers… We have no authority, here. Resisting the inevitable is just more stress. Don’t do this to yourself, Slip.” Acid Storm strides away. “Besides, we were forged for war. We’ve just grown so disused to our intended function.”
Slipstream follows with a huff. “That’s awfully fatalistic, especially coming from you.”
“I’m a realist, actually.”
“Well, scrap me. I love you.”
“I love you, too. And that is why I won’t report you for insubordinate talk.”
“I want what’s best for you! You’ve got hopes and dreams and you’re so good, you’re so smart and charming and stuff! If any one of us is worthy of more than this, then you deserve the world, not a war!”
“Slip.”
“You always wanted to go out there and invent exciting new tech, how can you ever get to do that if we do go to war? What will you invent – weapons?”
“I will never be an inventor of any renown. I fiddle with my projects for the simple satisfaction of it. I am smart. Smart enough to distract myself from how pointless our lives are by tinkering with my little projects, and that keeps me happy enough.”
Slipstream stops following with a flinch.
Acid Storm draws to a stop a few paces ahead, sighing. “I’m sorry. Forgive me. That was unkind.”
“…We’re not pointless.”
“We’re just his Seekers. We’re nothing without our Captain, and the cohesion of our group defines us. We get VIP treatment at every Cube game, and he hates Cube. We contribute nothing of value to Cybertron, except for flying over those parades, and he relishes in our fame. Our lives are so easy.”
“Acid…”
“I share your concerns, Slip. But I also realise that you and I can’t stop it.”
“So, what, then? I’m supposed to just roll over and let this happen to us?”
“I’m afraid so.” Acid Storm resumes marching on. “Even if we could get the others to agree that something is very amiss, none of us has a chance against a personality like Megatron, and whatever he’s done to claim Captain Starscream. Just let this go.”
“…What about Orion?” Slipstream follows again, with a little jog to catch up.
“Oh, no way.”
“Bee’s met him. He only has the highest praise.”
“Your little yellow friend? Our Captain dislikes him immensely and is very outspoken about that fact. You know, you’re gonna get in trouble if you keep hanging around him.”
“I don’t care!”
Acid Storm shoots a backwards look at Slipstream, optics wide.
“Starscream controls almost every aspect of our lives. Let me have my friends.”
“…Captain Starscream, you mean.”
“Whatever!” Slipstream moodily grabs one half of the next crate.
Acid Storm obligingly takes the other. “I am both proud of you and concerned for your well-being.”
“Well, that’s how I feel about you, too!”
They heft it together.
“Slip, you’d just isolate yourself from the rest of us by going to Orion. Captain Starscream stands with Megatron, and after all that’s happened lately, there seems to be a schism. It’d be like picking a side – the other side from ours.”
“But if a war does come to pass…” Slipstream grimaces at Acid Storm.
“Some of us might be terminated in action. I know that.”
"Acid, we can't do this."
“We've no choice. Let’s just do our best to keep an optic on each other, whatever happens. Alright.”
“I cannot believe you, right now.”
“Irrelevant. You’ll do what you have to. And so shall the rest of us. You know I’m right.”
Slipstream refuses to answer that.
“I’m trying not to let this all get to me,” Acid Storm intones more kindly, after they have shifted three more boxes in silence. “I advise you do the same, Slip.”
“I just worry.”
“I know you do, sweet Spark.”
“I’m the responsible one. Not that it matters, if I can’t protect anyone I’m responsible for.”
“It does matter. We appreciate you.”
“And that amounts to what? More anxiety for me. I can’t act on anything I think or feel. I hate it.”
“You just need to keep your concerns to yourself. I would hate for you to say something well-meaning that only gets you – or the rest of us – punished.”
“Okay.”
Thus they lay between themselves another heavy crate that needs to be torn into and its contents reviewed for sorting, at some point.
“I wish Jetfire never left.”
“Oh. I miss him, too.”
“We were happier when he led us.”
Acid Storm stops Slipstream from going for another crate with a sudden grip to her wrist.
“What?”
The Seeker easily pulls the femme back into a hug that meets with no resistance.
“Mmmph,” Slipstream manages with their intakes pressed together.
Acid Storm smiles ruefully into it, before breaking the kiss with a murmured, “Join me in my quarters, later? We can cuddle.”
“…I could do with a cuddle.”
Windblade somehow succeeds in appearing both vaguely bored and fondly amused as Bumblebee, Shadow Striker and Hot Rod yell altogether at the holoscreen projecting the latest Cube game overhelm. Sure, Windblade likes Cube well enough, but she is not nearly as into it as some of her friends are.
“They certainly are rambunctious,” Grimlock remarks with an easygoing smile.
“Yeah, you could call it that,” Windblade drawls with a chuckle, chin at rest on her folded servos, her brain module preoccupied with thinking about Slipstream. It is becoming a bit of a problem, especially with those Captain duties keeping them apart more often.
“This lot’s going to get us thrown out.” Arcee shakes her helm in feigned disapproval. “Absolutely zero decorum.” She gets the reaction she was hoping for as Grimlock rumbles with laughter and Windblade grins prettily back.
“Ah, and you’re always so demure, my friend!”
“Absolutely. I’m just that charming!”
“You truly are.” A huge servo ruffles a rounded helm.
Windblade is about to tease Arcee further when another voice interjects close by.
“Room for one more?”
“Chromia!” Windblade almost pounces on the other femme in an effort to embrace her. “You’re here!”
“Surprise.” Chromia may be a two-wheeler, but despite their reputation as being slight of build and designed for swift agility as opposed to durability or power, she is actually incredibly sturdy and strong and a little on the taller side. She catches the jet with ease, smiling handsomely into the hug. “I wanted to touch sides with you. Actually touch sides. Not just over comms or video. It wasn’t enough, any more.”
“Oh, my Spark is finally complete.”
“As is mine.”
“I missed you so much.”
Chromia is flushed, now, stroking Windblade’s back strut. “We’ll catch up when we’re alone together,” is murmured into a kiss to her slender neck. “Hello, everyone.”
“Greetings, friend!” booms Grimlock. “Good to have you back.”
“Hi!” Arcee winks, already snapping a quick pic of Windblade embracing Chromia. It is just so adorable. “Ooh, I totaly ship it.”
Bumblebee and Hot Rod lift their cups with combined elation.
Shadow Striker offers a curt nod, then goes back to arguing with the mechs about Cube.
Windblade eases back, only to eagerly pull Chromia into the booth after herself. “How is Caminus?”
“All is well. A lot less tense than things are on Cybertron. The police presence…”
“You can thank Megatron for that,” Grimlock intones with a sigh. “He has quite riled his supporters. Not to be a prophet, but I foresee an uprising, soon.”
“Forgive my ignorance, as I am still something of an outsider, here…”
“Not at all!”
“He stands against systematic oppression, does he not?” Chromia looks to Windblade, frowning. “Is an uprising not what Cybertron needs?”
“You’d think so.”
“He said some scary stuff, though,” Arcee interjects, scratching her cheek. “Like, actually concerning.”
“Oh. I see. He is… extreme?”
“He is, now. Worst part is how many still agree with him. He didn’t lose much support, at all.”
Chromia’s frown deepens. She looks to Windblade again, evidently considering convincing her to return to Caminus.
“It’ll be alright,” the jet murmurs, nuzzling the concerned bike. “We’ve still got Orion. I’ve only met him a few times, but he’s really nice. Gets on great with Bee.”
“And he speaks sense,” intones Grimlock. “As in Orion Pax. Not so much our dear yellow friend.”
“Oh, hush, Grim. He’s got me to make sense for him. It works!”
“And we’ve got each other.” Arcee prepares to take a selfie, leaning on Grimlock’s impressive pauldron.
“I’ll drink to that!” He poses alongside her.
“Weren’t Orion and Megatron on the same side?” asks Chromia after some silence, with a quirked optic ridge.
Windblade rubs her neck. “Well… that was before Megatron sort of went off.”
“I see. There is much political intrigue upon Cybertron.”
Listening in, Shadow Striker has suddenly lost any interest in Cube. Her angular mandible churns with thought.
Bumblebee still has his servo on her thigh, hidden beneath the counter. He does not sense anything amiss, distracted as he is with Hot Rod and all things Cube.
Acid Storm maintains a sense of order, in their chaos. They are not untidy in the typical notion, as their various gadgets and tools are assigned specified places, always to be returned after use. However, there is so much to take in, the spread of it it can be distracting upon entry.
Slipstream is the neatest of the Seekers, but she also keeps the fewest personal effects.
“You’ll recharge with me, won’t you?”
She looks over at her fellow Seeker.
Acid Storm is already splayed over their berth, visibly tired after lugging so many heavy crates.
Slipstream is dreading the thought of all the inventory left to sort through. She really should have pushed that part of her tenure as Captain. It would save them some grief, now. “Sure.”
The Seeker grunts softly when the femme lays a servo on their cheek.
“Shift over a bit.”
Acid Storm obliges. “Put those wings away.” A lopsided smile, always placid. “You know you don’t need to impress me.”
“Hush.” Slipstream obliges, retracting her impressive wingspan and, in turn, appearing noticeably smaller. She slumps onto the berth, nuzzling against a frame that is almost identical to her own. “Ugh.” Her arms embrace that rugged strength. “We should’ve taken an oil bath.” She feels burly arms embrace her, in turn. “We reek.”
“It can wait after a recharge.” The Seeker kisses their twin atop her helm. “Rest, now.” It does not erase the anxiety, but it does offer some support.
With a resigned sigh, Slipstream’s optics obediently flutter offline, cheek atop Acid Storm’s chassis.
Caminus. A colony moon. It conceived that almost mythical Cityspeaker discipline. It is the home-world of Windblade and Chromia. Yet when Windblade came to Cybertron on a whim and ended up falling in love with it, opting to stay for an indeterminate period, Chromia returned alone, for she felt no such attachment to the place or the people. This has been a little disappointing, mutually. It is thankful that space bridges tie together the sheer distance that would otherwise be traversed more slowly by spacefaring vessels.
The psychological and physical trials of becoming a Cityspeaker had at once strained and strengthened their bond, granting Windblade the ability to see into Chromia, normally a very reserved femme, as if she were a Titan. It restores them now, in their intimacy, reunited.
“You’re so beautiful.”
The voice is in Chromia’s mind – Windblade’s voice.
“I’ve missed you. I’m so happy you’re here. My dear friend.”
Outside the echoes of her mind, Chromia feels Windblade’s servos on her frame, caressing the glossy panels and groping for sensory hotspots.
“Are you ready?”
Chromia utters a truly guttural sound in reply and her mind echoes with Windblade’s tender giggling.
“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to tease you.”
The femmes brush their helms together, nuzzling and purring, their entangled frames slickly grinding.
“Open up,” that ethereal voice echoes warmly as a dainty servo descends the unyielding torso plating, dips between parted thighs, and cups sheer wetness that draws out a gasp. “Wow, okay!”
“Windblade…”
“You’ve been saving this for me, Chromia? It’s a lot, even for you.”
“Need you… inside me.”
“I’m already inside you. Sort of.”
“Windblade…!”
“Alright, alright! So I was teasing you a little bit. I’ll stop that, now.”
“Give me…”
“I’m giving it to you.”
“More!”
“I’m going to drown in you.”
“Everything okay?”
Shadow Striker pauses at Bumblebee’s neck, his cables pinched lightly between her bared dentas. “Huh?”
“You seem… tense.” It is sweet of him to notice that, sweeping his servos over her large, powerful frame, crushing him below. “And you haven’t really looked at me.” He sighs. “I like making optic-contact with you. We don’t have to do this if you’re not feeling–”
“It’s fine. I’ll get you there.”
“C’mon.” He gently pushes her off of himself, sitting up to regard her with a sigh. “What’s up?”
“Don’t want to talk about it. Want to frag.”
“If I let you take me, will you tell me after?”
“There’s nothing to say.”
“I don’t believe you.”
She lets out recycled air, slow and steady, as if to remind herself to be patient with him.
“I may be a hot little slag,” he offers with a handsome grin, “but I do care. We’re friends now.”
She jerks back her helm with a low groan, glowering down at him.
It makes him giggle. “What, you too cool for friends?”
“Usually.”
“Look, I won’t make you talk, okay?”
“Good. Now lay back.”
“You can tell me anything, and I’ll listen. I’ll be here for you, yeah? But only if you want to.” He obliges her, lowering himself with a gentler smile and a twinkle in his optics.
She squints down at his face plate, her staring scope angled lower, regarding him more indecently. “Stop being so fragging nice to me and open your legs wider so’s I can fit.”
He obeys. “Hey, do you ever get disoriented, looking in two different directions at once?”
Despite her moody preoccupation with her own troubled thoughts, she does chuckle at that, then thrusts.
He whines like any of the femmes she has had before.
Notes:
Thank you to those who have stuck by me thus far. I’ve planned to get to the war itself by Chapter 13 latest. Do prepare yourself for gay/bi robot polyamory, romantic friendships, saucy rivalries and just, like, moody introspective segments with sprinkles of political intrigue thrown in as these sentient beings struggle with their own conception and I do freaky shit with the canon. Until next time, take care and keep safe. Constructive feedback welcomed.
Chapter 10: Preach*
Summary:
Starscream is a jealous brat about another meeting with Orion Pax. Megatron is patient for the good of Cybertron, as great change is soon coming. Indeed, Orion Pax confirms it, announcing that he has finally done what Megatron failed to do - there is to be a meeting with the Senate, to be held within the Grand Imperium, and this presents a golden opportunity to initiate the great change peacefully. Flamewar voices her issues with the Functionists and makes a scene in a poor neighbourhood, as the gleaming processions have been out in force, trying to turn the tide away from Megatron's dangerously seductive teachings of autonomy.
Featured sex scene: implicit Starscream/Megatron (kissing, grinding, on a desk).
Chapter Text
Starscream throws out a hip and crosses his powerful arms over his shapely chassis, tapping the floor beneath his heeled pedes in his fury.
“Oh, do not look at me so.”
“I demand to go with you!”
“And I require that you continue to prepare yourself and your Seekers for what is soon coming,” Megatron rumbles patiently in reply, stroking a wing with a gentle digit until it twitches at the keen sensation of pleasure. “I shall be but a few hours. Were he not so insistent on seeing me in person, I would remain at your side. Forgive me, my dear Star.”
“Bah! Who does he think he is? How dare he, after all he has put you through! He calls and just expects you to answer him, to just drop me, and go to him!”
“Star…”
“He could’ve conducted this meeting virtually! Imagine it! You, seated at my desk, with my hot little intake on your throbbing, heaving spike below–"
“Star.”
“Suckling you to madness as he drones on and on like he always does at those rallies, so boringly sanctimonious!”
Thrust quirks an optic ridge from his station within the armoury, his servos filled with Energon cells. He is so jealous, right now.
Starscream is very loud. The door to his office may as well not be sealed shut, levels and corridors away, with how his vocal processor carries through solid objects. It is his namesake. He truly could scream to the stars.
Megatron suddenly silences the Seeker Captain with a finger to his plump, grimacing dermas. “Star, listen to me.”
A moody huff, before a slick glossa swipes at that digit.
“When I return, I will make up for your upset tenfold.” The digit withdraws, slick.
“You’d better! I am extremely displeased!”
“Rest assured, I will work myself very hard, for your enjoyment.” It drags a slow, meandering trail down a cockpit, leaving slick in its wake.
“Ugh, you tease me so!”
“Only to heighten your desire, for my inevitable return.” The retired gladiator allows his digit to get scooped up and sucked on, hard, with a low rumble. “I knew distant correspondence would not tide Orion over for long. But do not despair. I am yours, as you recall.”
Starscream takes Megatron deep, until gagging automatically with a wretch, then jerks his helm back, wrenching himself off of the dripping digit, a bridge of stretched, suspended lubricant connecting. “Well, too bad for him! You are mine, and I want you in my berth! Now!”
“Later.”
“Now!”
“Later.”
“Oooh, you are fortunate that I adore you! I do not appreciate being denied what I want. Humph.”
The older, more wearied mech only smiles indulgently down at his enthusiastic lover.
“Fine, fine! Do not forget me, when you are alone with him. Do not allow yourself to be swayed by his seductive ways! I am possessive of whatever and whomever are mine, and my wrath when scorned is terrible.”
“I would never betray your trust. Not even Shockwave himself could erase the whole of you from my memory banks. It would only do damage to who I am.”
“…You have me saved in your core memory data?”
“Indeed. You are quite permanent.”
Starscream softens with tender emotion. “Megatron, I…”
“Wait for me.”
The uniquely gorgeous, overall enhanced, highly modified Seeker simply kicks upward upon the great heat of his improved thrusters, leaving a blackened scorch upon the floor that will need to be buffered out by one of his underlings, rising to kiss the hulking old gladiator at his full stature.
“Mmm…”
Starscream is all shapely arms and long legs and his dermas are sinfully full as Megatron sets the slender mech upon his desk and bears down until the metal creaks below their grinding frames, scattering datapads to the floor with a crystalline clatter.
Orion Pax can wait a while longer.
“Two-wheelers, am I right?” mutters a random mech to his leering friend, paused upon the side-walk to observe the confrontation from a safe distance.
“Mmhm. She’s kinda bad, though. Bet she’s wild in berth.”
“Two-wheelers always are.”
Flamewar is kinda bad and wild in berth, actually, and not just because she is a two-wheeler. She would twist the poor mech’s helm right off his pauldrons before spitting down his severed pipe and stuffing his decapitated face plate up his friend’s tight aft for a laugh, were she not immediately preoccupied just then.
“Now, see here–”
“Get that propaganda outta my grill if you wanna keep your servo!”
She has drawn more onlookers with her sheer volume and agitated gesticulation than even the pompous presence of the gaggle of gleaming, preaching believers intending to spread the holy message of form and function. They stick out painfully in their dilapidated surroundings, garnering much criticism for attempting to justify the systemic insignificance of all who dwell within this more impoverished district due to possessing less financially compensated alt-modes.
“You weren’t even forged to preach! Fraggin’ hypocrites! You’re just another data pusher who got lucky enough to be retrofitted with some fancy kibble, and I bet those idiots’ tithes paid for it!” She despises them. The way they look down on her, and not only because she is forged small.
The patronising glint to their narrowed optics, the sneering curl of their smiling intakes. She cannot be preyed upon for their own ends, nor can she ever hope to resemble them, thus they hate her, too.
“That’s not divine will, that’s just what privilege gets ya!” Everything Megatron despises, stands personified before Flamewar. “He’ll tear it all down! Then you’ll be no better than me!”
“He misleads you, sister. In your Spark, you must understand–”
“Oh, my Spark understands that you fraggers aren’t paying any taxes! And you own a few Senators! That’s corruption! You’re bending the rules for yourselves, and we’re paying for it!”
Their lack of self-awareness and compassion would be staggering, if this sort of calculated indifference were not so typical of the faithful. The faithful remain pious, even as she prods one of their lanky representatives with a talon, leaving a scratch across his gleaming, ostentatious ornamentation, indicating his priestly station in life.
“Enjoy it while you still can!”
They fully intend to, and they will preach and campaign to draw out their luxury for as long as they can, until the world moves on without them. Some resistance to the divine message is to be anticipated and dealt with, in the meantime, to stave off the inevitable. The sway of Megatron’s charismatic persuasion has just accelerated the change they dread, threatening the entrenchment of existing power structures sooner than they had anticipated. Hence why they have been out in greater numbers, preaching their dying bid louder.
“When you’re just like me… I won’t forget your faces!”
Although, the faithful could just opt to find another place to preach, with a less inflammatory reception. They thus depart altogether with murmured blessings upon her. The divine cannot speak its message for itself, after all, and she may very well get physically violent.
“Hey! I wasn’t done?” A shaky gasp. “Excuse me, rude!” Flamewar throws a gesture at their departing back plates, but she does not risk chasing them, not with so many cops about. “Ugh, get scrapped. Whatever.”
The onlookers quickly lose interest in the flame-emblazoned, shapely little two-wheeler with such a big voice, finally gone quiet.
She sags where she stands, letting out hot air from her dented vents with a hiss. She scratches her chin with her sharpened digits, scraping her shell unpleasantly, leaving shallow marks behind. “Now what.” Her flames need a touch-up. Her options for distraction are limited, with the cops all over the place. She really should disappear, just in case. And she really does need to get more purple spray paint.
A narrow alleyway will do, leading to nowhere worthwhile going.
“Megatron, my old friend.”
“Greetings, dear Orion. Pardon my tardiness.”
In one of the nicer districts, the mechs embrace several floors above street-level.
“I have good news,” the former archivist murmurs into the retired gladiator’s cheek, depositing a kiss there.
“Indeed?”
“It is as I promised, old friend.” Orion smiles warmly as he eases back, taking Megatron’s servo. “You and I will have our audience within the Grand Imperium.”
Standing before a great window dimmed for discretion, the retired gladiator had come to their meeting stern and quietly troubled, seemingly distracted, optics upon the Energon fountain below, where a gathering of young frames mingle. Now, he softens, optics widening as he turns to focus entirely on the other mech in the room. “You actually convinced them to listen to us.”
“I only wish it took less of our time, and that fewer Sparks were roused in anger.”
“You did it alone.”
“I made you a promise. I have only fulfilled it. Forgive me, for taking this long to keep my word.”
“What you have done alone, I could not do with you.”
“Do not think such a thing.” The former archivist squeezes the mighty servo within his own. “I would never have taken up this noble cause, if you had not set fire to my Spark years ago.”
Megatron feels at once elated, at once enraged, and there is a creeping sickly sensation underneath the warring emotions, overall.
“I prolonged your suffering.” Orion bows his great helm, sighing. “That was never my intent. But we will have our audience, and they will heed our call for change. This is the opportunity we have strived for.”
“You have done what I thought was impossible. What I lacked the power to do, all this time. You… are truly the most incredible mech I have ever known, my Orion.”
“Now, now, do not inflate my ego, old friend. My helm cannot afford to swell any further.”
The retired gladiator returns to the window, glaring down at the crowd gathered about the Energon fountain. “Those fools who cling to their decadent ways.” Affluent youths with no care in the world. “I did not imagine they could be led to reason. I assumed that some show of force…”
“I understand your frustration.” The former archivist kisses the digits he cradles. “But force shall not prove necessary.”
“Am I a fool?”
“No, old friend.”
Megatron sighs wearily, unable to quell his emotional battle despite appearing outwardly composed and calm. “I suppose, in my Spark, I never truly left the arena.” And now that he has Starscream and the Seekers, there is this other hope, this most unlikely hope, renewed. Has a mistake been made?
“I have loved you as a warrior, as much as I have loved your inner poet, philosopher, and indeed, politician.”
“Orion, I…”
“It is alright, now. Let us have hope.” The absurd hope that Orion has clung to, alone. “We shall do our best to prepare ourselves, and I believe that we shall show them their errors, and direct their efforts towards a peaceful resolution, for the betterment of all.”
“…Together?”
“Yes, old friend. Together.”
The retired gladiator closes his optics. His brain module aches with what he has done, what he is prepared to do in his failure, holding servos with the former archivist who remains so beautifully naive, yet succeeds. “This I pray.” Megatron’s smile is quiet, subtle, chipped away by so much gruelling labour and vicious battle and brooding thought. “That the stars may yet die, but you shall never cease your brilliance.” Much goes unsaid.
Orion offers a handsome, lopsided grin that makes him look millions of years younger. “And you shall remain the epitome of all that romantics aspire to be.” But he is not being looked at, right now.
It hurts too much, for the tired old mech to gaze upon his first love.
A soft, tender chuckle, digits intimately interwoven. “Is this worthy of an embrace?”
“I suppose it is.”
The former archivist thus moves to hold the retired gladiator, nuzzling at his broad neck, the fuel lines reinforced.
“Oh, Orion.”
“I could kiss you, Megatron.”
“You are… getting fresh with me.”
“Truly, if my desire is reciprocated in kind. It has been some time.”
“I would not mind that.” However, Megatron does not kiss Orion where he wants to. It meets with a pauldron, where the retired gladiator rests his chin, as the former archivist sighs. “There.”
“I would haggle for more.”
“I have someone else.”
The handsomely youthful grin evaporates. “…I see.” Orion clears his intake. “Forgive my impropriety, I did not know.”
“That is quite alright. I did not tell you, until just now.”
“How long have you been accounted for?”
Megatron flushes hotly. “It is very recent. Very… new.” His chin at rest on his past paramour’s broad, steady pauldron.
“Congratulations. He is a lucky mech.”
“I like to think so.”
“May I meet him?”
“Indeed. You shall.”
“And is he… very handsome?”
“He is, though he is also beautiful. Quite the character, ambitious to a fault, and far too intelligent. His energy alone is… intoxicating.”
“Well, then. I am very curious! He sounds exceptional.”
“He is, my dear Orion, and only because you taught me the value in maintaining high standards.”
“I have always told you what you deserve, Megatron, old friend. Only the very best.”
Shadow Striker is not here. When her libido is sated and she finds herself in no mood for conversation over Energon, she claims to have business to attend to elsewhere and thus vanishes for days at a time. This is not in and of itself unusual. It is in her nature, and a necessity of her profession, to offer no concrete explanations as to her activities. Bumblebee has already learned that she does not appreciate being questioned about her well-being. He cannot help but feel a little used, however, as he believes that friends with benefits can still be friends before the benefits, not necessitating that his personality merely be what is attached to an intake or a valve or a spike for a good fragging.
Slipstream is not here. When contacted over comm link, she sounds exhausted and miserable, unable to hold a conversation for long before being withdrawn by something or someone else. She says she is busy, but claims the details of her distraction are too tedious to relay, or in some way classified. When she is lying, Windblade knows it. What is classified only concerns her further. Aside from a greater frequency of observable aerial formations of Seekers in practice, none of the others have been seen for some days now, either. As a unit, they are generally not missed by the Cybertronian populace.
Chromia is a source of quiet and sincere comfort, Hot Rod’s soulful infatuation with some enigmatic flame-bound femme provides fond amusement, Clobber and Lockdown are always far more pleasant to associate with than their roughened manners and appearances as labourers would imply, Grimlock and Arcee are delighted to regale with stories of their most wondrous adventures, Dead End is sort of there but he is cool too, and it is nice to see Orion finally return to the old oil house again, apparently avoiding issue with the police officers on his way over for a quiet drink, alone, but his smile is sad and his optics seem so distant.
Bumblebee and Windblade find themselves meditating on a shared anxiety, surrounded by most of their friends and trying to maintain appearances for their sake, the pretence that all is fine.
Chapter 11: Division*
Summary:
Today is the big day. Bumblebee and friends accompany Orion Pax to the Grand Imperium, where he meets with Megatron with the intention of persuading the Senate, one way or another - how far exactly is an old friend willing to go to get his way? Grimlock's afterparty is attended with some enthusiasm as Orion Pax returns a lukewarn success, as the worst has come to pass with Megatron and the Senate are not to be trusted. A recently 'promoted' Captain Slipstream thus assembles her subordinate Seekers for a secretive meeting, encountering prominent leaders within Megatron's movement: Shockwave, Soundwave, and Shadow Striker. Cybertron is about to burn, so that Megatron may finally feel warm.
Featured sex scene: Starscream/Megatron (postcoital, implied oral, admiration of bodily fluids, consumption of own bodily fluids, licking of face, sex scent).
Chapter Text
“How’re you feeling, big guy?”
“…I feel… I am, uh…”
Bumblebee smiles sunnily up at Orion, utterly dwarfed by the great mech.
“…I am prepared,” the former archivist eventually concludes in his calm, modest cadence, upright and at attention, expression stern, “to give this speech.” Not quite answering the question.
“There ya go! It’s just like we practised. And we’ll be in the crowd, sending you good vibes only.”
“That would be greatly appreciated.”
“Also, uh… maybe loosen up just a tiny bit.”
“Loosen up?”
“You’re standing like you’ve got a solid rod stuck down your spinal seam. You wanna look smart, not stuffy. We’ve got the Senate for stuffy, not smart. Smart’s all you.”
“Mm. Should I not endear myself to their stuffy ways?”
“Now, that’s just crazy talk.”
“Ah-ha-ha. Very well, then.” Orion relaxes his imposing frame ever so slightly. “Is this improved?” Offers an endearingly hopeful quirk of his optic ridges.
“…Yeah, that’ll work.”
He clears his intake, peering over an array of helms, in search of a particular face plate within the crowd.
“Trust me, Orion. You’re gonna kick aft in there!”
“I do hope so.” A slow, steady sigh. “So much progress towards our future benefit depends upon the success of this day. I cannot fail.”
“You won’t fail. You’ll knock their fat helms right off, like you always do. They’re bound to listen to you. I just know it.” Bumblebee punctuates this point with a playful slap to Orion’s mighty back plate, before wincing at the sting, servo quickly withdrawn and digits bent. “Oof, gotta remind myself, you’re as solid as you look!”
“Thank you.” A paternal smile, downcast. “I am grateful for your faith in my abilities, my friend. I will endeavour to make you proud.”
“Aw, we’re already proud!” Windblade sets her palms on her hips, nodding at Grimlock and Arcee. “Right, team?”
“The proudest! You’ve totally got this, Orion!” The energetic femme takes a quick selfie, sure to include her friends in the background of the shot. “Ooh, that’s art!”
“Indeed! And take comfort in knowing that I will host a most glorious soirée to celebrate this momentous occasion, after the ceremony has concluded! You are all invited, of course.”
“Yeah, I could do with a party.”
“I love a good soirée! Yours are the best, Grim.”
“Why, thank you, my dear Arcee. You have always been the Spark at the centre of the joviality.”
“Aw, you keep sweet-talking me like that and I’ll kiss ya!”
Orion’s Spark leaps in its chamber as his optics befall Megatron, ruggedly beautiful and powerful and moving with purpose closer, ever closer.
“Here he comes,” Windblade intones.
Bumblebee’s smile diminishes considerably. He has lost much of his hero worship of the retired gladiator.
“Old friend!” Orion calls out, his broad palm splayed in the more respectful universal greeting. A hug and a kiss on the cheek may not be entirely appropriate, all things considered.
“Greetings,” Megatron rumbles, laying his palm flat against the other mech’s, their spread servos thus compressed together for a long moment.
“It is good to see you.”
“Likewise. How are you feeling?”
“A little nervous, to be honest. Yet imbued with hope.”
Megatron manages not to wince. He already discussed all the possibilities with Starscream. They shall succeed, regardless of what transpires today. “Very good.”
“And how are you faring, old friend?”
“I am ready,” Megatron rumbles, mourning Orion as the potential casualty to the betterment of Cybertron as a whole. The retired gladiator has barely managed to recharge a full cycle these past few days, and not all of this prolonged wakefulness is on account of Starscream’s sheer virility demanding frequent passionate interfacing. “Shall we go inside?”
“After you.”
Megatron leads the way and Orion, after smiling warmly upon Bumblebee, Windblade, Grimlock and Arcee in turn, moves to follow Megatron.
“Good luck!”
“Thank you!”
“Remember, we’re sending good vibes!” Bumblebee sighs, leaning on Windblade. “Probably should grab some seats, huh. This thing’s supposed to start soon.”
“That would be wise.” Grimlock gently finds Arcee’s pauldron as she takes random pictures of anything that catches her optics. “Come. There will be plenty of snapshot opportunities later.”
“One more! Go pose for me by that statue real quick. Look fierce, but heroic.”
“Oh, very well, then. One more, then we shall be seated.”
“Okay, team.” Slipstream channels her maternal energy as best she can, regarding the Seekers with tired, stressed optics. “Captain Starscream wants us looking our best for… whatever it is we’re attending to. Some sort of secret meeting, I guess? I don’t know, I wasn’t given any information, except we’ll be seeing some important figures to the cause. Best behaviour all around, alright?”
“But we’re just the security detail, aren’t we?” Thundercracker cringes softly. “Wasn’t the oil bath enough? We look great.”
“Captain Starscream was very insistent that we be extra shiny so as not to embarrass him. But also, we are not permitted to outshine him.”
Acid Storm sighs. “He’s very particular, like that.”
“Ugh! Easy for him to say. He loves getting all prettied up.”
“Aw, Thunder, lemme do you.” Nova Storm lovingly ruffles Thundercracker’s helm. “I promise it won’t tickle so bad when I’m holding the buffer.”
“You told me that the last time.”
“Did I?”
“I remember distinctly.”
“Well, how long ago was that? Gimme another chance, sweet Spark.”
“Yeah, bet it won’t tickle this time, now we all know Nova’s calling is in a chop shop, putting dents into mechs and breaking them into little pieces to sell on the parts market.”
“Thrust, just shuddup before I put a dent in you and sell your parts for scrap.”
“Kinky.”
“You’re just jealous because my combat simulator scores are the best and it’s making you snippy.”
“Whatever! Thunder’s giggles are hilarious.”
“They are not!”
“They are a little funny.”
“Acid! Not helping!”
“Let me at him,” Thrust drawls with a scoff, admiring his reflection before he has even gotten started with the buffer. “I’ll make it extra ticklish.”
“You’re such an aft.”
Thundercracker warily regards the buffer at rest in its charging cradle, flushed.
“I won’t force you to use it if you really don’t want to,” Slipstream intones very gently and patiently. “We can use the textiles instead. Do it the old-fashioned way.”
“Ugh, that takes so long.”
“We have sufficient time to prepare.”
“It’s okay, Sir. I’ll just soldier through it.”
“C’mon, then.” Nova Storm reaches for the buffer. “Let’s get this over with.”
Thundercracker smiles shyly at her, trusting. But despite her assurances, he is still awfully ticklish.
“Stop squirming,” the femme grumbles fondly into her work, dragging the polishing buffer along the mech’s squirming frame, drawing out the brilliance of his blue. “I’m barely touching you!”
He almost leaks oil when she tries to polish his wings.
Acid Storm attends to Thrust with calm focus.
He preens before his increasingly glossy reflection, evidently smirking on account of his own beauty as much as Thundercracker’s giggling.
“All this posturing. You’re as bad as Captain Starscream.”
“Better in berth, though.”
“I suppose.”
“Hey, I’m your go-to mech, what d’you mean you suppose?”
Ignoring the idiotic banter, Slipstream is attempting to polish herself to moderate success. Her bulk limits her flexibility and renders certain places impossible to reach. “Would one of you attend to my back plates and behind my legs and, uh, stuff, when you’re able?”
“On it,” Nova Storm answers before Acid Storm can. “I’ll do your aft, too, if you want.”
Slipstream flushes but does not mind the flirtation. “I’m sure you will.” She is so used to it, even if she is too useless with femmes to be much of a verbal sparring partner.
A grin is fired back, handsome and friendly. A grin of a loved one, on the face plate of their best close combat fighter and the Seeker most eager for action itself, and not glory. Above all others, Nova Storm will excel at simple soldiering.
That weaponisation of such a fun personality, Slipstream is not used to.
Megatron recognises how their arrogant face plates change, beholding the very same awe in their optics that his words once inspired in a young and impressionable Orion, many millions of years ago. Except now, as the retired gladiator stands on the periphery while the former archivist speaks before the Senate in a noble retelling of his vision of a peaceful future Cybertron for all as one, it is Orion who is gazed upon with this reverence by the high and mighty powers that be, and Megatron who is inspired.
So much for getting the cause formally approved, muses Shadow Striker with a sigh. She opts to admire Bumblebee, who has yet to see her in the crowded stands.
After ignoring the noble cause for so long, and then reacting to it with police presence and religious persecution, the gathered Senate have come to suddenly adore Orion. Their audials devour his speech, their optics his frame. And yet this is after they treated Megatron with disdain, discarding his words as too extreme to be tolerated.
Orion not only has the vision, but he goes as far as to describe its implementation in stages, described all in perfectly reasonable terms that any fool could understand. Only the most calloused Spark would remain untouched by this noble argument.
Indeed, Megatron misspent his only chance to persuade the Senate to see things his way. He has failed, and shall inevitably fall to Orion’s counterargument.
Such beauty in masculine form. Such grace of wisdom and compassion wrapped up in modesty. A Spark so pure, it lights up the world beyond its chamber. This is the mech Orion, whom Megatron fell in love with, and he is witness to the utterance of their destruction. Their ideals are no longer the same singular dream. When did he lose his way? Can he ever return to him? Should he? Who is right, who is wrong? Would pride permit surrender?
The former archivist finally ceases his great speech and they applaud him like a hero.
The retired gladiator plays the villain of the scenario and decides for himself, with a surge of searing, aching emotion that clouds his optics but not his judgment, that he has endured too much.
Orion turns to his beloved with a smile and is met with a battle-scarred spinal strut instead of a face plate. “…Megatron?”
“We are done, here.”
Shadow Striker dismisses herself with one last look at Bumblebee, then disappears into the murmuring crowd.
“That was a waste of time,” Soundwave croons, following after her. He took an instant shine to the surly, handsome femme who does not fawn all over him for his charisma and can match his dancing prowess. “And I bet that team meeting’s still on.”
“Hooray for us.”
“Indeed.”
Shockwave dismisses his aerial surveillance drone, sits back in his chair in the comfort of his less social surroundings, and ponders.
“Old friend! Where are you going?”
“I go to finalise my preparations.”
“They were persuaded!”
Megatron remains resolutely unbowed.
Orion follows closely.
“Quite right. You have succeeded where I have failed, again. Congratulations.”
“Is that what this is about?”
“Perhaps.”
“Nonsense, we are on the same side! We always have been!”
“I wish you all the best in your endeavours.”
“Our endeavours.” A great servo seizes a pauldron, stalling the hulking mech momentarily.
Megatron turns back to Orion, the retired gladiator’s facial rigging twisted enough to make the former archivist cringe, taking a step back, removing his servo from that pauldron.
“…Why do you look at me this way?”
“I am no longer what you require.”
“…What?”
“You shall do this your way. I shall do it my way. It is no longer a team effort. At least, not between the two of us.”
Orion does not know the words to respond to that.
“Starscream,” Megatron rumbles quietly into the open air as he turns away and puts distance between himself and the personification of his adoration and agony with mighty strides. He sounds a little strangled to his own audials, a little impassioned despite his efforts at appearing composed.
A figure simply drops from the sky, landing in an impressive crouch, then rising with a swagger and a sympathetic expression. “You called.” Very impressive. “My dear?”
“It’s come to pass, as I feared it would.”
“Oh, darling. Let me make it right.”
“Yes. I need you. Now.”
“Take me, then.”
Lesser frames scatter to get out of the way of the hulking brute who marches for the landed flier.
“I’m yours.”
“Mine.”
Confused and disheartened, Orion is about to call out again, only to be silenced as he is interceded by a truly nasty, acidic glare from Starscream.
“We proceed as planned,” Megatron murmurs, touching a flawless cheek with a brush of the scuffed digit that trembles with his struggle to stay outwardly composed. “Today’s meeting will commence as scheduled. But for a moment… make me forget.”
“Of course.” This gorgeous winged mech, whose bodywork is unique and utterly unforgettable, delicately takes the retired, far older gladiator’s massive servo and kisses it reverently upon the knuckles. “It would be my pleasure to serve you.”
The former archivist watches them from afar, silent and still, utterly stunned.
Something more is said between the couple that goes unheard by anyone else. They then depart together, without looking back.
Orion sags.
Drawing the slender Starscream under his arm, Megatron allows a dainty servo to grab his aft mid-step, equally possessive, without reproach.
“Wow.” Bumblebee scratches his helm, scowling. “That was seriously rough. Bolt-heads.”
“Bee,” Windblade gently reprimands him, whilst gazing worriedly up at Orion.
Grimlock and Arcee share a sympathetic cringe.
Bumblebee moves to hug Orion about the torso, arms barely long enough to encompass his girth. “You okay, big guy?”
“…I am fine.”
Windblade highly doubts that.
“I must speak more with the Senate,” Orion intones, offering a distracted ruffle atop Bumblebee’s horned helm as he releases the hug and steps back. “Do not wait for me. Enjoy the rest of your day. I will meet you at the soirée, later on.”
“Okay, but if you need us for anything…”
“I appreciate that.”
“I shall send you the particulars of said soirée!”
“Understood.”
Bumblebee watches Orion go with a sigh.
Windblade takes her best friend’s servo. “Wanna pop into Mac’s real quick, see if our friends are around? Maybe convince them to come along?”
“Yeah. The more the merrier, right? We’ll call it pre-drinks before Grim’s party.”
“Coming, guys?”
“We shall be so terribly trashed by the day’s end. Absolutely!”
“Hey! Lemme go!”
They turn together to watch a security mech marching briskly along with Flamewar held aloft by the scruff of her frame, kicking and snarling, clawing at his impervious fist.
“I can walk, fragface!”
Arcee scowls. “Excuse me, what do you think you’re doing!” Marches on over with much indignation.
She moves too quickly for Grimrock to react very much. “Errm–” He lumbers after her.
“Taking out the trash. This one’s trouble.” By trouble, the security mech means that Flamewar threw a fit when Megatron left in a huff on account of the Senate spurning his speech for Cybertron’s future, and got caught.
“That’s not how you treat a femme, or a Cybertronian citizen! Unbelievable! You’ll hurt her!”
“This one threatened to, I quote, ‘blow this slaghole sky high’ – ahem. Her language, not mine. We gotta take violent threats seriously.”
“Look at her, does she actually look dangerous, to you?”
Arcee and the security mech take a moment to admire Flamewar’s handsomely rounded cheeks, her facial rigging bent with rugged frustration across her scuffed face plate, fangs bared.
“In a really cute way, kinda.”
“Cute?! I’ll rip out your optics and eat ’em while they’re warm!”
“So, maybe she’s a little feisty! She’s clearly unarmed. Let her go.”
“Well, yeah, but…”
“Okay, then. Put her down right now, before I submit a very unpleasant company review! I recognise that badge, you know, and I have a bustling social network!”
“Meh. Scrap this.” The security mech, likely quite underpaid and overworked, simply forgets whatever protocol he is obliged to follow and neatly drops Flamewar before Arcee.
The two-wheeler lands lightly on her scuffed pedes, slumped and scowling with embarrassed fury and ill grace, gesturing rudely at his retreating back plates. “Bite my aft!”
“I’m so sorry you experienced that,” Arcee intones very kindly, seeing an unfortunate, misunderstood little Spark in need of compassion where most would see an unproductive troublemaker or a fun romp in the berth. “Did he hurt you?”
“Nah, I’m used to it.” Flamewar would usually hate the unintentionally patronising endearment. She rubs the back of her neck, wincing. “Thanks, anyway.” She accepts it, begrudgingly, because Arcee is really hot.
“You’re very welcome!”
“Guess it’s not all bad.” Flamewar offers a roguish wink, and a flash of her unusual fangs. “Not a lotta pretty femmes stick up for me like that.”
Arcee’s answering smile is warm and bright, her optics positively glowing. “Well, aren’t you a charmer!”
“Uh-huh. I gotta go blow off some steam, now. See ya.”
“Take care, sweet Spark! Stay outta trouble, okay?”
Flamewar makes a casual clicking sound from the corner of her intake, then simply collapses, dropping into her bike alt-mode. She even gives off an exaggerated throaty bark of her highly modified engine entirely for the onlooking femme’s benefit, and then disappears with a sputtering roar before the cops likely show up and lock her away forever or something.
Arcee watches the little spitfire go with a sigh. “Wow, what a hottie.”
“You neglected to request her name, by the by.”
“Oh, frag it, Grim, you’re right! I’m so dumb!”
“You’ve made quite the mess of me.”
Megatron admires the way droplets of his own transfluid roll down the angles of Starscream’s flawless cheeks, racing along his mandible and dripping from his chin, spattering his chassis as he remains reclined back, smiling, helm tilted forward.
“I will need to go clean myself up. Again.” The Seeker’s speech synthesis is especially wet. “Can’t very well attend today’s meeting looking like a pleasure frame you picked up in the red-headlight district, now, can I?” His optic shutters are lazily drawn low, hooding the alluring fixation of his eccentric gaze upon the flushed old gladiator.
“Pardon me. I did try to… get it all in.”
“Oh, never mind. I had fun. We have time.”
“Mm. Let me help clean my mess.”
“Would you, dear? That’d be wonderful.”
Orion almost entirely forgotten, Megatron leans in, dragging his thick, slick glossa over Starscream’s face plate, catching against his smiling intake and tugging at the plush dermas, distorting that pleased expression whilst worming inside.
A subsequent oil bath and the generous reapplication of polish shall succeed in hiding most of the stink of interfacing.
“But he is the guest of honour! He must attend!”
“I mean, after what happened before? I don’t blame the guy for not feeling it. Sorry, Grim. Maybe now’s not the time for a party,” Bumblee says this whilst flushed and wearing the holographic projection of a party hat, lopsided.
Grimlock sighs, nodding slowly. “Yes, perhaps I was insensitive. Hmm. Let us reschedule for–”
“Apologies, my friends. I know I am exceedingly late.”
“Orion!” Hot Rod intones with a raised fist. “You’re here! Woo-hoo!”
“We have engex,” Windblade slurs a little, garnering a chuckle from Chromia, close beside and attentive despite the strength of the beverage. “S’really good!”
“Forgive me.” Orion accepts a crystalline flute, filled to the brim. “The Senate kept me longer than I had anticipated.” He smiles back at the party goers, glad to see they have been festive without him.
“All good tidings, I hope?”
“Yes. They wish to implement my suggestions, albeit with some… compromises.”
Wheeljack quirks an optic ridge at that.
This is the first secret meeting Slipstream and her Seekers have been permitted to attend, even if merely as a handsome security detail to boast of Starscream’s station in life, so that he may not be overshadowed by the other noteworthy attendees.
The participating face plates are, of course, deliberately familiar. Distinguished individuals with potential for greatness, already established as successful in their fields. Beloved or infamous among segments of the populace, these individuals make up what shall amount to the lesser leadership figures in Megatron’s growing army. Their influence in various circles has already helped him gather his loyal supporters thus far whilst maintaining control over the more unruly devotees. Inevitably, more lost Sparks shall be drawn in to fight for what they believe is right – what he tells them to believe. He started the fire, and they stoke it, so he may take satisfaction in the warmth of revolution.
Shockwave busies himself at a terminal that lights the panes of his chassis an ethereal blue. He pauses to turn his featureless helm in reaction to the cacophony of incoming steps that disturb him, peering briefly at Acid Storm from over a pauldron before stoically returning to his work. One of his servos has been detached from the arm and hovers around him like a hovering worker drone, interacting with the holographic projection seemingly independently.
Acid Storm waves at his disembodied servo, smiling shyly.
His servo waves back. A technological marvel, indeed.
Soundwave intones moody music from his built-in sound system, palms on his hip joints, shielded chin lowered to accentuate his angular lens and broad pauldrons, lending a suave yet ominous air to his casual posturing. He gleams with a fresh layer of polish that smells wonderfully clean, always a mech that takes some pride in his appearance, his charisma rendering him despised by his envious competition yet very popular with femmes and mechs alike, especially those who prefer the party scene.
Nova Storm flushes when he jokingly salutes at her, silently mocking her part in this soldierly formation. Not that she minds it.
Shadow Striker scowls harshly, her powerful, sleek forearms folded over the bulk of her chassis, spinal strut propped casually against the dull grey monotone of the wall. She is the roughest of the lot, a mercenary by trade, by far the most experienced after Megatron himself. Unblinking scope burning hot and bright and sinister, it locates a target of some interest, before she offers an upward tick of the helm in brusque recognition.
Stunned to see her, Slipstream gives off a nervous nod in reply, feeling a pang for Bumblebee.
Shadow Striker actually smiles. It is not a comforting expression. She just finds this Seeker the most likeable of the lot of them.
Stationed strategically on either side of the door that seals shut and locks itself, Thrust is irritated at being forced to attend to his station outside the meeting room with Thundercracker opposite, who is also disappointed. Slipstream is with Nova Storm, permitting them the full experience within. Acid Storm goes to Shockwave when he gestures for their attendance at his terminal, after an agreeable nod of permission from Starscream, whose sheer swagger boasts that he owns the room and all within it.
“Hello, everyone,” the Seeker Captain drawls, settling comfortably at Megatron’s right side, indeed, Starscream’s rightful place.
“Greetings,” drones Shockwave, allowing Acid Storm to shake his disembodied servo.
“Hey,” intones Soundwave, utterly casual.
Shadow Striker grunts. She is not here for her manners.
At the head of the meeting room, Megatron clears his intake, drawing every other optic of the assembled. “Thank you all for gathering here, as agreed. It is obvious to you all by now that Orion Pax convinced the powers that be to side against me – against us. We will not have the support of the Senate. This was the worst possible outcome. We are prepared for it.”
Starscream huffs, admiring the flawless back of a dainty servo.
“Ultimately, nothing has changed.” Megatron manages to sound incredibly calm, considering the hurt and rage in his optics. “Before we proceed unto the next phase, I wish to take a moment to commend your efforts. You have gathered support for the cause far and wide, without arousing suspicion worthy of any formal oversight or investigation thus far. This is no small feat. By the time those fools realise what has transpired beneath their very olfactory sensors, it shall be too late to stop us. Do not falter, and we will prevail. Such great rewards await you.”
Shadow Striker peers at Slipstream, who cringes handsomely under that lens. They are both thinking about Bumblebee.
Cybertron is about to burn, and finally, Megatron shall feel that warmth he so craves.
Chapter 12: Glutton
Summary:
Starscream reminds Slipstream that he is not all bad, for he loves his Seekers in his own disturbed way, but he loves Jetfire most of all, whose departure long ago left a wound that has festered since. As the friends assemble in Maccadam's, a guilty and secretive Slipstream reunites with them to the delight of most, although Chromia has her reservations where Windblade is concerned, whereas Windblade just wants both femmes at once. In a moment of weakness, Megatron tenderly and patiently promises to toughen Starscream up whilst keeping him fragile, and Slipstream confesses everything. The friends are left reeling as Windblade, a loving being subjected to libido, takes this as the perfect opportunity for a first kiss, dooming Slipstream all over again. Chromia wants to go home.
Notes:
This chapter will basically wrap up most of the pre-war stuff, outside of possible references, flashbacks or memory extractions in subsequent chapters. I hope you’ll enjoy more of my gayass robots with trauma as I twist canon and write my own nonsense to fill gaps and tell alternative stories. A warm thank you for your readership and any encouraging gestures you’ve been generous enough to give thus far – constructive feedback is always welcomed and it's how you keep starving authors fed. May the new year treat you better. Take care of yourself.
Chapter Text
“Ugh, look at you.”
“Sir?”
“You’re all far too miserable.”
The Seekers stare dumbly at their Captain at the end of another strenuous day.
“Insufferable, even!”
They have suffered him in obedience, their grumbling kept discrete.
“I just cannot deal with you lot when you’re all moping about like this.” Starscream cups Nova Storm’s handsome cheeks, garnering a lovely flush as he inspects her closely. “Even you. Look at how sad you look. And you’re supposed to be my strongest.” He then dismisses her with a sigh and saunters off, leaving her flushed, her burning optics lingering on his aft.
“Sir–”
“No.”
Slipstream receives a digit to her intake, effectively silencing her in passing. That digit drags along, caressing her angular jawline momentarily, eliciting a shiver.
“Even my great patience has its limitations, darlings, and I have far too many important things to do right now, to be simmering with the rest of you in your piteous shared sadness!” Starscream preens himself with a huff, wings fluttering at his back. “Please. Whatever do you take me for?”
Nobody answers that.
“You’re making my life so difficult. I am already under considerable pressure to perform, you know!”
Nova Storm and Thundercracker share a cringe.
“I need you at your best. I must be at my best. We’re all in this together, Seekers. Team effort, and all that.”
Thrust’s typical envy gives way to something darker, more hurt, leading Slipstream to recall how Acid Storm was always his favourite even though he never, ever would admit it aloud.
“No weakness, no failure. Perfection takes practice! Megatron demands the world, and we will be the fist that seizes it. So stop. Your. Moping.”
“Sir,” she intones a little tersely, speaking on the others’ behalf as much as her own, “we are understandably demoralised. We’ve lost a Seeker.”
“Acid was reassigned to another post,” Starscream drawls with a flop of his wrist joint, “not taken offline forever! Honestly, so melodramatic. You do not seem to grasp you are soldiers, and you do not seem willing to make certain sacrifices.” He then groans, rubs his brows. “One wonders how you ‘soldiers’ will manage to wage a war, if it comes to that.”
Slipstream narrows her optics, sighing quietly to herself. Her patience, it would seem, is being tested. Her gasket is going to explode as foretold. As if she needed the reminder of what they were forged to do. This trajectory of their peaceful lives is now decided for them in treachery and treason to fulfil a great mech’s dream. “We are loyal to you, Captain.”
“Oh, my dear, I don’t doubt your loyalty. But I do not need Megatron doubting your capabilities, either! My Seekers, as your Captain, your actions and attitudes reflect upon me.”
“Forgive us, Sir. It’s just that we’ve always been together. We know no different. Without Acid, we–”
“Need I remind you, Acid was quite happy to leave!”
“I know, Sir, but–”
“Do you think me the villain?”
“Never, Sir.”
“I didn’t drag them kicking and screaming to Shockwave’s laboratory, you know. I facilitated a perfectly amicable transfer, and in doing so, I gave them what they always wanted. They’re with their idol, now. I trust he will teach them, hone their skills, and return them to us with all sorts of useful applications. It’s their dream come true, and I made it happen! Me! And even better if they solve the little problem of our dwindling numbers. Imagine it! You'll never be lonely again.”
“We appreciate that, Sir, and of course we will welcome our new Seekers with open arms, but–”
“But nothing! Cheer up and be happy about it! Selfish bunch. You ought to be grateful.”
Slipstream feels really, really small, even with her wingspan fully expanded.
“You should strive to please. After all,” Starscream purrs with a servo upon his gleaming cockpit, “you have my generosity to thank for permitting the transfer. Though, I did somewhat owe Shockwave the favour.”
“If I may, Sir,” Slipstream begins again, after gathering herself, “our mourning has not impaired our productivity.”
“My issue is not with your productivity.”
“We remain obedient. We’ve followed your orders and fulfilled our assigned duties, Captain. Where one of us struggles, another steps in to–”
“That’s cute, Slipstream. None of that bothers me, either, right now.”
“Then I am confused. How have we failed you?”
“Of course you don’t realise it. You fail to realise how you’re rubbing off all this negative energy of yours, all over me. It’s depressing just being around you.”
“…Oh.”
“I occupy a position of the utmost importance.” Starscream says all this whilst sashaying agitatedly about his office, his heel struts click-clacking most distractingly, the gorgeous mech barely glancing their way. “In fact, I am far, far too important to Megatron’s cause, to tire myself out dealing with your ridiculous combined emotional charge day in, day out, whilst I already have so much work of my own to attend to.”
“…So, this is ultimately about you, then, Sir?”
“Of course it is!”
“…Your feelings?”
“Exactly! It’s about how you make me feel, and how much I disapprove of it.”
“…I see.”
“You’ve all been quite selfish. I’m most disappointed.”
Slipstream ponders her reply.
“Would you like a hug, Captain?” Thundercracker interjects, without a lick of spite or sarcasm, utterly innocent.
Starscream stops his sashaying, slowly turns, and stares.
Nova Storm and Thrust grimace as Slipstream neatly steps in front of Thundercracker, shielding him with a stoic wince.
Instead of vitriol and offence at the implication of vulnerability and, in turn, weakness, Starscream actually smiles rather sweetly back at them.
The Seekers do not know what to do with that.
“No, thank you, Thunder, my dear.” The Captain’s raspy undertone is perfectly pleasant all of a sudden. “That won’t be necessary. But so sweet of you to offer.”
“Of course, Sir,” Slipstream interjects before someone else can say something more stupid than anything she might say. “Do pardon us. We will try our best to cheer up immediately!”
“And on that note, I believe I can help.”
“Sir?”
“I’m granting you the night off.”
“For recreation, Sir?”
“I command you to refresh yourselves with meaningless fun distraction for a few hours, so you may return to me in better condition for a bright and early start tomorrow. Consider it a fresh start. All forgiven.”
“…Thank you, Sir.”
“Oh, nooo. Please. Do not thank me."
This is a contradictory instruction and it confuses the Seekers further.
"After all, here I am, working hard, making things happen for us, restoring our kin to glory, and you all fixate on Acid’s absence like that’s all that really matters. It may not negatively impair your results, to be fair, but it affects me. Seeing you all so sad and pathetic.” The smile fades, replaced by a very tired expression. “What sort of Sparkless Captain would I be, failing to feel for the loss of each and every one of you? I miss Acid just as much as…” A stuttering gasp from the overworked vents. “As much as…”
Slipstream opens and shuts her intake, vocal processor producing a faint hiss.
“…I miss Acid, too.”
“Captain…”
Starscream turns away again, sharply, directing his shapely back plates deliberately toward the gathered Seekers. His helm hangs low on his bent neck cables. His pauldrons slump. His fists tremble at his hips. He makes a soft sound. His wings slowly fold inwards, rendering him smaller.
“You’re so good to us, Sir.”
“We didn’t mean to let you down, Captain.”
“We’re sorry.”
“Losing Acid was…” A raspy sigh. “Surrendering Acid, I should say. I did not give them away so easily. Regardless. What’s done is done. We must adjust. Make do with each other. Hopefully, Shockwave will soon resolve the issue of our diminished numbers, and our armada will swell with fresh Seekers once more. Then perhaps a loss, even temporary, won’t cleave so great a chasm in our lives. Mm. Anyway.”
They exchange looks among themselves.
“Remember, darlings.” Starscream straightens out, adopting a haughty sharpness to his rasp once more as he keeps his back to them, like he never displayed a moment of vulnerability just now. “Operational security still applies. Do not reveal a thing. Not to your friends. Not to your lovers. Not to anyone. Understood?”
“Yes, Captain,” they chorus, sounding a little more enthused by the notion of recreational time off.
“Very good. Slipstream is in charge.” He gestures, as if shooing them away. “Dismissed.”
They realise, altogether, that this is Starscream’s peculiar manner of being compassionate.
“And behave yourselves, out there.”
It garners a fond smile from Nova Storm, always his most admiring Seeker, as they shuffle out his office.
A moment of silence.
Starscream pulls out his chair and drops into it, slumping behind his desk, a servo covering the lower half of his face plate to still the trembling as he stares into space. He never did figure out how to mourn.
Not since Jetfire.
“You’re tired,” Chromia murmurs indulgently.
Windblade nods once, chin propped in her palms, elbows at rest on the counter, optic shutters lowered in an almost sultry laziness as she watches Bumblebee and Hot Rod argue over another Cube game without Shadow Striker’s imposing presence there to bounce their silliness off of.
“Shall we retire, together?”
“Sure.” The flier feels herself smirk in response to the bike’s familiar undertone, leaning into her caressing servo. “Soon as I’ve got the energy to get my aft up and go.”
“I could carry you to your habsuite.” The offer is made quite genuinely, even if it is uttered in jest. It would not be the first time.
“I’d love that.” And this is no lie.
Not even Cube can distract Hot Rod enough to miss this tender exchange, always a mech possessing a gorgeous and sensitive Spark, a bit of a hopeless romantic. He somehow always has something kind to say, apparently able to sense those who need encouragement. “Aw, you guys, you’re just the best.”
Chromia flushes, clears her vents, tries not to show too much emotion upon her handsome, strong facial rigging. She does not mind him. He is sweet. A little overly enthused about showing his emotional availability to the more reserved, such as herself, perhaps.
“Nah. She’s just the best.” Windblade rises with suddenly renewed vigour to deposit a peck to the softly stoic two-wheeler’s cheek, grinning adoringly aside at her. “My big, strong protector. Always looking out for me.” Although purred teasingly, not a word of it is mocking. It is all gushed with the utmost good intent.
Delighted, Hot Rod drags Bumblebee into a hug, squeezing the smaller mech tight. “Precious!”
Chromia does not argue otherwise. How can she, with Windblade cuddled against her? There is no room for dispute. Only ceaseless questions, ruminated upon over, and over again. A guilty conscience. How could Chromia have ever returned to Caminus alone? How could she have left Windblade behind, here, on Cybertron? And all things considered, how can she successfully convince her to go back home? The fear of cleaving a deepening rift between them.
“You never cease to make me swoon.”
“Oh, hush. You’ll cause Hot Rod to short-circuit.”
“It’s true! You ladies have my circuits burning!”
“Wow, really.”
“Aw, c’mon, Bee. I’ve come up with way worse material than that.”
Windblade giggles. Thank Primus the Cityspeaker is not a mind-reader. She can share the mind-scape with a Titan, becoming essentially one, but her connection works differently with these lesser beings. For all the trials and tribulations of her devotion, her discipline sacred and lifelong, it is harder and more rewarding to get to know her friends.
Chromia is so very ashamed of some of her thoughts.
“Hey.”
“What.”
“Will you carry me home,” Hot Rod asks Bumblebee teasingly, prodding the smaller mech, “when I swoon?”
“I mean, I’ll try my best, I guess? You’re kinda heavy, though. No offence.”
“Hey!”
“What!”
They share a laugh, and then yell altogether at the holoscreen when the wrong team scores an absorption.
The Camiens are still somewhat bewildered by Cube, appreciating it from something of a safe distance compared to the enthusiasts of Cybertron. Windblade can play. Chromia does not know all the rules.
A fresh Cube is released.
“Wow, look at it go,” remarks Windblade, gently dumbing herself down for the sake of mutual amusement.
“It certainly is going, yes,” answers Chromia, who is still adorably intrigued yet perplexed by the game.
“Thunder!” booms Clobber with delight all of a sudden, waving unnecessarily from a neighbouring booth as if her hulking form is not already obvious. “Nova! Where you guys been?!” The mighty femme’s raised voice causes a minor tremor. She is usually so soft-spoken.
The Seekers take a moment, as if bolstering one another. Then they revive again, a handsome and impressive ensemble.
Bumblebee makes a high-pitched sound of excitement within Hot Rod’s arms. “Slip!”
Chromia feels Windblade tremble. Feels how hot her slender frame burns.
Slipstream appears exhausted and her movements imply that she is sore, her angular face plate cast in shadows as she offers a soft, shy smile and lumbers on over, thus parting ways with the rest of her Seekers. “Hey, guys.” She is huskier than usual. She opens her arms, an invitation, without quite looking at anyone. Like she is unsure whether or not they will want to touch her.
Rising to their pedes with a buzz of his engine and a gasp strangled within her own chassis, Bumblebee and Windblade throw themselves at the bigger Seeker and are engulfed altogether.
Slipstream’s capacity to give the biggest, best hugs remains unchanged. Even though she hates herself. She deposits kisses and caresses with a low sigh and holds her friends a little closer. “Thank you.”
Hot Rod coos softly. “Aw…”
Windblade stretches a little and affectionately grazes helms with Slipstream in the peculiar way fliers do. “We’ve missed you.”
“You just have no idea,” Bumblebee intones, clinging.
If Slipstream had hoped for condemnation, she only finds love instead. It breaks her Spark into oozing, aching bits. Do her friends not realise that she is deceiving them? “I’ve missed you more. Believe me.” Liar.
Hot Rod’s friendly servo slaps the counter top. “C’mon, sit your aft down. Have some Energon with us.”
“I, uh…” Optics dart aside, still avoiding contact. “Yeah.” She wants to apologise. “I really could do with a drink, right now, actually.”
Reading her discomfort, Bumblebee gestures for her to stoop over a bit, smiling warmly.
She obeys, levelling herself with him, more or less.
He deposits a little peck to her cheek. It is forgiveness. It is ignorance. He knows not what she has done, and must do. He may have his suspicions, but he does not utter a word of them.
She does not understand it. So she merely flushes, her smile turning crooked, and allows herself to be pulled into the booth with disgust at the relief she feels, accepting a cup of Energon with a somewhat dazed expression. Where is the condemnation she deserves? The accusations do not come. She is not interrogated.
Hot Rod makes the effort to fill any possible space for tension with friendly banter, instead.
Bumblebee happily reciprocates, pointing at the Cube game when one of his favourite players makes an effortless absorption.
The crowd goes wild.
Windblade leans into Chromia, whilst finding Slipstream’s servo to hold.
How she missed this. All of it. But especially this one small thing. The dainty digits tracing thoughtless patters into her scuffed palm. She missed this, most of all. How dare she enjoy it?
“It is alright.” Megatron speaks softly and kindly to Starscream whilst tipping his helm back with a digit tucked below his chin, forcing their optics to connect. “You’ve never truly led a combat-ready armada before. Your reign began after the last war’s end. All you’ve commanded is what your Seekers have been reduced to, courtesy of the scraps left to you by the paranoid Senate and Functionist fools. I understand, Star. I truly do.”
“That is no excuse for my weakness,” is the feeble rasp of shame and anguish, articulate facial rigging trembling with the urge to express. "Forgive me. I was fine, before you walked in. Truly, I was."
“I would find you far less enjoyable, if I sensed weakness in you. I lack patience for it.”
“That is… most reassuring.”
“Good.”
“I am doing all of this for you, of course."
"Of course."
"And I… I only want to please you.”
“You do please me.”
“But I find myself suddenly so… compromised.”
“You are given to flights of feeling. It is a beautiful quality.”
“Yes. You told me you like it.”
“I did not lie.” A shadow befalls rugged beauty. “But you must tell me, Star."
"Tell you what, my love?"
"If you are reconsidering–”
“No!”
The shadow lifts.
“Of course not! You need me.” The Seeker Captain seizes the retired gladiator’s servos, kissing the digits. “Don’t you?”
“You are indispensable,” Megatron reassures Starscream in a low, gentle undertone, the greater mech with dreams of a noble warlord drawing his companion’s flustered terror against his broad, battle-scarred chassis with a kiss atop his pristine helm.
“I won’t… end up like Orion?”
“You are nothing like him.”
“And so I… I need to be stronger than this. For you, for us.”
“Then I will teach you strength. As Acid Storm shall grow under Shockwave’s tutelage, so you will grow under mine.”
A shuddering sigh. “Megatron.”
“Star.”
“I suffer.”
“I know.”
“Make me hard and unyielding, like you, to survive what I must do.”
“No.”
“But you said–”
“I will make you stronger than you are now. Yet I desire your capacity to bend, your flexibility. Tensile strength, as it were.”
A wonky smile. “I am rather… flexible, I suppose.”
A rumbling chuckle. “Indeed, you are.”
“Then, you are mine… I am yours… and…”
“That is all.”
"Yes," Starscream purrs and clings to Megatron, trembling beneath the palm that caresses his wings.
“I am sorry you miss your Acid Storm. They are a fine, capable Seeker. I will ensure Shockwave treats them well.”
“Thank you.” The Captain buries his face plate in the old gladiator’s chassis.
“Loss… is an agony one can grow accustomed to.” Megatron patiently stoops to rest his battered chin atop Starscream’s ornate helm, gunmetal grey bosom bolstering a raspy sob. “At least, for my sanity’s sake, I must believe it so.”
Slipstream can no longer tolerate it.
Windblade is gently held back by the servo.
“We need to talk.”
“Then we’ll talk.”
The Seeker balks at how expectant the Cityspeaker seems, utterly unsurprised by the sudden turn, not at all tense despite the other femme’s palpable unease. Like this was inevitable. Like Windblade has simply been waiting for Slipstream to finally confess her sins, all this time.
Their friends keep on walking at an ambling pace, several paces ahead of them. The distance is growing, slowly.
“But let’s talk and walk, okay?” The Cityspeaker smiles softly. “Bit less awkward than being left behind like this.”
“Right. Sorry.” The Seeker is pulled back into motion.
The others would never knowingly leave them behind.
“You’ve always known.”
“That you’ve been lying to us, either directly or by omission? Yes. I’ve always known.”
“And yet you’re holding my servo like you always do.”
“I don’t blame you, Slip. I just feel terribly sad for you.”
“You mean you pity me.”
“Pity isn’t actually a bad thing. But I’d prefer to empathise.”
“Then I should explain myself better.” Slipstream looks aside, at Windblade. “You really are wonderful, you know that?”
The Cityspeaker flushes, chuckles quietly.
“You’re better than I deserve. When it’s all been said, I hope you’ll still want me around.”
“I love you a lot, Slip.”
The Seeker sighs. “You shouldn’t.”
“Well, too bad. Because I do.”
“It’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Having you and Bee as my friends. Loving you back.”
Windblade’s cooling fans roar softly as she draws up Slipstream’s servo and nuzzles it, depositing a kiss on an old scar.
“I’ve wanted to tell you since the start, but… I have my orders, and I’m just a Seeker, and disobeying my Captain is a betrayal of more than just the hierarchy. It’s all I have, all I am, all I’ve ever known. What I was forged for.” Slipstream hardens, gritting her powerful mandible and straightening her pauldrons. “But if Starscream expects me to choose between my place as his Seeker, and my place as your friend, then… I know where I want my loyalties to lie. Frag the consequences. I’ll always choose you.”
Windblade is the one to stop them, this time, with an effortless tug on the arm.
The Seeker is pulled up against the Cityspeaker, pinned in place by a palm to the lower back plate, those big blue optics upcast, simply emphasising their differences in stature.
“You make my Spark explode.” Windblade says it in a dangerous, velvety undertone.
“Oh? I do?”
“Yes.”
“Are you okay?” Slipstream is so endearingly dumb, sometimes. “Does it hurt?” Earnest in her concern. She lays a cumbersome servo on the slender femme’s chassis, right above her Spark chamber. “Wow, it’s really thrumming in there!”
“In a way I really like. Primus, it hurts so good.”
“Um. I’m not sure what to say to that?”
Bumblebee, Hot Rod and Chromia have all stopped by now and are staring.
“Kiss me.”
Slipstream’s adorable frown of worry softens into something bittersweet, something that wants to believe, to dream, to indulge.
“Before you tell me whatever awful thing you’ve been hiding from me all this time, I’d like you to kiss me, first.”
She winces with guilt.
“My feelings for you won’t change.”
“You can’t promise me that.”
“This will prove it. I’ll kiss you before, and after, if you let me, and none of it will feel any different.” Windblade’s expression is patient, open. “Kiss me, and tell me everything, and kiss me again.”
“Wow,” Hot Rod murmurs, fanning himself.
Bumblebee does not know whether to smile or frown. He lingers in-between.
Chromia’s gaze is soft, yet protective.
“I don’t deserve to kiss you.”
“I’m not angry.”
“You should be.”
Windblade inclines her helm.
“This is a huge betrayal of your trust,” Slipstream reports dully. “I withheld important information for this long. I’m not even sure if there’s still a chance to stop it from happening.”
“What’s about to happen?”
“Megatron is going to seize Cybertron.”
There is a collective gasp from the audience.
“He’s convinced Starscream and a bunch of others to side against the Senate. They’re using the Seekers as an armada, and they’ve been recruiting an army.”
Windblade’s big blue optics burn so cold, despite the heat of her shapely frame, pressed against Slipstream.
“I don’t want war. I don’t want to serve my intended function. I just want to fly over the parades, and play Cube with Bee, and hold your servo.” The Seeker’s angular facial rigging scrunches up with hurt and fear and shame. “I don’t wanna fight.” It comes out so quietly. “I don’t wanna hurt anyone. I wish I wasn’t forged for this.”
The Cityspeaker’s brows bend beneath the weight of her own thoughts.
“I can’t do this anymore. My silence is complacency. I won’t do this any more. I almost let you get pulled into it, into a war. If it does happen… I need to know I did what I could to prevent it, and protect you.”
Bumblebee looks to Hot Rod, who winces and turns to Chromia, who looks torn between maintaining respectful distance and going over there to forcibly rescue Windblade from Slipstream’s arms.
“I need to speak with Orion Pax, tell him everything I know. It seems like Megatron is obsessed with him. Makes Starscream nervous. Maybe Orion can convince Megatron that this is madness.”
“We’ll get you to Orion.” Windblade steels her gaze, squeezing Slipstream’s pauldrons. “We’ll warn the Senate. Megatron won’t succeed. It's not too late to fix this."
"If you need proof, I have memory files."
"I believe you."
"Would Orion, though? He was Megatron's best friend."
"We'll know soon enough."
"What'll happen when Starscream finds out?" asks Hot Rod with a wince. "He's, uh, not exactly a nice guy, but he's your boss, right?"
"I’m definitely getting decommissioned for this.” Slipstream manages to say it with a rueful smile, gaze downcast. “I deserve far worse, really. As an awful friend and a treacherous Seeker.”
"When you say 'decommissioned'..." Hot Rod clears his intake delicately. "Uh, what does that mean?"
"It's not an early retirement."
"Oh, scrap, seriously? He can do that?"
"Starscream won’t have you." Windblade proceeds to give Slipstream a crushing hug. "And he won't hurt you."
The Seeker flinches over the Cityspeaker's pauldron.
"I won't allow it.”
“You can’t protect me from–”
"Don't underestimate me. What I'm capable of."
“I love you.”
Windblade’s sheer ferocity is the answer. The way she refuses to hide her painted face as she pulls back and insists on delving into Slipstream's guilty optics with penetrating fixation, cupping a jaw betwixt both servos. "I don't like seeing you afraid. Not of him. Not of me."
"Me, afraid of you?"
"Yes, Slip."
"I was scared you'd leave me, not that I'd blame you if you did. But yeah. It's terrifying."
"It'll take worse than a lie, to take you away from me."
"Oh, Windblade, now my Spark's exploding."
The Cityspeaker leans in, far too slowly, giving the Seeker ample opportunity to refuse, or redirect her impending doom.
A part of Slipstream wishes that she had never met Windblade, or Bumblebee, only to end up falling in love with them. The world is about to end. This is it. No further resistance is offered. Just let it happen. One can always afford to hate oneself a little more than before.
Windblade should thrust deep with Stormfall. Should walk away. Should do anything except kiss Slipstream and utterly ruin whatever's left of her. A burning intake, soft by design, pressing in with hardened passion.
It takes the recycled air right out of the Seeker and leaves her modesty plating tight and throbbing.
The Cityspeaker emits a throaty rumbling sound she has never, ever produced, before.
This is not the romantic scene Bumblebee had imagined for months now.
Hot Rod averts his gaze, scratching his neck.
Chromia misses Caminus.
Chapter 13: Betrayal*
Summary:
Nothing escapes Shadow Striker's scope, not even a wayward ally or a hot little yellow body. Megatron has many plans and wisely holds his mercenary back, reminding her of the gruesome mission assigned to her and her team of assassins and saboteurs. Orion promises to do what he can to help and so Slipstream departs somewhat reassured, comforted by her friends. Starscream confronts Megatron in the process of erasing a terminal that once held Seeker data, thus ending a legacy, which can only mean an accelleration of their plans. Slipstream's treachery is going to ensure her downfall, all because of Windblade coaxing out the truth with the promise that she will protect, but she is not here to save Slipstream from Starscream's wrath - reassignment, a fate worse than death. Shadow Striker directs Slipstream to participate in something terrible. Starscream attends a meeting with Megatron to deny and defy Orion Pax who is accompanied by Bumblebee, yet a disaster within the Grand Imperium and an ambush at their meeting place guarantees violence and division henceforth. There is no way back, now.
Featured sex scene: brief Starscream/Megatron (oral, multitasking, distraction with work).
Notes:
This is where shit starts hitting the fan, for real. This chapter is rather huge, but important. Please enjoy it.
Possible trigger warnings: relationship and workplace toxicity, unhealthy power dynamics with predatory undertones, free will vs fate, brief descriptions of mechanised violence/gore, a lot of depression just everywhere and overall.
Chapter Text
“Want me to intervene?”
“There is no need.”
“You sure? Look, I know you told me to play nice with Scream’s Seekers…”
Slipstream has fragged up, badly.
“And I meant it. I’ll be gentle. Not even a scratch.” Shadow Striker is designed to hunt. She has been modified to stalk. Her spying scope never blinks, never sleeps, and it reaches into the depths of the darkness to track Energon signatures. She can even see impressions of movement and heat through certain solid substances and she can decrypt the more commonly used cloaking tech. Her audials are potent, precise. She has seen everything. Heard everything. Her obsession with following Bumblebee around at a distance finally pays off tonight. “Promise.”
“It matters not.” Megatron’s intake is full of writhing, moaning Starscream. “This merely accelerates our plans – I already know how Orion will respond, but I will keep him occupied, and he will be the one taken by surprise. Not I.”
“And the airbase?”
“It will be vacated and scuttled in time. No trace. Nothing useful left behind.” The retired gladiator utilises an internalised comm link and in doing so remains outwardly unspoken, allowing his glossa to be used for things other than speech. As an added benefit, he avoids alerting the Seeker Captain to this upsetting bit of bad news. “You have your orders. Do not wait for my signal. I expect to be met with comm scramblers and stasis cuffs. Strike when all Senators are gathered and seated. I will evade capture and reconvene with you, as soon as I am able.”
“If you don’t, Soundwave’s on the rescue party.”
“Correct. I do appreciate how you pay attention to the mission briefs.”
“I’m not like these other chumps.”
Starscream overloads again, blissfully ignorant, none the wiser.
Megatron swallows, like he was told to.
“I’m a professional.”
“The cause is grateful to have your services. I have every confidence in your abilities to lead this mission, Shadow Striker.”
“Thanks. You won’t be disappointed.”
“Remember.” Megatron sighs as a shaky servo strokes his helm. “Keep one Senator alive and captured. Cull the rest. Let none stop you. Do not leave a trail.”
“Understood.”
“This is not wanton destruction. You will sow dismay and disorientation that day. Tomorrow, we make our message loud and clear.”
Shadow Striker rolls her optic as Megatron goes on one of his inspirational rants again. It might inspire a rookie, but it is rather tedious to the professional.
“They will vilify us, at first. Liken us to criminals. Stay committed, and you will be hailed a hero, when the world regains its senses in time.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You will be rewarded handsomely for your strength, cunning, and resolve. Honour and the spoils of victory will be abundantly yours.”
“Yeah, I’m happy just to get paid.”
Megatron lets out an audible chuckle, muffled and wet. “Oh, I do like you.”
“I’m easy to like.” Shadow Striker zooms in on Orion Pax. Tunes her audial levels a little, to account for unwanted noise. Soundwave’s offer to tinker with her audials is being considered in all seriousness.
Orion keeps a tidy, modest home. He welcomes the group of friends within the habitation suite, despite the unsociable hour of the night. It is clearly not a sociable occasion.
Slipstream proceeds to bare her sinful Spark. She tells him all she has to tell.
His expression is stoic the entire time, rarely and only modestly emotive. He looks disappointed, at most, yet unsurprised. Not even horrified. Like he always knew it to be possible, that this may come to pass, eventually.
Windblade refuses to let go. The grip has been a shackle, an anchor. She squeezes Slipstream’s digits to convey silent reassurance, imprisoning her instead.
Bumblebee and Hot Rod keep sharing anxious glances.
Chromia only has optics for Windblade, resisting the urge to rescue her.
Slipstream suddenly stops talking, slumped, chewing her derma.
Orion affords them all a grave moment of silence afterward, allowing for himself the rumination he needs to respond. “…I understand.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you for reporting this to me.” And then his gaze rises again. “I will see to Megatron myself. I will notify the authorities in preparation for his arrest.”
“You can’t just… tell him to stop, I suppose.”
“He will listen to me. However, I cannot promise that my words will change his mind. I expect I will need to have him detained.”
“I’m sorry. He was your friend.”
“He was, yes. I am afraid that he may be too hurt, too angry, to be reasoned with at this stage. He is dedicated to changing the state of the world we live in. He has known too much cruelty and injustice. It has… distorted him, I fear. I do not know if I can still reach him. But I promise you, I will try.”
“Please, Orion.” Slipstream still cannot stop trembling. “He’s got my Captain.”
Windblade feels it, the tremor resonating via their shared touch. Tightens her grip a little further. Tries to still the trembling.
“Save Starscream.”
Even Bumblebee flinches with something akin to pity.
“Spare my Seekers.”
Orion lays his mighty servo upon Slipstream’s trembling pauldron, stooping to draw their faces closer together. His expression is now paternal and soft, hers is transfixed with terror.
“Help me.”
“I will do my best. I will confront Megatron, and I will have the authorities deal with Starscream.”
“Thank you. Thank you! But please, don’t let anyone hurt him, he’s unwell, he needs help!”
“You are devoured with guilt.”
“I’m… responsible.”
More lowly, Orion then says, “Starscream’s choices and actions are not your fault, with or without the influence of one as charismatic and powerful as Megatron.” And the old mech sighs. “Do not blame yourself. The consequences of his behaviour are his own to bear. But I will put a good word forward, in your Captain’s defence.”
She almost sobs her gratitude and shame. She has not been released from her obligation to take care of others, but it feels so nice to have someone offer to help her share the burden.
Bidding one another goodnight, the friends finally step outside, and Orion is left to meditate on everything behind closed doors.
With a final admiration of Bumblebee’s yellow from afar, in secret, Shadow Striker departs unnoticed. She has more pressing things to do. She has seen and heard enough. Tomorrow will be a trial by fire.
“Please stay,” Windblade murmurs to fill the void. “I’ll comfort you. I can keep you safe, here, with me.”
“I wish I could stay. But I’m in charge.” Slipstream’s gaze is still so evasive. She still trembles. “I need to retrieve my Seekers.”
“You mother them a lot,” Bumblebee offers in an attempt at some levity.
“It’s in my nature, I suppose.”
“Then I’ll go with you,” says Windblade.
“Me too,” adds Bumblebee.
Chromia inclines her helm with resignation.
Hot Rod smiles softly. “Aw.”
“The airbase is restricted. Civilians are not permitted access.”
“Let us at least see you to Mac’s.”
“If you’re sure you want to. My Seekers might tease you for it.”
“That’s okay. We’re your friends, Slip.”
“Thank you.”
The group splits in two after the hugs and goodnights have been dispensed. Hot Rod and Chromia walk away together, whereas Bumblebee and Windblade accompany Slipstream every step of the way back to the old oil house, where it all began for them.
Nova Storm has indulged in too much Engex and is singing with Lockdown.
Thundercracker giggles with Clobber. They do not know the words to sing along very well, but they occasionally contribute as best they can.
Thrust looks rather embarrassed, as does Dead End.
“Seekers.” Slipstream hates to interrupt them. “Look alive.” They are finally enjoying themselves again. It seems so normal.
“Captain! Heeeey!”
“Sir.”
“Aw, we gotta go already?”
Nova Storm needs a pauldron to lean on. Her confident, casual, aimless saunter would be enough to make Windblade and Bumblebee flush, otherwise. Thundercracker would normally be that pauldron, but Slipstream steps into his usual place, propping up the femme he loves most of all.
“Thrust.”
Being addressed with that husky, gently commanding undertone, he stands a little straighter. He is clearly the most sober of the three.
“You and Thunder return to base. Clean up and recharge. Nova is too far gone to fly. I’ll walk her home and put her to berth myself.”
“Alright, Captain.”
“Roger that, Sir.”
“I totally can fly!” Nova Storm winks at Windblade. “I’m pretty good at it, too! But Thrust’s the best flier we’ve got. Don’t tell him I told you, okay?”
“Okay. I won’t.”
Thrust flushes a little, tries not to smile as Windblade gives him a look. Fails. Smiles a little bit.
Slipstream offers the occupied booth a parting nod.
Clobber, Lockdown and Dead End raise their cups.
“Bye, guys!”
“We love ya!”
“Don’t disappear like that again.”
The Seekers leave the old oil house.
“Ooh, she’s really cute, Slip.”
“Nova, please behave.”
Thundercracker frowns and suddenly offers Bumblebee a servo to shake. “Hey, um, sorry.”
The shorter mech accepts it with a quirked optic ridge. “What for?”
“Y’know. Everything.”
“Uh.”
“We were jerks before. Calling you a grounder and stuff. We don’t do that any more. And you seem pretty cool, I mean, Slip likes you, so… I wanted to make stuff right between us.”
“Okay.” Bumblebee smiles warmly. “I forgive you. We’re cool.”
Thundercracker smiles handsomely back. “Awesome.”
“C’mon,” grunts Thrust, rolling his optics. “We gotta go.”
“Oh! Right. See you around?”
“See you around.” Bumblebee salutes. Badly.
Thrust and Thundercracker answer that salute the proper way, then bow to Windblade in practised unison, which makes her laugh in spite of everything. The mechs then take off in their splendid fighter jet alt-modes, roaring into the velvet black, their outlines hazy against the flickering stars.
“Wow. They’re really not so bad.”
“Yeah. They’re pretty okay, actually.”
Slipstream watches her Seekers disappear. Her optics are full of affection, and anxiety.
“He’s cute. Really yellow.”
“Nova.”
“Hey, I’d look good in yellow, right, Slip?”
“You would, but let’s just focus on getting back home for now. Okay.”
“Yeah! Okay! We’ll get to talk. We don’t talk enough, you and me, Captain.”
“You’re right. We don’t.”
“Which sucks because I love you and stuff.”
“I love you, too.”
“It’s because she’s terrified of femmes,” Nova Storm informs Windblade and Bumblebee with a flop of the wrist straight out of Starscream’s repertoire. “Even me! And we live together!”
“Shuddup,” Slipstream grumbles, offering her pauldrons as support to the inebriated Seeker whilst turning to smile apologetically at her friends. “Windblade. Bee. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Slip,” they chorus together, smiling their familiar smiles, tinged with sympathy.
“Thank you for everything.”
“We’re here for you, sweet Spark.”
“Yeah. And before you go, it’s huggin’ time.”
Slipstream manages a shy grin as Bumblebee strides over and embraces her about the torso. She strokes his back plates and nuzzles him atop his helm.
“Frag yeah.” As a physical extension of the acting Captain in that moment, Nova Storm tipsily joins the hug, swamping the shorter mech between crushing Seeker frames. “He’s so fun-sized, Slip.”
“Thanks! I am a whole lotta fun you can just pick up and carry around.”
“I like that.”
“Nova. You’re drunk.”
Windblade holds back until the embrace ends. Only when Bumblebee has stepped aside, does she step into place. “May I?” A glance at Nova Storm, with a lopsided smile.
“You may.” Slipstream flushes gorgeously. “If you want to?”
A slender servo captures her burning cheek. “I do.” Blue optics dim with lust.
Nova Storm and Bumblebee arch their brows.
Slipstream, as the taller femme, is gently coaxed to stoop as Windblade stretches to close the gap between their intakes.
Nova Storm gawks at their kiss, to which Bumblebee sighs.
Mashing dermas provoke a spike in mutual bodily heat and humming machinery. Windblade utters that peculiar rumbling sound again and Slipstream’s knee joints almost surrender to it.
“Whoa.” Nova Storm revives, utterly delighted. “You didn’t tell us you guys were a thing, Slip! How long?”
“Sorta just happened,” supplies Bumblebee with a shrug. “But they did dance around each other for months.”
“Oooh, get it, Captain!”
“She’s getting it, alright.”
Windblade eventually withdraws, prying herself away with a groan of effort. “Come back to me soon.” She blasts hot air from her vents, stuttering, excited. “I’ll be waiting.”
Slipstream nods stupidly, optics fluttering online, face plate flushed with hastily pumped Energon. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
They wind up kissing again, but it is softer, it does not last as long. Parted intakes announce parted ways.
Goodbye.
Nova Storm lays a servo over her own chassis, sighing. “Never thought I’d live to see the day.”
Slipstream tries not to look too overwhelmed. “Me, neither.”
Windblade returns to Bumblebee.
He loops an arm around her.
She leans into his side.
Slipstream glances back at them, taking mere moments to recover herself, bolstering Nova Storm.
“She’s a keeper, Captain.”
“They both are.”
Together, Windblade and Bumblebee wave Slipstream and Nova Storm off.
“Wow.” A prolonged whistle through the vents. “She’s a total baddie, though!”
“Yeah.”
“So’s he. He makes yellow work.”
“They’re both terribly beautiful.”
“You got him, too? It is, like, a three-way sorta thing?”
“Nova!”
“That’s really hot. Had no idea you were such a stud on your downtime, Sir.”
“Primus. You’re annoying when you drink.”
“Pffft. You mean adorable.”
Walking altogether to stay the course, Slipstream allows Nova Storm to ruffle her helm, sighing fondly.
“Attagirl!”
“I’m so glad you approve.”
“Approve? Gimme pointers. I could learn a thing or two!”
“I think you’re doing just fine.”
“Thunder’s all I need, true, but we’ve talked about getting us a third. Someone who’s not a Seeker. For fun, y’know.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Life’s all about experience, right? Gotta try new things. Good things. Never turn down a positive experience.”
“You just might learn something.”
“Or profit!”
“Ah, there you are.”
“Here I am.” Megatron stands before the terminal, in the process of a final data transfer prior to the wipe. “I’m surprised you can still walk.”
Shockwave cannot be traced, but he can be trusted. He will have everything. The existence of Seekers kept contained, codified, encrypted. It also helps that he took Starscream apart and got a good look at his composition, and Acid Storm provides useful information as well, having always tinkered in their own presentation to suit their Spark, which never got to choose a body.
“Well, you did leave me in quite the state.” Starscream settles beside the great mech, leaning companionably against Megatron. “I expected a cuddle after such a good fragging, by the way. Come back to berth. Work can wait for the morning.”
“You shall not be left unsatisfied. Enter recharge without me. I will be but a few hours.”
“You’re such a tease! What’re you up to that cannot wait a while, anyway?”
“Completing a few last-minute preparations prior to our departure. Orion called on me for a meeting tomorrow, as I knew he would, and I intend to leave nothing of value behind.”
“That’s rather sooner than we’d discussed. My Seekers still have some inventory to shift. We’ve not wiped the database.”
“I will ensure they have helpers. I will erase everything, here and now. It’s all according to plan. Just… a slight alteration.”
“You say that, but I can sense your stress.”
“You are a perceptive one. Unfortunately, recent events have necessitated greater expedience in the execution of our plan.”
“What recent events?”
Megatron hesitates.
Starscream frowns. “Tell me.”
“It is not easy for me to tell you.”
“I demand to know. We don’t keep secrets from each other, my love.”
“Very well, then. But I ask you to control your temper and focus on our goal.” The looming mech slowly turns his scuffed helm, gazing down upon his lover. “I need you, Star. I need you dedicated and focused. With me. We are so close. Tomorrow will be the sword.”
“Of course, darling. I will not fail you. How could I?”
Megatron returns to his work. He deletes records upon records of Seeker history with a few command prompts. “We have a traitor.”
A disgusted sneer. “Oh, joy. Do we know who?”
“One of your Seekers.”
Starscream chokes on his own vents. “What.”
“A Seeker has met with Orion this night as an informant, and disclosed my ultimate goal of conquest as well as revealed your involvement. Now we are both compromised.”
“No…”
“Shadow Striker observed them. I am inclined to trust her, but I will obtain her sensory data as evidence.”
“No!”
Sighing heavily, Megatron draws an arm about Starscream in consolation as he sputters and stares.
“B-but… I… She… No, no, no!”
“I leave the matter of Seeker discipline to you. Know that this brings me Sparkache, my love. I am fond of your troops. I did not think any one of them could do such a thing, certainly not on purpose.”
“…Which o-one was it?” Starscream’s vocal processor warbles. “Was it Thrust? He e-e-envies me, he always has. Ohh, he would stoop so low, sabotage!”
“Slipstream.”
“…No.”
Megatron inclines his helm. “I’m sorry, Star.”
“There’s been a m-mistake. Shadow Striker misunderstood, misreported it. There is simply no way…”
“Understandably, this is a lot for you to digest.”
Starscream pulls himself aside. “Slipstream wouldn’t do th-that.”
Leaving Megatron behind, reaching for him. “Star–”
“She has not a single traitorous circuit in her whole body! She’s too s-s-stupid and caring to betray me!”
“Star, listen.”
“No! She loves me! We were forged on the same day! I’ve known her my entire life!”
“Please.”
“I trust her implicitly, and I… I am not a fool! I will n-not be deceived! I will not be made the idiot, mocked and scorned! I am in command, I… I cannot even, right now! I cannot even!”
Megatron winces as Starscream storms out, kicking a nasty dent into a trash receptacle on the way.
“Fool, fool, f-fragging fool!”
“Star!”
The Captain rants and raves until the tremor leaves his vocal processor. “Thundercracker! Thrust! Inventory, now!”
They scramble to obey.
“Now, now, now!” A temper tantrum, as is the default when sass and intimidation tactics fail. “I want this place cleared out by morning!”
Morning is almost upon them.
So much for recharge. They will know no rest tonight.
Thankfully, reinforcements soon arrive, as promised. There is much movement by the time Slipstream drags Nova Storm within, discovering strangers throughout the airbase.
Starscream lives up to his name, shrieking orders at unimpressed mechs and femmes who work with the Seekers to empty out rooms, taking the barest minimum – all that is valuable and useful, leaving behind what is not. Personal effects, tragically, are not essentials. Relics of the lives that once called this home, will be left to gather dust, or to be seized.
“What’s happening?” Nova Storm drawls confusedly, her foggy optics following roving frames lugging equipment. “Oh, hey, I know that guy.”
“I’m not sure,” Slipstream murmurs, tense. “C’mon.” She drags the Seeker to her personal quarters.
“Shouldn’t I be helping, or something?”
“You need to sleep this off.” Slipstream finally puts Nova Storm to berth. “Take a detox in the morning, first thing. I’ll check in on you.”
“Okay. Love you, Slip.”
“I love you too, super-Nova.” The Seeker stoops, kissing the femme lightly upon her brow. “Recharge well.”
Nova Storm is already lost in sleep mode.
Slipstream sighs and leaves quietly. She follows a moving frame. “Um, excuse me, could you report what’s going on, here?”
The strange mech does not get a chance to explain.
“You.”
Slipstream turns sharply.
Starscream looks aggrieved. His optics are wild, manic.
“Oh! Captain, Sir!” She salutes him.
He looks at her strangely. “You,” he repeats, low and raspy. Menacing.
She feels her entire frame grow hot and tight.
“Is it true?”
“…Sir, I…”
“Tell me it’s not.”
Her mandible clenches handsomely.
“There has been an awful misunderstanding. Tell me that. It’s what I want to hear. It’s what I need you to say.”
She bows her helm in defeat.
He drags a palm over the bottom half of his face plate. “No,” comes out ever so quietly. “First, I gave Acid away. Now, I must reconsider you, as well. I do not want to believe it. I… I…”
“Please don’t have me decommissioned, Sir.”
He squeezes his optics shut.
“Please.”
“Never.”
She looks up.
“Never, ever, would I have suspected you.”
“Let me explain.”
“Of all my Seekers… I have depended on you the most intimately. I have given you more than any of the rest of them. Do you realise… how much I have trusted you?”
“Just listen to me!”
“You will hear me!”
Frames move around them, busy but curious.
“No, not you! Never you!” His optics open wide, burning. “You’re the responsible one! You always took care of me! I have needed you!”
Thundercracker and Thrust share the burden of a storage crate. They linger on the periphery, staring.
“Starscream – Star – I am taking care of you! I did this because I’m responsible!”
“I trusted you with my life, Slipstream! And you! You, would do this, to me?! After everything!”
“Your trust was never misplaced!”
“No. No!”
She flinches when he lunges for her.
Thundercracker drops the storage crate, sprinting to intercept.
Thrust bellows as his own grip fails him and a corner of the crate lands upon his pede.
It is too little, too late.
Starscream seizes Slipstream, pulling her close enough that their vents intermingle hot, recycled air, pressing his face into her neck. His arms crush her.
Her frame creaks and warnings flicker upon her HUD, but she offers no struggle. Her servos settle upon his back, caressing him.
Thundercracker skids to a halt just short of touching them. Partially out of sheer shock that their Captain would willingly hug anyone, and partially because Slipstream gives Thundercracker a look that tells him not to interfere.
She shakes her helm slowly. She will accept her punishment, but she will speak up for them all. “It’s madness, Star.”
Starscream makes a whimpering noise, muffled by the burly cables of her neck.
“I’m so worried about you.”
Thrust hops on over, grabbing Thundercracker and yanking him back. “Don’t get involved, dumbaft!”
“What’s happening?”
“Scrap if I know! C’mon!”
“No.” Starscream pulls back and peers miserably, furiously at Slipstream, not quite seeing her, peering through her. His expression is somehow still so glorious, twisted as it is. “I trusted you. I… have such feelings for you…”
“I did it for you!” she yells into his face plate, hovering inches from hers, flushed. “Aren’t you listening to me?! We can’t keep doing this, Star! You’ve lost your fragging mind, and it’s all because of him! He’s ruining you, he’s ruining us! I just want you back!”
Starscream opens and shuts his intake.
“I miss you.”
“…Justify yourself before me…”
“Oh, Primus, Star!”
“…Slipstream, I order you… I command you…” His optics flicker. His gaze is imploring and furious and hurt. He refocuses on her, briefly, then fades again. “…Obey… me…”
“You’ve gone mad with his influence. He’s twisted you. He’s using you. You know me, Star. I would never, ever betray you. Definitely not without really, really good reason to make me.”
“…It hurts…”
“I know, my love. It hurts me, too.” Slipstream cups Starscream’s face plate tenderly within her large, cumbersome servo. Her thumb caresses the twitch in his cheek.
He sniffles.
“It’s gonna be okay.”
He leans into her palm. Visibly gathers himself. Yanks his helm out of her grasp. “How dare you!”
She grunts as he shoves her, rather petulantly.
“You’re just envious of me!”
“What? No! I don’t want to be Captain, I’m not ambitious at all! I’m not a threat to you, Star!”
“Megatron understands me! He will restore our guild to glory, and I will command us! I will be the greatest Seeker of all! I will be instrumental to securing our future! We will rise again! Those who mocked us, who would consider us useless and stupid and unimportant, will be made to suffer! You’ll thank me, then! Fool! Ungrateful, selfish fool! I do this for you!”
“Selfish?” Slipstream slumps. “For me? But it’s always about you, isn’t it, Star.”
“Of course it is! I need this! I deserve it!” Starscream stamps his heel. “It is mine, mine, mine!”
“We’re all going to follow you, marching to his war,” she snarls back huskily, “where he’ll make us fight his battles, and some of us will probably die, but soldiers must make sacrifices, right? You can spare a few Seekers, soon as you’ve got Shockwave and Acid mass-producing us again. Our lives won’t matter, then. Disposable, replaceable. And you’ll get to be in charge of all that. Maybe you’ll have stories told about you for millions of years even when you’re gone. That’s the future you want for us.”
“Stop. Talking.”
“Did Jetfire’s parting words mean nothing? Have you forgotten all he said to us?”
The Captain stares at his Seeker. Twitching.
“We were never pawns to him. He wanted to disband us. Remember that? So we’d never be forced to fight someone else’s war ever again. It traumatised him so bad he quit.”
“You dare say his name.”
“But you… You begged him not to. Begged him to let you lead. Promised you’d guide us well, and that we’d be ceremonial reminders of the past. And you didn’t lie at the time. You were true to your word, for a long, long time.”
Starscream’s armoured plating creaks with the force of Slipstream’s grip as she grabs his hips, threatening to leave dents.
“You’ve forgotten yourself. You weren’t always like this. Eccentric and abrasive, sure, but never… like this. It’s Megatron. He did this to you, whatever it is. And I’m gonna help you, even if it gets me decommissioned. Because I love you.”
“Shut up.”
“I refuse, Star. I cannot command you, I am forbidden from reasoning with you, so what else could I do!”
“You shut up and do you job!”
“I did what I had to, if it meant I could save you from yourself.” Slipstream rests her helm into the crook of Starscream’s neck, now. “Please. Come back to me, Star. Stop him. Save us.”
Starscream’s Spark leaps within its chamber. But his brain module burns. His feelings and his thoughts twist altogether into an unrecognisable, unintelligible storm. It is terrifying and it hurts. “No, no, no.”
“I am sorry. But I had to.”
“You broke something within me.”
“I don’t mean to wound you, Star.” She has a very big, strong voice. She is a very big, strong femme. She could do him considerable harm. She already has. “I don’t care if I’m a weapon, and I was forged for war. I’m a femme, too, and I have needs, Star. Thoughts and feelings and friends, finally, and… I didn’t even know how starved I was for affection, for something domestic and blissful, until I met them. So, yeah. Maybe I am selfish. I’m responsible, and I could lose so much more than just you, and our Seekers, if we do go to war. Innocent people will be hurt.” Slipstream eases back again. “Do you want that on your conscience, Star?”
The Captain sinks against the Seeker.
“I know you’ve been lonely and sore for so, so long. I know your unhappiness eats away at you all the time. I know we Seekers can’t fix you. Nobody could help. Megatron knows it, too. Maybe he really does care for you, and his empathy is real. You deserve to be happy, Star. But is this really the only way forward?”
Faced with the prospect of self-reflection and finding flaws and sins and terrible mistakes, Starscream digs through the inferno and snatches a thread inside of himself that he can recognise, and when he finds it tolerable, he seizes it with everything he has. “…Slipstream.” Calm. Eerily calm.
“Starscream?”
“I am very disappointed in you.”
“I know.”
“You disobeyed me.”
“I did.”
“You sold us out to the enemy.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You intended to lie to my face, to all of us.”
“Only to protect you. Protect them.”
“You tried to derail my dreams.”
“His dreams.”
“Traitor.”
“It’s not too late to change your mind.”
“Ah, but I pity you. Your world is small, unimaginative, mundane. You only say these things because you are too simple-minded to understand the plans I have for you. You do not understand yet, but I will prove my worth to you.”
“You don’t need to do that. I already love you as you are. I follow you. Not him.”
“Hush, my dear.” Starscream pushes Slipstream away. “I am saving us. Oh, you poor, confused thing. You’ll see. Everyone will see… me. We Seekers will rule the skies, our numbers in the millions and more, and I, the most resplendent, will have all I deserve. Power. Privilege. Pleasure.”
“Please, just–”
“Oh. And you’re being reassigned, by the way.”
There is a terrible pause.
She stares at him. “Reassigned.”
“Yes.” He offers her his servo, casual and friendly.
She stupidly takes it without hesitation, trusting him as she is programmed to do. Resisting one’s programming is difficult. It requires great willpower, a strength of personality. The Spark, in defiance of the linked brain module.
“Consider this an opportunity to meditate on just how good you had it with us. On how you ruined everything.”
She sighs at length, without further fight left in her. “Is this reassignment… permanent?”
“No. And it is better than decommissioning you, is it not? I will take you back, because I am your Captain, and you are my Seeker. Always.”
“Thank you.”
“See, I am merciful, even to a traitor.” He plays familiarly with her digits, smiling lopsidedly at her, his optics wild and seared over. “Perhaps some time spent in drudgery will grant you the clarity to appreciate what I can give, and take away, as I choose.”
“I will do my best, to fulfil whatever station assigned to me.”
“Of course you will.” Suddenly, he drops her servo, smile gone. “You’ll receive the details of your new position shortly. I’m thinking that since Shadow Striker was the one to keep an optic on you, tonight, she ought to find plenty of satisfaction in seeing you squirm, tomorrow. She is deeply unpleasant, that one.”
Slipstream winces.
“In the meantime, help them pack.” Starscream turns and stalks off. “We’re moving out.”
“…Yes, Sir.”
“Are you certain you wish to witness this?”
“I’m your friend, Orion. Lemme be here for you.”
“Thank you, Bumblebee.”
The mechs greet the morning.
“We’ve got a little time before the meeting starts, right?”
“Indeed, we do.”
“How about some wheel-nuts with sprinkles?”
Orion rumbles with soft laughter, laying a servo upon Bumblebee’s pauldron. “My friend, you do have the brightest ideas, at the best of times.”
“I know, right! C’mon, I’m buying.”
Starscream seems totally fine. His capacity to bounce back is marvellous, and useful. He did not recharge a wink, and yet he has boundless energy. His self-confidence is staggering, seductive. He is manic, yet generally focused.
Megatron tries not to worry.
“Remember, darling. We’ve come prepared for this.”
“Always one step ahead.”
“Exactly.” The Captain saunters into the lift. He smiles up at the old gladiator, invitingly. “Come along, dear. Today’s the big day. Just this little hurdle, and then we’re breaking through. Exciting!”
Megatron sighs quietly to himself, bolsters his courage with a squaring of his broad pauldrons, then strides within the lift, thus sharing the enclosed space with Starscream.
“Where to?”
A massive digit trembles as it presses a button on the interface panel, causing the doors to seal their fate, beginning their gentle ascent.
“I know you dislike heights,” comes out conversationally. “Why does Orion insist on tall places?”
“Indeed. I have wondered that myself.”
“You’re quite safe.”
“I know.” Searing optics watch the world beyond the gleaming tube.
A fall like this would be fatal to most.
“Hmm.” Arms folded across a shapely chassis, Starscream leans back against the curve of a glossy, crystalline wall with an easygoing tilt of his helm. “But don’t forget,” he continues on with a wink, “you won’t be facing Orion alone this time, or the heights.”
“For you are with me.”
“In this arena, and the next, and so on.”
“You’re so good to me, Star.”
“I try! I’m sure my upgraded thrusters are powerful enough to catch you, should you fall, and if Orion even thinks of mistreating you in any way, I’ll–”
Megatron suddenly seizes Starscream by the neck, stooping to kiss the mech deeply and fiercely and territorially enough to have him mewling, dainty servos pawing stupidly at gunmetal grey, leaving fine scratches behind.
“Mmmmhmmph!”
The lift soon draws to a slow stop. A friendly, feminine pre-recorded voice announces that the desired floor as been reached moments before the gleaming doors slide open. A little ding of the bell encourages a prompt exit.
The mechs pry apart and attempt to compose themselves.
“You’ll be on your knees for me by today’s end, Megatron, dear. You owe me for that.”
“Of course. Anything for you, my shining Star.”
They join servos and walk side-by-side.
The arrow is almost silent.
The security mech collapses and drops like a stone.
Shadow Striker’s optic ridges rise.
“Okay,” Flamewar purrs to herself. “Too close to the Spark chamber. Out of practice. It’s okay.”
He is dragged neatly out of sight.
“Try again.”
Another security mech is downed almost without sound, mid-step, and quickly removed.
“Better.” Trembling with excitement, yet patiently rooted to her spot, she manages to obscure herself with a mirrored cloaking implant.
Who is she, Shadow Striker wonders. Not an amateur, and not known in mercenary circles. An assassin, perhaps.
Flamewar begged to come along and showed her compound bow much the same way a hopeful job applicant presents their credentials to get hired. And it worked.
Shadow Striker adored that weapon instantly. It is so archaic and ridiculous and beautifully lethal, how could she refuse? She can see the archer just fine, despite the cloak. The charged rifle the mercenary favours is a familiar and comforting weight, dependable, trusted. But she was intrigued by the two-wheeler from the moment they first met, delighting sullenly in the absurdity of a feisty little femme like Flamewar wielding a compound bow almost as long as she is tall. For Shadow Striker, that alone sealed the deal.
“Time to equalise. All the same.”
Another security mech is downed, none the wiser. He vanishes, dragged out of sight, paralysed or offline.
And by Primus, Shadow Striker must admit, Flamewar knows how to use it. It is not just a fashion statement, it is not a mere threat, it is not only for show. It kind of kicks aft, this experience – just getting to watch her work.
The Senators take their seats. Shuffling, gleaming shells of mechs and femmes, hollowed out and pampered.
Flamewar fragging hates them.
Shadow Striker just wants to get paid. “Slipstream,” she grunts into the comms, with Shockwave’s layers of added security for privacy, “are the charges set?”
“Last one… set.” Simple instructions, for a simple Seeker, dishonoured. Slipstream really hates her job. “Trigger’s ready.”
“Good. Get out of the way. Stealthily, remember.”
“Yes, Sir.” To her credit, she is being especially politely agreeable and obedient. Starscream must have torn her a new waste port.
Shadow Striker smiles grimly at that. She will take good care of this adorable, dumbaft little Seeker, forged too sweet for such a life.
“What is he doing here?” Starscream demands to know with a glower of utter loathing directed scathingly at Bumblebee. “The little grounder is utterly irrelevant! I insist that he be thrown out immediately!”
“Right back at you, jet,” replies the gutsy yellow mech with a huff, setting his palms on his hips before poking out his glossa at the affronted Seeker Captain. “Oh, and your boyfriend’s a grounder, too, by the way.”
“Why, you–”
Megatron holds up a commanding servo, silencing Starscream without a glance, ignoring Bumblebee entirely, optics fixed only on Orion.
“Thank you for agreeing to attend this meeting,” intones the former archivist in his calm cadence. But there is something about his posture that is different, this time.
“It is fine,” rumbles the retired gladiator, especially stoic and guarded. “I sensed its import. Let us begin.”
“Indeed. Please, be seated.”
“I opt to stand.”
“Very well, then.”
Bumblebee narrows his optics at Starscream, who sneers superiorly back. Frustratingly, the rebuilt flier is utterly gorgeous, easily desirable even when he pulls such a cruel facial expression, an outward reflection of his inner ugliness.
“I understand that you intend to mobilise against the Senate. That you are prepared to do so soon. That you are willing, and able, to use force.”
“You are accusing me of treachery. Treason.”
“Is it true?”
Megatron leans in, peering closely at Orion. “What do you think?”
The former archivist does not so much a flicker.
The retired gladiator inclines his helm a little to the left, leaning over the long table to bear down on his closest friend.
“I did not – I do not wish to believe it.”
“Oh. Of course not. You have always given me the benefit of the doubt. I am so problematic.”
“Please, do not jest. Our prior discourse indicated that your intentions could turn to acts of violence, and your influence has inspired violence in others. I warned you, as you will recall. You walk a doomed path.”
“You did tell me. I am not as anxious as you. I will give my all, to save you.”
“This is not salvation.”
“You do not see it, now, but you will. Inevitably. All will see.”
“You are deluded, old friend.”
“Mmhm.”
“Distorted by your own suffering. You had such nobility. I fell in love with you because of it.”
Megatron softens by a fraction. “Do you… no longer see it? My inward nobility.”
“I know the good that is within you. I appeal to you, again.”
A battle-scared countenance flinches.
Orion’s optics are begging.
Bumblebee watches Starscream squirm. Relishing in it.
“I want only what is best for you.” Orion sighs heavily. “I have only desired to see you at your best. This… is not what I intended, for you. This is not the way.”
Megatron exhales hard from his vents, his cheek quivering with emotion he is barely containing.
“You cannot do this, old friend,” pleads the former archivist, reaching for the retired gladiator’s scuffed servo. “Please. Do not do this.”
“…I’m sorry.”
“Old friend.”
“I regret that you will be wounded. But I promise you, it will be to your benefit, it time. I do this for you.”
“So it is true. You really are going through with it.”
“I must. Your efforts at persuading me otherwise are futile. But the fact that you are still trying… I propose a counter-offer. Perhaps I was too emotional, before. I am calmer, now.”
“No. Please, no.”
Megatron kisses Orion’s servo.
Starscream looks away, grinding his dentas.
Bumblebee huffs.
“Join me. We can still be one. I know I told you, that we must part ways, before. I was… speaking out of a place of fear.”
“You fear nothing.”
“That is untrue.” Megatron gazes upon Orion, stroking his digits intimately. “My history as an entertainer is violent. Of course I am fit for no better. Violence begot my freedom. It will free others in my stead. This generates fear, and awe. I know this.”
“Never. You will fail.”
“Do not be a fool, old friend. I know it. It is true. My Spark still dwells in the arena. My thoughts are weapons. I am charismatic enough to instil violence in the Sparks of the miserable masses, because they know my pain. I speak for them, the silenced, the ignored. So many have suffered. I owe them salvation. I fear letting them wither away. And I fear losing you.”
“Then come back to me,” Orion pleads, squeezing Megatron’s digits.
“Your way is tedium and throttled with waste of time, designed to inconvenience the common mech and femme, for the benefit of the power structures already firmly established to lord over us. We wait not for blessings and grace from the higher powers, should they feel generous at any given time. We will take it for ourselves and make it our own.”
“You will bring destruction!”
“Yes, I intend to destroy every skewed system our masters put in place.” Megatron drops Orion’s servo, stepping away, returning to Starscream’s side. “And I will destroy the oppressors. They cannot be left to rebuild. They will go back to their parasitic ways eventually. It is inevitable.”
Bumblebee and Starscream no longer look at one another. Their optics are on Orion and Megatron.
“I only wish you could see things as I do. This is necessary.”
“It will be your downfall! It is a tragedy to even consider it. Throughout history, many great mechs and femmes have fallen to–”
“Ugh. Not this lecture, again.”
“Innocents will be harmed!”
“Casualties are to be expected. It is for the greater good. I want you to accept that. I do this for you, for us, for everyone. And yes, I have given it some thought, since the Senate last spurned me for your speech. I was emotional, then. I lashed out. But I implore you, now, in calm, collected in my senses and resolved in what I shall soon do.”
“Megatron.”
“Join me.
“I cannot!”
“Perhaps in time, you will give it some thought as well, Orion. Reconsider this.”
“It is you who has been misled.”
“Disappointing. But I meant what I just said. I am not angry at you, old friend. Perhaps you do not see it yet, but in time you may be persuaded, yourself.” Megatron rubs his brows, straightening his back. “We will be forced to go our separate ways, but let me keep that door open to you. You need only keep an open mind and–”
“Never!”
“Never, Orion?”
“Never, Megatron.” The former archivist rises from his chair with a grimace, optics burning. “Not so long as you walk this path. I cannot follow.”
“Then stay away.”
“I will not do that.”
The retired gladiator inclines his helm grimly. “Then oppose me.”
Orion trembles like he has not trembled before.
Bumblebee is frightened just because of it.
“That is the tragedy I fear the most. I am truly sorry, if it must come to that. But I owe this world my life. And in my Spark, I will leave a place for you, the great mech you always were to me.”
Orion stares Megatron down.
“Do you intend to do something about it, here and now, my friend? Or are we finished?”
“I am sorry, too. I hope you can forgive me, eventually.”
“Likewise. Enough talk, then.” Megatron goes to release the doors. “Star, come.”
“Yes, my–”
The doors slide apart. Prowl, Strongarm and other police officers bar the way in bulky frames of blue and white.
Starscream sneers. “Oh, joy. He really went to the cops.”
“We’ve got a confession of future intent on record,” Prowl intones brusquely. “It’s over.”
Megatron is about to reply.
There is a terrible, echoing boom, in the near distance.
They all turn their helms and stare at a column of fire.
“Primus!”
Megatron smiles aside, at Starscream, who smirks back.
“The Grand Imperium,” Orion gasps, throwing back his chair, pressing his face plate to the crystalline window. “No!”
“Fewer parasites, leeching off the world.”
Bumblebee shudders, cupping his face plate in horror beside Orion.
“You hoped to trick me. An ambush. Well.”
“Megatron, what have you done?”
“This is goodbye, for now.”
“Enough.” Prowl steps forward. “Come quietly.” Stasis cuffs ready. “Servos up.”
Strongarm and her fellow officers form a wall of living metal, drawing closer, imposing.
“I won’t be surrendering.” Megatron looks to Starscream. “Will you, dear?”
“Of course not, my love.”
“With me, then.”
“With you.”
They smile at each other.
Prowl seizes Megatron. Grossly unprepared.
Orion and Bumblebee share an expression of horror.
In an instant, Prowl falls back into Strongarm’s chassis. Her superior officer suddenly has a fist-sized crater where his breastplate once was, crumpled gruesomely inwards, buckling upon his Spark chamber.
Reflexively, everyone takes a step back.
“Get down!”
Megatron kneels, covering his helm.
A flurry of missiles fire outwards from Starscream with that raspy cackle that makes him sound mad. The windows shatter from the force that sends frames tumbling, furniture overturned, scattering shimmering crystalline shards into the gaps between armoured plates.
Orion shelters Bumblebee bodily.
Megatron withstands the blast on his own.
“Here!”
He rises again. Turns toward the voice.
“Come to me!” Starscream hovers in place, servos outstretched.
It is a long way down.
As Orion helps Bumblebee stand, so Megatron swallows his discomfort for heights.
“I’ve got you!”
“I know.” He steps into nothingness, tips forward, and almost yells as he falls into his lover’s embrace.
Orion and Bumblebee sprint for the open space, stopping short of falling.
Starscream was right about his thrusters, as it turns out.
Megatron hides his face plate reflexively, buried in a burning chassis, and allows himself to be rescued by a considerably slighter mech. It could be very romantic if he were not genuinely uncomfortable.
Chapter 14: Horror
Summary:
Slipstream is directly exposed to death and dying for the first time in her life, a horror she has helped shape under Shadow Striker's guidance, requiring a living captive to be taken to a secret place that will be the Seeker's home and base of operations where she meets the rest of her new squad: the sultry and ambitious Thunderblast, the stoic old soldier Demolishor, and the off-kilter Flamewar. In the aftermath of the escaped Megatron's designs with Starscream's assistance, the unqualified and uncertain Orion Pax must assume leadership of shattered people. The friends all huddle together for comfort, Bumblebee saying the quiet part out loud. Shockwave experiments with the forbidden process of thawing Sparks and implanting them within mass-produced frames, thus beginning the process of constructing an army of soldiers - Megatron's army.
Notes:
I may be very busy this coming week, so I'm pushing this chapter out a day early. I hope you enjoy it!
Possible trigger warnings: a brief description of gore on account of Prowl’s injuries and Flamewar’s tendency to collect trophies off of her kills, references to trauma both individual and shared after experiencing social tragedy directly and indirectly, and Thundercracker finally realises what existential dread is with implications of sleeping as suicide.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The Grand Imperium erupts, and collapses, in smoke and fire and screams.
The voices are cut off with the barks of an energy rifle. As a professional courtesy, Shadow Striker does not leave them to suffer for long. The fallen frames are summarily executed.
Flamewar has disappeared, dragging a security mech behind the rubble with her.
Slipstream’s punishment today is to serve as the dumb muscle, it would seem. She advances on the fallen Senator still left alive, with reluctance.
“N-no! Wait!”
The Seeker is huge and easily overpowering by comparison.
“Please! Don’t hurt me!”
“I’m sorry.”
He drags himself away, until his ornate helm bumps against the pedestal of a torn statue. There he cowers, shielding his face with a scrawny arm. “I h-have a family!”
She hesitates. Softens. Sighs. Stoops, presses the taser to his fragile frame, and pulls the trigger.
He jerks horribly, choking, exhaling steam.
She stuns him until he is forced to shut down to preserve his brain module. Then she binds his wrists and ankle joints and hefts him over her pauldron. “Target’s secured, Sir.” Looks to her commanding officer, grim and resigned. “Ready for extraction.”
“Good.” Shadow Striker nods once. “Come.” Gestures impatiently.
“Yes, Sir.” Slipstream obeys.
“Flamewar! We’re done, here.”
“Just a second! Slippery little fraggers…”
“That’s an order, not a suggestion!”
“Okay! I goddit! Coming!” Flamewar hurries back to the other femmes, her servos dripping with Energon, something glistening cupped delicately within her lethal talons. “Sorry! Guess I’ll save these for later, then, since we’re in a rush.”
“What’ve you got there?” asks Shadow Striker, instantly suspicious.
“Optics.”
“What?”
“Here,” Flamewar purrs eagerly, presenting her cupped palms for their appraisal. “Look. Aren’t they pretty?”
Slipstream goes deathly pale and twists away, lurching as she stoops to catch herself on her knee, the unconscious senator flopping precariously atop her pauldron as she lets out the most horrendous noises with each violent wretch.
Shadow Striker leans in, peering closely at the disembodied optics in Flamewar’s servos with grim curiosity. “A trophy?”
“He humiliated me. I was gonna eat them, warm. But now you mention it, yeah, I’m reconsidering. I just might keep them instead. They really are beautiful.”
“Heeeuuugh!”
“Remind me not to humiliate you in the future. You are absolutely not keeping those.”
“But–”
“Drop them. Now.”
“Aw, c’mon!”
“That’s an order. You’re upsetting Slipstream.”
“Ugh! Yes, Sir.”
“We’ve lost enough time to this… diversion.” Shadow Striker takes point, shaking her helm, sighing. “Get moving, ladies. Make sure we’re not being tailed.”
“Y-yes, Sir.” Slipstream stumbles to follow, lugging the Senator.
Flamewar follows up the rear, a bit irritable.
“…What do optics taste like?” the mercenary finally asks with her rifle holstered, still grimly curious.
“They’re really bitter,” replies the bike, her compound bow folded neatly within her frame, discrete. “They go great in a tall glass of Engex.”
“Heeeuuugh!” comes out hoarsely from the Seeker, stumbling along.
Shadow Striker winds up patting Slipstream brusquely on the back as they make their escape, Flamewar activating a blanket cloak to obscure their departure.
The attack happened so suddenly, and the entire ordeal only lasted a few minutes.
They are gone by the time help arrives.
“You okay, Nova?”
“No, Thunder. I’m not. Not even a little bit.”
“Me, neither.”
Nova Storm opens her arms for a hug. “But I have you.”
“You’ve got me.” Thundercracker presses himself into her.
Thrust says nothing. Peers at unfamiliar walls, like they could be listening, watching. He is guarding his trinemates.
“But I’m scared we’ll never be okay again.”
“Please don’t talk like that.”
“Sorry.”
Acid Storm is not here.
Slipstream is not here.
Starscream is not here.
Jetfire is not here.
“I just wanna sleep, Nova. I just… I wanna cuddle with you guys, and sleep it all away, sleep it all okay again, and when I wake up… it will be like it once was. Just a bad dream.”
“It’s almost a miracle he survived,” Ratchet intones lowly. “Megatron nearly breached Prowl’s Spark chamber with sheer blunt force trauma. Those triple-reinforced combat frames are no joke, and even then, it was a close call. But he’ll pull through.”
“Thank you,” Orion murmurs, optics upon Prowl, who is sprawled out upon the medical berth with his chassis undergoing careful reconstruction, peacefully unconscious. “I underestimated Megatron. This… was my doing.”
“That sort of talk isn’t helping anyone,” grumbles Ratchet good-naturedly. He is a bit on the rough side, but he cares deeply.
“You are correct. But I will need to reassess the situation. I think… I will seek counsel from one wiser than I.”
Strongarm’s stocky frame bears only minor scrapes and a few dents, simple cosmetic work that a kindly medic is attending to upon another berth.
Bumblebee is almost untouched, thanks to Orion shielding him with his own body. The little mech has been dismissed and firmly instructed to seek rest. He wades through a sea of reporters baying for a grim story to tell, held back by security mechs and police officers. Nobody bothers to ask him, nobody cares that he was there.
They want Orion.
Windblade holds Bumblebee’s servo and takes him home.
“Under the old war memorial?” Slipstream murmurs with disgust. “Seriously?”
“Exactly. Nobody would think the look for us here. And the maintenance tunnels are never used, anyway. The memorial is a dump, now.”
“Still…”
“It works for our purposes. Barely. Power’s been a slag to sort out.” Shadow Striker takes the lead, as usual. “We’ve rigged everything we need so it’s all easy to scuttle in a hurry, and it’s simple enough to secure in a stand-off. We can make supply runs when we have to, and nobody knows where we come from, or where we’re going. If we ever do get found out, the enemy has to filter in one at a time, easy pickings.” She scoffs. “I’ve bunkered down in some hovels in my time, but this is a real hole. Megatron’s other hideouts are way nicer. Lucky fraggers.”
“Gotta admit, our recharge room and mess hall in particular suck major ball-bearings,” drawls Flamewar, furthest at the back. “But we’ve got a wicked armoury. I keep it real nice. That’s my domain.”
“We’ll drag a few luxuries down here, in time. Improve the atmosphere or whatever. It’s a work in progress.”
“I wanna rig up a spot for some Dead-Dark-Drone.”
“You play?”
“Yeah, Sir, do you?”
“Sometimes.”
“Nice.”
“It’s sacrilege!”
“It’s survival.”
“Sir! This is incredibly disrespectful! We’re desecrating–”
Shadow Striker turns her handsome helm and looks back over her pauldron, scope rolling in its socket a moment later, peering hot and wide. And then it narrows into an utterly terrifying pinprick of piercing light.
Slipstream tenses all over, transfixed.
“We’re desecrating nothing.”
Flamewar sucks in air, grimacing. For once, she is glad to be small, easily overlooked.
“I fought in that war. A memorial doesn’t mean a fragging thing to the leftovers like me. It stands to commemorate the feeling it inspires civilians to feel for dead soldiers, and it’s a talking point for politicians who rigged the system to set up those celebrated soldiers to die. That’s it.” Shadow Striker looks ahead again. “Nothing to desecrate.”
“You’re a veteran,” Slipstream says very softly.
“Yeah, you could call me that.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to–”
“Scrap me!” mutters Flamewar with an impressed whistle. “How old are you, Sir? ’Cause you sure don’t look your age!”
Shadow Striker is silent, striding ahead.
Slipstream is still deathly pale. She winces as she follows after her commanding officer.
Flamewar takes up the rear of their procession.
Their secret headquarters expand within an old network built underground. In the constraints of the tunnels, they can only travel in a line, not side-by-side.
The Senator almost scrapes the ceiling.
“Secure the prisoner in here,” Shadow Striker eventually instructs, leading Slipstream into a dingy, unassuming little room, Flamewar peering inside with a whistle.
“Cozy,” the bike murmurs. “Just like the rest of this slaghole.”
“Yes, Sir.” The Seeker, a femme of the air, hates her surroundings already. She sets the unconscious Senator upon the welded chair, a recent modification which indicates that this room has had its purpose changed rather sinisterly, then shackles him in place. “Should I stand guard?”
“No, I’ve got other scrap to keep you busy with.” The mercenary grunts. “I’ll have guards take shifts. You’re due for an orientation.”
Slipstream gives Shadow Striker an adorably cautious nod.
Flamewar giggles softly at that.
The mercenary grunts, slaps the Seeker’s burly forearm in an oddly affectionate manner, then nods aside with a grim smirk. “Follow me.”
“Yes, Sir.”
The reinforced door seals itself, then locks with a heavy mechanism.
“Flamewar, attend to the armoury. I want that inventory revised in the hour. And send Demolishor over. He gets first shift.”
“Sure thing, boss bot.” The bike salutes, then saunters off, humming.
“And wash your servos before you touch anything!”
“Will do!”
“Are we really leaving her with the guns?” Slipstream mumbles as she follows Shadow Striker down another branching tunnel. “She seems… um… unstable.”
“Oh, she’s fragging nuts.” A silky chuckle. “But I’m mostly impressed with her, so far. She definitely has the combat prowess to be something special. She just needs direction.” A backwards glance. “As for you. I need to talk to you – in private.”
The Seeker flinches at the back of the mercenary’s helm, following obediently in her sauntering wake.
“No need to panic. It’s just a little chat.”
“Okay, Sir.”
“And I’ll have someone show you around. Get you settled in all nicely and whatever. I’m not the worst boss. We’re a merry bunch, down here, in the Pits.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
“You’ve very welcome.”
They come upon another room.
“In here.”
“Yes, Sir.”
They step into what looks like an office.
Shadow Striker seals them in, slamming her fist into a grimy button that slides a reinforced door into place.
Slipstream is cast in dim, fuzzy industrial lighting. She is big enough to be imposing, and yet finds that the other femme is actually a bit taller.
“Full disclosure. I reported you to Megatron last night,” says the mercenary in a level undertone, plainly. Professionally courteous, at best. “If you’ve got a problem with me, we settle it here and now. Then we move on and focus on what’s ahead of us. Goddit.”
“There’s no problem, Sir.” The Seeker sighs quietly. “I don’t blame you.”
“Good. I’m no fan of Scream, I didn’t do it for him. I’m not exactly in love with Megatron, either. This is work, work that pays. It ensures I’ll be profitable for the long haul.” Shadow Striker’s unblinking scope is alight, glowing against her helm and the angle of her cheek, creeping hot down her sharp jawline. “I’ve got no hard feelings for you. I wasn’t aiming to hurt you somehow. But you could’ve risked my pay-day, my future career, and I can’t let that scrap slide. You understand, right.”
“Yes, Sir. I apologise.”
“Don’t be sorry. Femmes like me aren’t good for much else. That’s not your fault. I gotta be careful.”
Slipstream frowns softly. “That’s very unkind, Sir.”
“It’s just a fact.” The mercenary shrugs. “Not much work going for a hired gun, nowadays. The transferable skill-set doesn’t lend itself well to civilised living. Can you imagine me working as a data pusher, in a shiny little office somewhere, making small-talk next to the Energon dispenser?”
The Seeker lowers her gaze. Reluctantly, she giggles at the mental image.
“Yeah, exactly.”
“Would you wear formal kibble if you worked some place upmarket, Sir?”
“I’d look good. And hate every moment of it.”
There is a pause. The levity does not entirely dissipate. It only dims.
“Are you going to punish me, Sir?”
“He threw you to me like scrap. Just being here, stuck with me, is your punishment.” Shadow Striker chuckles softly. “He thinks I’m awful.”
“I mean, I don’t think so. You seem… nice, in a scary way.”
“Well, I’m not.” A smirk. “That’s real cute of you, to try buffer me up, though.”
A flush. “I’m being sincere.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yes, Sir. I just don’t know you very well, yet.” Slipstream sighs, rubbing her neck. “But Bee liked you, and Windblade wanted to. So… I want to like you, too.”
The old mercenary softens.
“I miss them all the time,” mumbles the Seeker. “My best friends.”
Shadow Striker is not built for comfort.
Slipstream does not expect to be comforted.
Still, one femme reaches for the other, squeezing her pauldron reassuringly. “I need you and I to be able to work together. We did okay, today. Can we do it again, tomorrow?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“No problems?”
“No problems.”
“Perfect.”
Slipstream stiffens when Shadow Striker draws a little closer, which is a lot closer when two large femmes are crammed together in a modest office space.
“And I wanna thank you.”
“Thank me, Sir?”
The mercenary offers a servo.
The Seeker hesitantly accepts it.
They shake firmly.
“You stood up for Bumblebee. It was sweet of you, warning him like that, and I appreciate it. Really, I do. I don’t want him getting hurt, same as you.”
“Oh. Of course. I love him.”
“Don’t get mushy about it. Primus.” Shadow Striker’s scope twinkles, whirring in its socket. “You value your friends more than you value your station, your lifestyle. You’d risk everything you have, all you are, as a Seeker… to protect the people you care about. You don’t have a mercenary mindset like I do. And you don’t quite fit in with the Seeker flock. You’re… interesting.”
“I chose my friends.” Slipstream frowns handsomely. “I didn’t choose to be forged a Seeker. My friends make me happy. Being a Seeker does not.”
“Ah, I see.” The mercenary smiles in her weird way. “You finally got a say in something, and you acted on the chance to be heard for once. Self-actualisation. Free will.”
“It wasn’t quite like that, Sir. Or… maybe it was.” The Seeker contemplates their joined servos. “I dunno.”
“So, then,” Shadow Striker purrs. “You’re sweet and stupid, but you’ve got soul.”
Slipstream smiles ruefully back. “Yes, Sir.”
“I kinda like that about you. I can respect that, about you.” The mercenary squeezes the Seeker’s servo, then finally lets go. “So long as you don’t stab me in the back. Seriously. Don’t do that. It’ll end very badly for you. I hold a grudge forever and I will come for you, in ways you’ll regret.”
Slipstream flushes, rubs her neck. “Uh, I’m not actually treacherously inclined, Sir. This was deeply out of character, for me. I was desperate.”
“Okay. Then it’s settled.” Shadow Striker smirks in the poor lighting, sinisterly handsome. “I can put my trust in you, soldier.”
“Of course, Sir. I’ll do my best to serve you.”
“Good girl.”
Silence, for some time.
“…Sorry, was that too much?”
“…No, I kinda liked that, actually.”
“Well, if I ever make you feel uncomfortable, just say so. I push buttons, I test boundaries. It’s who I am, and I don’t make any excuses for being an afthole. Same goes for my guys.” Shadow Striker taps Slipstream’s chassis, to punctuate. “Don’t take anybody’s scrap, don’t start any fights, keep your helm down and work hard. We’re all stuck down here, together. We’ve all gotta get along. We’re all just pretending to know what we’re doing. I gave everybody else the same lecture I’m giving you.”
“I understand, Sir,” says the Seeker, handsomely docile.
“So mild-mannered.” The mercenary tilts her helm. “I knew a few Seekers before, in the last war. Good mechs and femmes, they were, but full of scrap. Endless trouble. Fun.” A faraway gaze, reminiscing. “They’re all offline, now.”
“Mm. Flamewar said it, first, Sir. You’re older than you look.”
“I’ve had a little work done.”
Slipstream manages a feeble grin.
Shadow Striker winks back. Or blinks. Ever a mystery. Just how the femmes like it. “I’m so glad we had this chat.”
“Me, too.”
“But I really should put you to work. Something I can slip in before you take the grand tour.”
“Anything, Sir. Whatever you want me to do for you, I’ll do my best.”
“Oh, I could think of a few things.”
The Seeker flushes.
The mercenary remains effortlessly cool.
Slipstream finds herself alone with Shadow Striker in her dingy little office with the door sealed shut on them, the Seeker pardoned, yet at the mercenary’s odd mercy. It is undeniably a suggestive scenario.
The silence is telling.
“…Well, um.”
“…You any good at data entry?”
“Oh! Yes. I filled in the Seekers’ reports all the time, kept the archives up to date, did all the cataloguing, and so on.”
“Perfect. I fragging hate datawork, myself.”
Slipstream chews her derma when Shadow Striker brushes past her all too casually in the cramped space.
“Here.”
The Seeker is sat down with datapads at a terminal, squeezed in a corner of the room, separate from her superior officer’s desk.
“This’ll bore you half to death.” The mercenary leans her hip on said desk, arms folded impressively over her armoured bosom. “Simple enough that a drone could do it. But I won’t. And I need it done today. Megatron wants to do some reading.”
“Honestly, Sir,” Slipstream intones with a tired smile, “I’m a little stressed right now, so I’d appreciate boredom and simplicity for a change. Leave it all to me.”
Shadow Striker chuckles.
Windblade, Hot Rod and Arcee rub Bumblebee’s pauldrons, his back, his arms, his cheeks, murmuring reassuring nonsense that he absorbs but barely reacts to.
Grimlock shakes his helm when Chromia looks to him for wisdom, always the outsider here on Cybertron, and he cannot console her with his reasonable arguments and good cheer.
Wheeljack stares out a window, eerily silent, his unusually serious optics following a plume of smoke that has yet to dissipate, even with the fires quelled hours ago.
“I overheard a medic, talking to one of the cops,” Bumblebee croaks quietly. “No survivors, one missing. When I checked the news, I saw… I saw…”
“Bee.”
“Oh, Primus!” He buries his face plate in his palms. “It was awful!” Traumatised by today.
His friends collectively scoop him up. A shared trauma.
“What if it happens again? How’re we supposed to live like this, so… scared?”
“Ugh. It’s diluted. You can barely taste the Energon. And there’s this undercurrent of… artificiality. Like it was engineered in a lab or something.”
“Shuddup and consume your ration, Flamewar, or give it over to a comrade who will,” drones Shadow Striker, sipping her own share with grimace. “Eugh.” She shudders all over, rather comically.
“I’ll have it, please!”
“Back off, Demolishor. You can barely fit down here as it is and you already get double rations, you don’t gotta scoff my stuff, too.”
“Hey!” The hulking mech winces. “Frame-shaming isn’t cool, Flamewar. That really hurt.”
“Look at me. I’m small. You think I don’t know that? I get made fun of all the time! It’s hard, being a bike.”
“Adding more wrongs, won’t make anything right.”
The femme sighs as she takes in his wounded expression, relenting. “Actually, I was being mean, just now. I apologise.”
“Oh, it’s okay. You didn’t really mean it.” He smiles cheerfully, the forgiving sort. “I know it comes from a place of hurt and frustration deep inside you. You lash out on reflex.” His massive servo, comprising of hollow digits that can supply heavy firepower, offer a fond pat on her helm, almost smothering her in the process. “You’re really nice most of the time.”
Shadow Striker sips from her pressurised canteen, peering at the other mechs and femmes under her command in this branch of Megatron’s army. A generally hopeless lot.
“Where’s this stuff coming from, anyway?” demands Thunderblast with a pretty huff, pushing over her share towards Demolishor with a sneer of revulsion. She is fond of him, however.
“Aw, yeah, thanks!” He happily accepts the extra fuel his hungry frame requires to function.
“I mean, really, Sir. It’s bad enough I’m stuck down here in the gloom, now I’ve got to sustain myself on this?”
“If you don’t like it, there’s the door.”
“I’m not a quitter, Sir. And not to be a total downer, either, but Flamewar’s right. It does taste like it came from a lab.” Thunderblast gives Shadow Striker a gorgeous frown, very manipulative. “It’s seriously low-grade. Like, eew. We deserve better.”
“It’s so eew,” echoes Flamewar. She attempts to mimic Thunderblast’s gorgeous frown, at Shadow Striker’s expense.
The mercenary tries not to smile. Mostly succeeds. “Well, it did come from a lab. Shockwave’s our supplier.”
Thunderblast and Flamewar exchange a look.
“Um. Like, the guy who invented dancing drones?”
“And only talks in monotone? Also, he kinda doesn’t have a face?”
“That’s the mech,” mutters Shadow Striker, shrugging, clearly a professional, yet not entirely impervious to attractive femmes. “His recipe, apparently.”
The bike and the boat exchange another look.
“That weirdo’s been feeding us? No wonder it tastes off.”
“He’s, like, so creepy, though! What if he’s slipping something nasty into our supply? Eew!”
“You can say that again. Guy gives me major spooks. Eew.”
“It’s full of minerals.” The mercenary smirks, faintly amused. “It’s good for you. Be grateful.”
“It’s full of scrap, if you ask me.” Thunderblast inspects her digits.
“Then go hungry.”
“Humph. You’re so mean. Good thing you’re such a hunk, and you just exude strength. So I guess I’ll forgive you.”
“And I’m your superior officer.”
“That, too. That’s the best part.”
Flamewar folds her arms on the bare table and flops forward with a dull thud. “Ow.”
“I like the dancing drones,” Slipstream mumbles, as her rare and rather delayed contribution to the chatter. “But this is kinda gross.” An apologetic glance. “Sorry, Sir. I’ll finish my share. No waste.”
“See? Our newbie gets it.” Thunderblast huffs prettily. “Fliers have very refined tastes. Like that dreamy Captain Starscream, for instance.” A shuddering sigh. “He’s sooo refined. Mmm.”
“Do you… know him, personally?”
“Unfortunately, I don’t. Hey, but you do! You’re a Seeker, right?”
“I was forged one, yes.”
“Well, perfect! Help a femme out? Introduce us sometime, girlfriend! I wanna seduce him and make him mine. I love a powerful mech. And a powerful femme, too. Can’t resist!”
“Okay, uh, I’ll see what I can do. I’m not sure he’s… available, however.”
“Thanks, sweetie! I’ll make him available.” Thunderblast winks. She is truly a beautiful femme. Clearly used to getting her way. She has tried flirting with Shadow Striker to get special favours ever since getting assigned this post, with some success.
Slipstream flushes and hastily dismisses a prompt in her HUD inviting her to open her spike chute for immediate pressurisation. “Ohh, um, you’re so confident.” A crooked smile. “I wish I had half your courage. Heh.” Not a lie.
“Nah, you’ve got the whole mostly tough but kinda sensitive and adorably shy thing going on. It suits you.” An enchanting giggle. “You’re big and you seem kinda dumb, too. I like that in a femme.”
“Thanks?”
“I can already tell we’re gonna be best gal pals, for sure. Like me and Flamewar. Right, sweetie?”
“Mmhm.”
“You ever been forced to siphon inner Energon from a corpse, just to survive?” Shadow Striker asks suddenly, not directing the absurd, disturbing question at anyone specifically. Just addressing the entire room.
The mess hall descends into silence.
Even Demolishor pauses, stunned, staring.
“I have.”
Flamewar lifts her helm from the nest of her folded arms and slowly turns to behold Shadow Striker with burning interest, grinning, fanged. “I like you a lot, Sir. You are just the baddest.”
“I know. You would say that, you little maniac.”
“I mean, I’ve tasted a mech’s inner Energon, before,” Thunderblast speaks up, after a moment of recollection. “Just a little lick. Just once.”
“Uh, how’d that happen?” asks Slipstream, intrigued despite herself.
“He asked me to bite him in a tender spot until he bled. So, I did.”
“Ooh!” Flamewar looks delighted. “Did you like it?”
“Nah, I didn’t really go for it, personally. But he had fun. See, I’m a skilled and generous lover. I’ll try most things once, if it makes them overload.” Thunderblast taps her chin, smiling in remembrance of a past tryst. “Ah, I was crazy, back then.”
“Are you still crazy, now?”
“Sometimes! I dated this guy just a few months back, he was into some kinky stuff. A tank. Not very bright, of course. Gorgeous aft. His spike was so huge. Like, huge-huge. And I could shove my whole fist up his valve, easy. He used to beg me to beat him up in berth. So, I did!”
“Nice!”
“It didn’t last long, though.”
“Why not?”
“He got demoted. Kinda lost interest after that.”
Slipstream looks at Demolishor, who has resumed happily chugging on extra Energon, and sighs. At least he seems nice and not too wild for her to process.
“Captain!”
Starscream smiles wearily. “Hello, darlings. Did you miss me terribly?” Scuffed and dented and drained.
The Seekers scramble to embrace him, adorably eager.
He allows it. He relishes it, even. “Ohh.” His voice warbles. “So tired. My… Seekers.” Just in time, as it turns out. He sags in their arms, his optics fluttering offline, and shuts down promptly. He would collapse if not for their support.
Megatron winces.
“He certainly looks worse for wear,” croons Soundwave with his servos upon his hips, visor inclined with humour. “Nothing a little touch-up and some Energon patches cannot cure. I’ll take care of him for you, Sir. Relax.”
“Thank you. I owe him my life. Please, treat him appropriately.”
“Understood.”
“Seekers!”
They jerk, optics on Megatron.
“Attend to your Captain, make him comfortable. Assist Soundwave in all he requires of you.”
“Yes, Sir!” they chorus stupidly, dragging Starscream between themselves.
Soundwave saunters leisurely before the ensemble, chuckling quietly to himself. As the communications officer, he maintains excellent equipment, and was kind enough to teach Megatron how to utilise it.
“Shockwave, do you read?”
“Affirmative,” comes a low, monotone drone from the other side of the secured comms. “You are functional. As I anticipated.”
“It has been… a long and stressful day. I got your report. I apologise for the delayed response. You have had a breakthrough, yes?”
“Indeed. The Spark has been successfully implanted. It did not dissipate, this time, and remained stable in the chamber. The raw protoform is tempering within the mould as we speak. All readings are optimal. This is promising.”
“Excellent. I anticipate a successful forging, then.”
“Success is logical. I have accounted for all known variables, and there are further plans in place.”
“Mmm. Considering the minimal resources and lack of equipment at your disposal, you have done well. Both of you. You have my gratitude, and my respect.”
“I will convey that to Acid Storm. They will be pleased with your assessment.”
“Do so. But your work has only just begun.”
“Affirmative.”
“Whilst those fools are distracted and panicked, you will seize the secret means of cold production. Restore the lost art. I will hold off any resistance in the meantime, and redirect the enemy’s focus, to bide you a little more time. Do not hesitate, make no delay.”
“Understood, Sir.”
“Oh, the glory that awaits you. Your intellect, your focus, your drive, will bring you honour and greatness in the coming ages.”
“Platitudes acknowledged. Dispensing approximate gratitude.”
“With this swelling army, I will crush the spinal struts of the oppressors. I will drive their faces into the dirt. They will bow before us, in shame. Our wrath will be terrible. Our victory will gleam like a sword that falls upon the necks of–”
Shockwave turns to Acid Storm. Rolls his optic with a low sigh, to which they smile.
The day reaches its conclusion.
Shadow Striker decides and directs the recharge cycles. They take it in turns due to limited resources necessitating that the recharge slabs be shared, and due to security measures necessitating alert brain modules. But she does have a wicked sense of humour in her selection, and sometimes she indulges herself. She pairs Slipstream with Flamewar.
“So! You’re bunking with me, huh. Lucky you.”
“Um. Why’d you say it like that, in that tone?”
“Because I’m loads of fun, and I’m hot.”
“I… I mean, I’m sure you are, but that was not quite the message conveyed by your tone, just now.”
“Okay, you got me. I’m told I snore.”
“Oh.”
“It’s my engine, see. It just kicks into gear whenever I dream. And I dream a lot. Usually about driving fast, pulling wicked stunts, impressing onlooking femmes.”
“I see.”
“Yeah, nobody wants to recharge with me.”
“That’s a little cruel. You can’t help it.”
“Aw, Slippy, you’re such a nice guy.” The bike looks up at the Seeker, smiling. “Bit of a hunk of hot metal, too. Glad to have you onboard.”
“Thank you,” Slipstream manages sincerely, shyly. “This is… an interesting assignment.”
“Well, if there’s anything I can do to make you feel at home, lemme know, yeah?”
“I will.”
“Ahh! Here we are.” Flamewar opens the doors to a cramped recharge station. “Retrofitted the place. It was once a supply closet, but a big one.”
“Lovely.”
“Ha, yeah.” The bike strolls inside, arms outstretched, and fortunately she is small enough not to suffer the confined space. “The berths are way too hard and everything’s super cold all the time, but we manage.”
The Seeker resigns herself to an uncomfortable recharge.
“I’ll take this berth, you take that one. Cool?”
“Cool.”
Flamewar flops down on her back plates with a clunk, sighing, arms folded under her helm, kibble splayed out at her pauldrons. She folds one shapely leg over the other and shuts her optics with a smile. “If my engine snores too loud, just, like, throw something at me or poke me hard. Usually works.”
Slipstream gingerly reclines upon the opposite berth. She stares at the ceiling, homesick, missing her Seekers. Missing Bumblebee and Windblade.
The bike falls into recharge quickly, with a throaty purring of her incredible engine as it idles within her shapely little frame, like the rumbling of some mighty beast. It is a sound that is not at all unpleasant. A sultry serenade. Erotic, yet soothing.
The Seeker listens to that pleasurable purring for a while, noting how it hitches on occasion as the other femme’s internal processes tick over, and gradually she shuts her optics and sighs, feeling herself lapse gently into a shallow sleep mode. This is not so bad. Not at all.
Until Flamewar suddenly guns it with a sputtering roar, as if she intends to drop into her bike alt-mode and race around the room, full blast.
Startled, Slipstream revives again, sitting on her aft with her wide optics upon the other femme. Groans. “Flamewar.”
The bike snorts, her engine throatily grunting as she receives a poke to the cheek.
“Hey. Flamewar!”
“Hrrrrmph.”
The Seeker sighs as the roar dies down, that seductively throaty purring recommencing at just the right tenor to tickle her modesty plating through her own berth. “Primus, give me strength.”
The prayer may go unanswered, tonight.
Notes:
I have a soft spot for the Unicron Trilogy. I just had to. It’s my nostalgia.
I'd like to take a moment to recommend an old fanproject, TF Elite, which follows a mostly femme-focused cast (some of whom get so little love in canon or fanon) - sadly it hasn't been active in years, however it inspired me to write more Thunderblast because their rendition of her is kinda cute actually.
Chapter 15: Deity
Summary:
Windblade's Cityspeaking ability allows her to telepathically reach Slipstream where comm links fail and voices cannot cross the distance between them, thus lovingly closing the gap, but their conversation does not go well, all things considered. Flamewar thinks it is a little weird to talk to oneself and see invisible people, but she is not one to judge, being a bit strange herself, thus she offers her miserable new teammate a little comfort. Reeling from Megatron, Orion Pax seeks Alpha Trion out, needing his fatherly wisdom now more than ever. On holoscreens across Cybertron, an unsanctioned broadcast of a tormented soul courtesy of Soundwave interrupts Cube reruns, exposing civilians to Megatron's brutal yet poetic sense of justice.
Notes:
I introduced Thunderblast and Demolishor (yes, that is the correct spelling) in the previous chapter, two characters probably best known from their appearances in the nostalgic but flawed Unicron Trilogy (a continuity which had some great ideas in all fairness). I want to do more with them, expand their characters, have some fun. Even if they might not be your favourites, I’d like to thank you for permitting my indulgences. Let me know what you think! Expect more recognisable faces in the future, hopefully your favourites will he included among them. Enjoy.
Potential trigger warning: public torture and humiliation.
Chapter Text
“Slipstream,” murmurs a familiar voice, ethereal yet all-encompassing, gentle yet awesome.
The Seeker’s optics pry themselves open.
“Can you hear me?”
She sits up sharply, servo to her helm, staring into space. “…Windblade?”
There is the impression of a smile, something that is felt rather than seen. “Hi.” And it is audible in her voice.
“Um.” Slipstream peers about the recharge bay, before her gaze falls inevitably upon Flamewar, thankfully still in recharge, purring. “Hey?”
“Did I startle you?”
“A little bit.”
“Sorry, I know it’s late. It’s selfish of me, disturbing you like this, but–”
“No, not at all. I’m happy to hear your voice.”
“Thank you. And it’s so good, hearing yours.” There is a chuckle, then a sigh. “A lot of bad stuff has happened, lately, and I really worry about you.”
“Yeah,” the Seeker whispers to the Cityspeaker, so the bike will not overhear and revive. “I worry about you all the time. You and Bee. It makes my tank hurt.”
“Aw, Slip. You need to be careful. You’ll get ulcerations.”
“Probably. Or I’ll blow a gasket.”
“Please don’t.”
Slipstream smiles dismally. “Okay. I’ll try not to.”
“Can we talk, right now? I can try again later if–”
“No, it’s okay. We can talk. Please.”
Windblade’s smile deepens, somehow.
“Um. I’ll just have to be quiet. I’m not really alone with you, at this moment.”
“That’s fine, I can hear you loud and clear.”
“So, uh. Is this your telepathy, and stuff?”
“Yes! My telepathy, and stuff. Succinct. I like that.”
“You’re not really in my mind, right?” Slipstream does not want Windblade reviewing her thoughts. “You can’t read my mind, can you?” The mind is the scribe of sins.
“Nope. Though, I could review your memories, with a cortical psychic patch for that sort of connection. We’d have mental avatars and everything. It’s pretty neat, honestly.”
“Sounds like it.”
“What I’m doing right now is closer to a broadcast. And Starscream can’t spy on the things I’m saying, like he could if this was over your comm link. Really messed up of him, by the way. Not cool.”
“It’s his right. Operational security measures.”
“I still don’t like it.” Another sigh. “I’ve wanted to do this with you for ages, to be honest, and not just as a work-around.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m only reaching out to you with auditory stimulus right now, but I can sort of hijack your optics, too. If you want?”
“So I can hear and see you, all at once? Yes, please.”
“Perfect. I was trying not to overwhelm you, but the disembodied voice is a bit spooky. Here, let me just…”
The Seeker stares into space and beholds a familiar face that morphs into existence from within the air, bright and faintly flickering with static, almost corporeal, vaguely transparent. This is a religious experience, she is sure of it. A goddess manifest.
The Cityspeaker offers a modest, playful grin. “Ta-da.”
“By the light of Primus.”
“Pretty cool, huh?”
“This is so cool.” Slipstream reaches out, trying to touch a painted cheek. Her digits phase through the illusion.
This mental projection of Windblade softens. “I’m technically not supposed to hit up my friends like this, to be honest.”
“Are you gonna get in trouble?”
“No. I’ll get away with it. It’s more of a secrecy thing. But I already told you what I am, and I can trust you to know about my abilities, so there’s no harm. Besides, I… I just need you. And since I can’t reach you on your comms any more, and you don’t seem to be getting my texts, this is the only way I can have you. So, yeah.”
“Oh, Windblade. I’m sorry. I know things haven’t been ideal for us.”
“We’ll be okay.”
“This is kinda amazing, though, right? A lot of bots don’t even believe Cityspeakers are real. Yet here you are, touching my mind with yours.”
“Here I am, with you.” A slow blink, like the heat death of twin suns. “I’m not meaning to be frivolous, here, but I’ve always been a little… rebellious, I suppose?” The curve of painted lips. “Maybe that’s not the right word. I bend those rules a little for my friends, from time to time. Not often. Just sometimes.”
“Thank you, for doing all of this, for me.”
“You’re welcome. Thank you, for indulging me.”
“I think I understand. It’s like my Seeker stuff. That’s why you’ve been so patient and forgiving with me. You’ve lived something similar.”
“I can empathise with you, Slip.” Windblade frowns now. “Except I chose to become a Cityspeaker. I can’t even imagine just being born into something, like you were.”
Slipstream flushes, looks away.
“And your boss sucks!”
“He’s not so bad, really.”
“Yeah, I suspect he’s worse.”
Slipstream glances at Flamewar, finds her snoring. “Actually, I’m not with the Seekers, right now.”
“You’re not? Did he… kick you out?”
“Yes, and no.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’m an honorary Seeker, by virtue of my forging. But I’ve been reassigned. Just gotta pull the line, keep my helm down, stay out of trouble, and eventually, he’ll take me back.”
“You’re being punished.”
“Yeah.”
Windblade looks appalled. “Slip, are you okay?”
“Well, I’m not decommissioned.” Slipstream keeps her voice low, huskily quiet. “I’m dishonoured. My future career is not optimistic. But I still function, and that’s a start. I can endure this.”
“You did nothing wrong!”
“Perhaps not, to you. But I’m a soldier.”
“You were trying to stop a war! Why is this such a crime?”
“This is mercy, Windblade. Starscream could’ve done worse.”
“Well, he can bite my aft, too, how about that?”
“Please don’t get mad about it.”
“I’m sorry, Slip, but it sounds like being a Seeker is a burden, more than a benefit. That is just a hot load of scrap, to me!”
“I was forged this way. It doesn’t matter.”
“Can’t you just… leave?”
“Um. No.”
“He’s reassigned you, anyway, so just quit.”
“I… am a Seeker. It’s not just a rank, it’s my life. What I’m made of. All my programming, my memories, my frame. I’m not built for anything more or less than this. It’s bad enough I’m stuck here. It feels so… unnatural. But still. I am a Seeker. I can console myself with something so simple. So me.”
“Then become something else.”
“And then what would I be?”
“That’s for you to decide!”
“I’m not forged for anything else.”
“Slip. Sweet Spark. Listen to me.”
“Okay.”
“Anything! You could be anything you want to be.”
“Anything I want to be,” murmurs the Seeker.
“A new career path,” answers the Cityspeaker, her face hovering. “A new life, lived on your terms, not his.”
“I don’t know anything else.”
“Then you just need to open up to new experiences, try different things.”
“The Functionists banned the changing of alt-modes as heresy. It’s why Seekers aren’t made anymore. We’ll die out, by design. Cold construction’s no longer permitted.”
“Frag the Functionists. Jets can do more than fight, Slip. As much as I love Cybertron, it’s incredibly repressive and backwards in places. Unbelievably conservative.”
“I, uh… I’ve never given it real thought, before. I’ve always just existed as I am. Done what I was told to do.”
“You never got the chance to choose, before.” Windblade nods firmly, brows knit with determination. “And Functionism isn’t a universal principle of belief. There are many colony worlds out there to explore, with different opportunities and faiths. If there’s nothing here for you on Cybertron, then come back with me to Caminus.”
Slipstream bites her bottom derma, pinching it handsomely between dentas. If the warm, living metal were not so malleable and soft, she would leave a number of dents with all this thoughtless chewing.
“I’ll take you there, and I’ll help you integrate. Be your guide. Like how Bee was mine, when I first came to Cybertron. He built a life with me, here. And I’ll build a life with you, there.”
There is a brief, burning pause.
“You’re so dreamy.”
Windblade smiles lopsidedly, flushed. “I’m being serious, Slip, c’mon.”
“I’ll think about it. I’ll give it real thought. Okay?”
A slow, steady nod. “Okay. It’s a lot to think about. I get that. So, just… take it all in. Whenever you’re ready, we’ll talk more about it.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Slipstream sighs. Another cautionary glance at Flamewar upon the neighbouring recharge slab finds her still snoring. “And how is our little Bee?”
The Cityspeaker grimaces softly.
The Seeker frowns.
“He’s not doing okay.”
“Ohh.”
“And by extension, neither am I.” Windblade shakes her helm, sighing. “Did you hear about the Grand Imperium, yesterday?”
Slipstream chokes quietly on her own vents.
“It was… a massacre. It was awful. No, it was evil, what they did to those people. Orion never saw it coming. None of us did.” Windblade narrows her optics, piercing and cold. “Bee went with him, to that meeting with Megatron. Starscream was there, too. Orion got a confession, but before the cops could make an arrest, the Grand Imperium fell. Megatron planned for this, Slip. And they got away. They’re still out there. It could happen again, anytime, anywhere.”
Slipstream cradles her helm in her palm, slouching forward with a seething hiss.
“I should’ve been with Bee, like I should’ve been with him when that riot broke out,” Windblade murmurs with a shuddering sound. “But I wasn’t, and I didn’t protect him. I brought him back home, and he was… traumatised by what he saw, all that happened. And I couldn’t even do a thing to make him feel safe again. None of us could. It was all over the news. It traumatised us all.”
Slipstream wants to rip her own helm open so she can reach inside, find the Cityspeaker within, and seize her servo just to hold onto her in the physical plane. And it is shameful. The Seeker despises herself.
“…Slip.”
“…Windblade.”
“I don’t think we can avoid this war, any more.”
The Seeker’s nausea rises to tear her up inside, like a riptide.
“I’m scared,” the Cityspeaker confesses softly. And this is no small thing to admit. She is so very brave.
“…Windblade.”
“…Slip.”
“Go back to Caminus.”
“And abandon Bee? No! How can you even say that?”
“Of course not. Take him with you. Be his guide. Reintegrate.”
“You know he’d never leave for good. A visit is one thing, but this? I don’t blame him. I call Cybertron my home, too, and still, Caminus calls to my Spark. Chromia feels it even worse than I do. It’s torture, for her.”
“I c-can’t keep you safe.” Slipstream gags wetly, swings her legs over the edge of the berth, covers her intake with a servo and squeezes her optics shut. A whine comes out muffled through digits. Too loud. She is having a panic attack, she realises with a metallic shudder. Too much. Too loud.
“Please don’t cry.”
Another aching sound. “I’m s-sorry.” She just cannot help it, any more. She buries her face in both palms and mourns.
“I’m right here.” Windblade hovers close, unable to do much more to comfort. “I’m with you. I’ve got you. I love you.”
“You’ll hate m-me.”
“I could never hate you! You’re a victim, too. Starscream, Megatron, they’re the ones the blame. Them, and whichever monsters they sent to do their dirty work.”
Slipstream does not get to reply to that.
“Hey.”
Seated on the edge of the slab, she feels metallic talons upon her wrists, sharp yet nimble, easily prying her servos away from her bereaved, pale face plate.
“Slippy,” comes a rough grunt, uncouth, but not unkind. “Look at me.”
Her optics reflectively flutter open, gleaming.
Flamewar’s engine lets off a low rumble as she leans in a little. “Thassit.”
“You’re a-awake?” Slipstream is trembling all over.
“Uh, yeah, I am now.”
“I didn’t m-mean to… Ugh, frag me! I’m such a screw-up. E-everything I do, I do wrong, a-a-and–”
“Okay, Slippy. That’s not helping.” Flamewar’s scuffed facial rigging is bent handsomely with rugged concern. “I’mma ask you to just vent with me for a minute, yeah? Nice and slow. In… Out. Can you do that?”
“Y-yes.”
“In…”
Slipstream sucks in air.
“Out.”
Exhales, shuddering.
“Just like that, yeah.” Flamewar keeps it going. “In… Out… In… Out.”
Slipstream follows the pattern, finding the rhythm soothing. It is not enough. But it helps.
“Slip?”
“Bad dream, I’m guessing,” Flamewar murmurs. She cannot see, or hear, the apparition in Slipstream’s mind.
“Sweet Spark?”
“N-not… alone,” Slipstream stutters, turning to look at Windblade, deeply apologetic and stressed.
Flamewar turns too, staring warily into empty space. “You seeing things?”
“I understand.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Soon,” the Cityspeaker’s projection reassures the Seeker. “I’m come back, soon. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“I promise.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be. I love you.”
“Love y-you, too.”
The bike waves a servo before those transfixed optics. “Slippy.”
Windblade is suddenly gone, with the passing of Flamewar’s palm across Slipstream’s vision. As if erased. Wiped away.
“C’mon,” Flamewar mutters, “you’re freaking me out a little.”
Slipstream returns to the other femme, refocusing on her solely. She blinks hard a few times. “I’m f-fine. Bad dream.” Perhaps lying gets easier. All it takes is practice. Conviction can be self-taught.
The bike sighs raggedly, smaller than the Seeker, but whilst one is stood upright and the other slouches on the berth, their differences in stature does somewhat even out. “You’re not crazier than me, are ya?”
“No. Don’t think so.”
“Wanna talk about it?”
“N-no. Thank you.”
“Should I just sit with you, a while?” Flamewar murmurs with a level of sheer kindness that does not match the way she presents herself. She just might be, in actuality, a very nice person. In a way.
“Y-yes. Please.”
“Okay.” She hops onto the slab next to Slipstream, reaching over a little and rubbing her trembling back plates. It is a little awkward.
“Sorry for w-waking you.”
“Nah. My internal clock says we gotta get up and go run our shifts soon, anyway. It’ll be Thunderblast and Demolishor’s turn to recharge next.”
“Mmm.”
“Shadow Striker never seems to sleep. Or if she ever does, she’s probably snoozing in her office, all alone, in that less than comfy chair of hers. She often complains about backache, and I bet that’s why.” Flamewar gazes up at Slipstream, smirking handsomely aside at her. “Lemme tell ya, seeing Demolishor try to squeeze in here, though? Hilarious.”
Slipstream smiles feebly at the thought. The smile soon fades.
“Forgive the hour. I come to you in desperate need.”
“My counsel is always available to you.”
“Thank you.”
“This is, of course, due to Megatron.”
“Yes. I do not know what to do,” Orion confesses humbly, helm bowed. “But you know everything. I cannot allow for more lives to be lost. What happened at the Grand Imperium cannot be repeated. Please, direct me.”
“You must mobilise.”
“I cannot. Perhaps a greater mech or femme than I, might take that mantle. Do you know whom?”
“It must be you. You know Megatron best.”
“And he knows me. How can I outwit the one who has shared most of my life?”
“You do so, with help.” Alpha Trion sets down his Quill and rises from his great seat, his movements unhurried as he steps out from behind his desk. A lit window at his back renders his finer details fuzzy and dark. He is more silhouette than mech, approaching gently and quietly. “You are here. You have taken the first step.”
“I am not a warlord. I have no battle experience beyond what he deigned to teach me, and he always was a capable, charismatic teacher,” the old archivist intones, sighing. “I have never led an army, and I do not know how to organise a resistance without him. I realise, now, how earnestly I depended upon him throughout our campaign efforts. He was the personality that swayed their sparks. I just… wrote a few speeches, shared my ideas, and scorned him when I wooed the Senate.”
Settling to a slow, steady stop, Alpha Trion cups Orion’s chin, gently upturning his helm so that their optics meet.
“It was less of a partnership,” the mech goes on with a wince, “than I had dreamed it to be.”
The noble ancient offers a soft, sympathetic smile of great understanding.
“You should still be in recharge,” Chromia says gently, her imposing yet reassuring frame filling the doorway. She is concerned but not quite disapproving.
“I can’t sleep.” Windblade sits with a tall glass of Engex and a bowl of sweetened little Energon gummies in her lap, far from the regal elegance and discipline of a Cityspeaker. This is a femme in all her flawed glory, and she is so very obviously emotionally and mentally indisposed.
“Maybe I can help.”
“I don’t think you can.”
The statuesque bike approaches the flier slowly. “I’d like to try.”
Windblade looks up, her big blue optics strained and deep with unhappiness. “You’re too good to me.”
Chromia shakes her helm, laying a servo on the femme’s cheek. “I could be better.”
A moment of silence passes.
“Is Bee still sleeping?”
“He is.” Chromia’s Spark aches. “Cuddled up with Hot Rod, as you left them.”
Setting strong booze and junk snacks aside, Windblade opens her arms without another word.
The bike stoops to collect the slighter femme, effortlessly lifting and cradling her like a new bride, depositing a stoic kiss to the Cityspeaker’s painted cheek.
“I love you.”
“I love you, too.” Another kiss follows. Chromia’s handsome face plate presses familiarly into the hot cables of Windblade’s slender neck.
“Flamewar, Thunderblast. You two are on the supply run. Your favourite job. Don’t get sloppy with the pickup. You touch my special order, you die.”
“Goddit, boss bot.”
“Sure thing, Sir. So intense!”
“Demolishor, Slipstream. You’re on guard duty. Rotate your shifts fairly. Cover our blind spots. Don’t surface, for any reason, without getting my permission, first. We cannot risk exposure.”
“Will do, Sir! I mean, won’t do, Sir! Uh–”
“Understood, Sir.”
“Lovely. I’ll be busy entertaining Megatron and Soundwave. They’ve got something fragged up planned for our prisoner, and I wanna see it.” Shadow Striker contemplates her morning canteen’s worth of the disgusting Energon blend. “Ugh.”
“Pleeeeaaaase?” Thunderblast flutters her optic shutters.
A sigh. “Fine.”
A fist pump. “Yass!”
“I’ll submit a formal request to Shockwave for something more palatable with the next batch. You’ve convinced me.”
There is a collective chorus of relief.
“Finally! Primus’ sake. You’re so stubborn, making us suffer like that, Sir.”
Their commanding officer’s combat scope revolves in its socket, whirring as it falls upon the speaker. “I heard that.” A smile, crooked and cruel. “Suffering builds character.”
Slipstream is nauseous. She silently passes her share to Demolishor, who smiles back at her.
“Thanks!”
“You’re welcome.”
Flamewar slouches over the bare metal table, winking at Thunderblast.
“The walk’s helping. I feel a little better already.”
Hot Rod loops his arm around Bumblebee’s pauldrons, pulling him in companionably closer as they stroll side-by-side along the canal. “If you want, we’ll go for a long drive, after this. Always clears my helm.”
“Thanks. I’d like that.”
The mechs sip hot drinks to stave off the chill.
Windblade’s optics are downcast. She holds Bumblebee’s servo, feeling how his digits interweave a little tighter within her own.
Chromia’s features harden warily at passing police alt-modes, out in full force today, blocking and redirecting lanes of disgruntled traffic.
Somehow life goes on, flowing with the beating pump of commerce.
“Don’t rock the boat,” Thunderblast quips playfully, before she dives into the river of mercury. When she rises to the surface, she emerges in her aquatic alt-mode, and she is surprisingly rather large. The beads of silver dissipate, scattered over her armoured shell, returning to the greater shimmering body from whence they came. Dregs of mercury pool in corners of her inner storage compartments. She is otherwise dry to the touch.
“You say that every time,” Flamewar grumbles back whilst neatly stepping onboard the vessel. She is sufficiently small and lightweight that she does not wind up rocking the boat, not even when she flops onto her aft and slumps comfortably back with a leisurely sigh, propping one heel over the other, dangling an arm from the edge, talons drumming an aimless tune along Thunderblast’s glossy hull. “Ready when you are.”
“Mind the heel struts, please.”
“Sorry. Better?”
“Much.”
They set off with an echoing rumble, leaving a shimmering wake behind.
The old storm drains and maintenance tunnels are interconnected at a set point, both a boon and a vulnerability that Shadow Striker keeps a close optic on. The convenience of it allows for their smuggling of supplies and contraband to go unnoticed by the surface. She has determined that the police are either incompetent, or permissive of a possible criminal network spanning underneath the streets.
Flamewar loves these trips out on the mercury. As a terrestrial alt-mode, she of course had her reservations at first – literally riding Thunderblast like this was utterly absurd. But now, the bike really feels like a pirate, and the boat makes for surprisingly pleasant company. Could be a little comfier to sit on, perhaps. “Hey, can we rig you up with some plush seats or something?”
“Need I remind you, I’m rigged for combat, sweetie. This is not a pleasure cruise. Well. We’re working right now. Not partying. Ask me later, and I'll take you for a fun ride.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Don’t sulk! I even left my quad-tube launcher behind, so you’d have more space back there with the cargo.”
"Thanks, though I do like your quad-tube launcher."
“It is pretty nice, huh. Anyway, where would the seats go when I transform back? I’m already curvy and full, in all the right places.”
“I dunno. Just cram them under your breastplate, I guess.”
“Shuddup! Any more mass under there and I'll burst.”
“What the frag is this?” mutters a mech as the Cube game finally sizzles out, replaced with a barren room and a figure slumped within it. “My team was winning! Scrap!”
“Hey. I recognise that guy.” A femme points up at the holoscreen. “He’s a Senator, right?”
“Must be the one that went missing.”
“People of Cybertron,” Megatron’s voice rumbles, unseen and sudden.
Every helm in the old oil house jerks upward, alert.
“Apologies for the interruption. I call upon you to give me your undivided attention, if you can spare it, and I thank you for your time. This may be upsetting to witness, but it is of the utmost relevance to you. Please, heed my call.”
A crowd gathers to watch and listen, as if this were just another broadcast of past gladiatorial glory, a rerun of an old victory.
“This is the beginning of the end of the old ways and your lives will be affected by the changes to come. It does matter. It does include you. Apathy and tolerance shall not save anyone.”
Maccadam is unsmiling.
“No doubt many of you may recognise him,” Megatron rumbles on, and it sounds eerily like he is smiling. “But you have never known him. It was all a personable pretence. He is, by necessity of his station, a liar and a hypocrite.”
Optics widen, faces turning to behold each other over Energon.
“It saddens me to assume that this circus will surprise many of you. You have yet to be properly introduced. This will be rectified, now.”
From behind the untraceable drone that broadcasts this message to Cybertronian holoscreens, Soundwave gestures casually at a prompter, silent and unseen by the intended audience.
The Senator’s optics follow the movement. They bulge upon the text. “W-wait. No. Please. I'll be ruined!"
“Stick to the script.”
“I’ll pay you! Anything you want!”
“He will read aloud a summarised, conveniently itemized list of only some of his crimes.”
“I have a family! I beg y-you!”
“Crimes he committed against you, people of Cybertron, throughout his tenure in politics,” Megatron’s voice drones on. “Crimes committed to further his own ambitions, or to serve the whims of his benefactors and allied cronies. Always at your expense, never his, never theirs. They did not pay. Remember this when it comes time to consider your taxes. It is you, the poorest and most downtrodden among you, who always paid the highest price for their opulence. This ends, now.”
“Help me! Somebody! Oh, Primus, h-help!”
“The Senator needs a little motivation.” Soundwave keeps just out of frame, prodding with a taser. "Here."
There is a squeal.
“Is that better? Read your lines.”
Stumbling words reluctantly follow a script, with much sobbing and lamentation for a spouse, occasionally interrupted with a controlled burst of shock.
In the grim spectacle of the horror and revulsion, the people watch and listen.
Chapter 16: Snap*
Summary:
Soundwave's job is done. A Senator is missing, presumed alive, though Shadow Striker follows orders and gets paid to put an end to life. The friends are all traumatised by the broadcast, but Orion Pax takes personal blame and responsibility for the one responsible, Megatron. Windblade is fearful for Slipstream who cannot tell the whole truth.
Featured sex scene: Shadow Striker/Thunderblast with Flamewar mentioned (implied oral, in a shower, unusually large spike, dripping pre-cum, fantasy of another femme, reward, good girl).
Notes:
Possible trigger warnings: involuntary voiding of the bowels due to stress and pain, as well as trauma of the individual and social collective.
Chapter Text
“You good?”
“I’m great,” Thunderblast replies with cheerful sarcasm. “I love being stuffed.”
“Attagirl.” But she does not complain as Flamewar slots the final storage crate into place within the limited cargo hold, careful not to scratch the boat’s glossy finish. “And I’m so gentle, too. I take care of you, especially when I’m inside of you, don’t I?”
“Behave.”
“Fine, fine. Then I guess we’re done here.” The bike shuts the hatch and tosses a nod at the grinning figure stood aside. “Nice doing business with you, I guess.”
“Always a pleasure.” He waves, his scuffed servo missing a couple of digits. “Come back soon.” His gaze is lecherous. He would have been handsome in his glory days. He can be trusted, because this business relationship is lucrative and easy. And without a Senate, it will simply grow more lucrative, easier. Their objectives conveniently align.
“Oh, totally. Will do.” Flamewar flops down with a sigh, reaching over to slap Thunderblast affectionately with a metallic clap of contact. “Alright!”
“Ow! So much for gentle. You’re lucky I like that.”
“Let’s go.”
“Finally. Ugh. His vibe is rancid,” the boat mutters as she glides through the mercury like a cutting blade, sleek and large, roaring an echo.
The bike tips back and turns her helm, leaning over the edge a little to watch the waves of their wake. Talons drumming the curve of the hull, she tunes out to the other femme’s potent vibrations beneath.
Megatron’s disembodied voice is finally gone.
The Senator’s final crime has been read aloud.
Cybertron is in an uproar. The verdict is obviously, and overwhelmingly, guilty.
“And cut!”
“Well, that was something.”
“Not my best work,” Soundwave croons after the traceless feed has been abruptly ended, dismissing his modified media drone with a huff. “But it gets the job done.”
“Bet you didn’t see your career taking this turn, huh.”
“Not at all.”
Shadow Striker offers a sarcastic little round of applause.
“Thank you, thank you.” A bow, followed by a dismissive wave of the servo. “Dispose of him – discretely.”
“Help… s-someone… save me!”
“Surprised Megatron didn’t want the guy executed on camera. Really hammer it in.” A scoff. “Death to the system, or whatever. So symbolic.”
“Yes, well. He is still trying to appeal to the majority of the public, after all. Can’t terrify them too soon, or they might try fleeing Cybertron for the colony worlds.” A sidelong gaze through a visor. “And then who would be left to rule?”
“The poors and functionless he loves so much would be left behind. Surely they’d be glad to have him.”
“Indeed.”
“And do you really think he’ll stop once he’s conquered Cybertron? ’Cause I don’t. Guys like him can never stop. He’s gonna go right after the colonies, just you wait and see.”
“Things are going to get very interesting.”
“So long as I get paid.”
“You really don’t care for his vision?”
“Oh, I do care. So long as it gives me gainful employment.”
“And once you’ve retired, will you be content with the world you helped him shape?”
“I don’t expect to survive that long.”
“I need a m-medic… please… oh, Primus!”
Soundwave gives Shadow Striker a fond pat on the back.
“Some sick fragger, somewhere, really appreciated seeing this,” rasps the femme, to which the mech nods.
“Indeed.”
The Senator sobs, slumped heavily in his seat. He voided his digestive tank sometime during the ordeal, the contents of which drip from his waste port, overflowing from the edges of the chair, pooling shallowly at his pedes.
“Frag me, what a mess.”
“It suits the establishment. Mm. I do forget how homely it is, down here.”
“Frag you, too. Why’d you get the nice hideout?”
“Because you’re a dirty femme.” Soundwave laughs suavely. “And Megatron hired you to do his dirty work. Thus you get a dirty base of operations.”
“It’s not funny. You overdid the shocks. Now I’ve gotta clean this up.”
“It’s a little funny. Get one of your lackeys to do it. You’re the boss.”
“Unlike you, I actually treat my lackeys with some semblance of decency.”
“They’re not decent people. But I’m sure you’ll get gifted an Energon mug with a quirky slogan printed on the side, in appreciation of being such a benevolent boss.”
“Yeah, wouldn’t that be nice.” Shadow Striker stalks closer to the Senator, avoiding stepping in the mess. “Ugh. I’ve disembowelled enough guys, and somehow, the smell of Energon waste by-product never gets old.”
“Please… let m-me go… I’ll pay you! I’ll pay you a-a-anything!”
“Tempting offer. But I’m afraid I’m already on a contract.”
“Monsters! You’re m-monsters! Help!”
She grimaces as she lays her big, strong servos upon his helm, her grip tight enough to crumple the soft, gleaming ornamentation between her palms.
“No, n-no! Wait!”
“Hold still.”
“Please! Don’t–”
She turns his helm sharply aside, twisting his slender neck with a metallic crunch.
Soundwave whistles. Now he applauds sarcastically. “Well done.”
Optics fluttering into blind darkness, mandible hanging slackly from the joint, the Senator’s helm lolls, flopping forward and aside on his broken neck as Shadow Striker releases him, grimacing.
“You make that look so easy.”
“I’m a professional.”
“As am I. And my work here is done. Forgive me if I take my leave of you, and with enthusiasm.”
“We’ll catch up another time. I gotta dump the body.”
“Mm. Have fun with that.”
Shadow Striker unshackles the Senator’s dented wrists and ankle joints, wrinkling her olfactory sensor as she stoops to do so.
Before Soundwave can say anything more, a strange sound emanates from the Senator’s corpse as he slumps loosely against her.
The femme quirks a brow, unbothered, readjusting her hold on the body.
“What the frag was that?” demands Soundwave, comically less than suave.
“Death rattle.”
“Primus. So that’s what it sounds like, up close.”
“Thought you were the expert.”
“Pardon me, but I’m not a killer.”
She throws the Senator over her pauldron, as if he is not covered in his own filth, smearing it over her frame with a grim expression.
“Well, then. That is utterly disgusting.” Soundwave turns sharply, sauntering hastily out the decrepit, stinking room. “I’m leaving, now. Bye.”
“Not gonna gimme a parting kiss?”
“Bye, I said.”
Her laughter follows him through the winding tunnel, then abruptly cuts out, laving an eery silence beyond his steps.
And so he opts to play his own theme music, walking to the swagger of his own beat.
Bumblebee stays stooped, unable to further empty his aching, spasmodic guts. It is all gone, already.
Hot Rod strokes the smaller mech’s back.
“Enough,” Chromia murmurs in another room, reaching over to cut the muted playback with the touch of her digit. “Stop doing this to yourself.” She then grasps Windblade’s pauldron, pulling her close, squeezing her tight.
Windblade drops the datapad upon the berth with trembling servos. “He’s dead, isn’t he.”
The Senator’s face, Megatron’s voice. Broadcast and shared all over biased news sites and social media giants in spite of the officials’ efforts at censorship and damage control. An endless negativity spiral that stirs the Sparks of Cybertron and has frames marching in gleaming masses outside, with their raised fists and rising chants and hastily assembled placards held overhelm. Their world no longer feels safe.
Elsewhere, Orion’s helm is in his palms.
Representatives of the media and speakers for the public bear down upon the wall of bodies lined up between himself and their demands for answers.
“You must make a statement.”
“I know.”
“You must condemn his actions.”
“I know.”
“It will mean the most, if it comes from you.”
“I know,” Orion murmurs. He cannot delay his reaction to Megatron. And yet the old mech seems paralysed.
Strongarm bellows something unintelligible outside the chamber, muffled by the doors. Other officers bark back.
Alpha Trion stands over Orion Pax.
“Please. Make it stop.”
“We will.”
“I am… not ready.”
“You will never be ready. And for this, I mourn. But you will not be alone, either.”
“And who will stand beside me? Who could share my burden? Surely not you. I could not bear to–”
“I am with you. Do not worry about my condition. You came here, requesting my help. Now, it is time you accept it.”
Unceremoniously dumped into the belly of a roaring storm drain, the offline Senator sinks into the silvery abyss, consumed and condemned to never decay, always dry to the circuits. He will not be found, here.
Shadow Striker stands on the precipice covered in his filth, expression grim. She is reminded of things that happened to her before, things that happened to mechs and femmes she once knew, things she saw and things she did and things that were done to her. She thinks about it.
There are probably other bodies sunk to the bottom. Murders and mistakes. Easily disposed of.
She lingers here, in thought, covered by a mech’s filth, remembering faces and places. It is well over an hour by the time she snaps out of her recollections and takes a slow walk back to her hovel. She has memorised the layout of the underground.
“Greetings, Sir!”
“Demolishor.” Shadow Striker looks up at him. “Don’t tell Thunderblast I dumped a body in the mercury.”
“I won’t, Sir,” answers the imposing mech, standing guard as instructed. “You okay? You were out there for a while. I was gonna call you.”
“I’m fine.” A rueful smile. “I’m gonna go clean up his mess, then wash off.”
“Okay, Sir. Would you like some help?”
"No need. Stay here and help the ladies unload the cargo."
"Alright then, Sir!" Demolishor salutes Shadow Striker in passing. “Enjoy your oil shower!”
She just has to smile at that. She does rather like him.
“Slipstream?”
She inhales. Exhales.“Windblade.” In. Out. Standing guard, as instructed. An easy, mindless task for a grounder. As a flier, however, she is in the Pits.
“Can we talk?”
“Sure.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
“You don’t have to thank me for anything,” the Seeker murmurs into the stale, stagnant air, optics scanning the bend in the tunnel ahead, and the bend behind. All monotonous. The buzzing of the lights will drive her mad.
“Are you, um… following the news?” murmurs the Cityspeaker, her painted face flickering into view, frowning.
Slipstream lowers her gaze guiltily.
“He got to a Senator.”
A grimace, pained.
“The one that went missing.”
“Yes.” Slipstream has a secured, encrypted datapad in her possession, courtesy of Shadow Striker. Its uses are restricted and it wipes itself automatically within hourly intervals. “I saw it, too.” Something to keep her mildly entertained. She may have taken it without permission. She will return it undamaged and untampered with. It does not even have any of the worst games on it.
“This is madness, Slip.” Windblade hovers closer, bowing her helm, optics fluttering shut like the end of the universe, simply blinking out of light and life. “What’s happening to us?”
Slipstream sighs quietly, but says nothing.
“We need to get you out. Where are you?”
“You can’t. Classified.”
“Frag it, Slip! Help me, help you!”
“Too risky. I need to do what I’m told.”
“I’m freaking out, alright? I don’t care who’s giving you orders. You’re my friend, and I’ve let Bee down, and he’s not okay at all… and…”
“Windblade, it’s not your fault.”
“I’ve got to keep you safe. Please, Slip.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re going to get hurt, or… or…”
The Seeker can almost feel the Cityspeaker’s breath, warm and ticklish. They do not breathe.
“Or they’ll make you do something you don’t want to,” Windblade finishes timidly.
Slipstream rubs her arm with a scrape of living metal. She is sure she will break out in alloy hives at this rate.
“I won’t let that happen to you. I won’t let the military–industrial complex or whatever this is, turn you into a weapon.”
“I’m already a weapon.”
“No,” the Cityspeaker says forcefully. “You’re a person. You’re a femme. You’re my friend.”
The Seeker flinches.
“And this? It’s making you miserable, it’s making me miserable, it’s making Bee miserable! Everybody’s miserable now!”
Slipstream sags against a grimy, barren wall, threaded with pipes and insulated wiring.
“Come back to me.”
“I want to.”
“Or help me reach you. I know how to fight.”
“I can’t leave.”
“You can,” Windblade says more gently. “With me.”
“I can’t quit.”
“You’ll forge yourself anew! You could be so much more, you could be anything!”
“Desertion is an offence punishable with termination.”
“It’s scary, I know that. I can keep you safe! You just have to let me! You trust me, don’t you?”
“Of course I do.”
“Then let me save you.”
“It wouldn’t just be my life at stake. You’d be aiding my escape. I cannot put you at risk.”
“I’m willing to take that risk.”
“No,” says the Seeker, low and subdued. “You’re a visiting Cityspeaker. A representative of Caminus, here on Cybertron. The socio-politics involved would be devastating. It’d draw your home-world into this mess. I don’t want Megatron turning his attention elsewhere.”
Windblade opens and shuts her intake, but she realises Slipstream is correct.
“I want you to go back.”
“Please don’t say that. You said it before.”
“Take Bee with you. Convince him, somehow. Get out.”
“Cybertron is our home.”
“Your home is on fire.”
“I can’t leave you behind, to burn. I just couldn’t do it, Slip.”
“I’m begging you to.”
“He’d never forgive me. I’d never forgive myself.”
“You’re breaking my Spark, Windblade. You’re making this so, so hard.”
“Yeah. You’re hurting me, too, Slip.”
The Seeker drags a palm over her optics. Her brain module is hot and pounding.
The Cityspeaker is still there when the servo drops.
“I love you.”
Windblade tries her best to smile.
Slipstream’s wings droop.
“I love you, too.”
“Tell Bee I miss him.”
“I will.”
The Seeker reaches for the Cityspeaker, hopelessly trying to touch her painted face plate.
“This isn’t over.” Windblade hardens again. “I’m not giving up on you, no matter how hard to beg me to. I’ll find a way.”
Slipstream’s servo phases through.
The chair has been sanitised.
The Senator has been sanitised.
Shadow Striker douses herself in stinging chemicals, sanitised.
It has been a day. Just a day.
She lets it burn for minutes, then turns on the downpour and stands beneath the cascade of oil, optics shut, helm upturned to feel warmth upon her grim face. Finally the filth is gone, and so is the burning. All that remains are the oil and the stench of chemicals. She permits herself to savour this erasure of disdain, recognising something vaguely therapeutic in the pain, followed by the relief. The distortion of a stereotypical femme’s ritual, the meditative cleansing that beats across her pauldrons, slick over the scarred plates of her back, dripping from the edges of her well-endowed chassis, oozing down the drain between her pedes to be deodorised and decontaminated with more chemicals. It makes her shimmer. It hurts her joints.
“Hi, Sir.”
A slight turn of the helm. The rolling of a scope in its socket, locating Thunderblast. A grunt of acknowledgement.
“Did you miss me?”
The absurdity of the attempt at seduction, after what has transpired today, has Shadow Striker in a good mood. “Just terribly. You can't smell that?"
"Smell what? The chemicals? How much did you douse yourself with, anyway? It's not good for your shell, y'know. Especially not that strong stuff."
"You're something special."
The boat’s smile is radiant. "I am!" This lust for power. This craving to own and control powerful mechs and femmes alike. Power to be seduced, then disposed of for a fresh source, with the turn of the tide of opportunity. “You know, this place is so, so gross.”
“I know. You’ve said so before. Multiple times, in fact.”
“But seeing you enjoying yourself in here, like that? Maybe I can tolerate the communal shower block, the lukewarm recycled oil, that chemical stink with just a bit less discomfort in my Spark… if you’re tolerating it with me. Together.”
“Humph.”
“You’re really beautiful, Sir.”
“What do you want?”
“A lotta things. But those things can wait. First off – a frag. A good one.”
“Then just ask me to frag you.”
“Well, screw me for being romantic about it! I like to woo, first, especially if I’m with a femme. I’m not just gonna bend you over and stick it in you.”
“There’s nothing romantic about fragging.”
“That’s just sad, Sir.”
The mercenary sighs softly through her vents. As much as she enjoys the company of a pretty femme – and this particular specimen is exceptionally pretty – Shadow Striker is not stupid. She does not need her combat sensors to alert her to the fact that she is just another target for Thunderblast’s personal ambitions, which she will happily brag about.
“And I was being sincere, by the way.” The boat helps herself to the closest neighbouring shower in an already cramped block, all bare walls and barren drains without any form of barrier between their bodies, drawing close enough to the old mercenary that their radiating fields caress, almost intermingling. “You make it work. Everything ugly and uncomfortable about this place… I look at you, the way you exist here, and you make me hot under my modesty plates.”
"I killed a mech, today."
"The prisoner?"
"Him."
"Well, okay."
"He made a mess. I cleaned it up."
"Eew. So that's why you stink of chemicals."
"Doesn't that bother you?"
"So long as you're clean, I can cope. And do not make me tidy up after you."
"Hmm. You've coped okay so far."
"Right? I'm a real trooper, same as the other guys. Just hotter, smarter, and more fabulous."
Lowering her helm, Shadow Striker's optic flutters open, staring ahead. Her scope revolves and gives Thunderblast a sidelong look.
“Spike,” the boat answers that look readily. “I’m gonna spike you, Sir, if you let me.”
A nod. “Fair enough.”
“You’re gonna kneel for me, and I’m gonna frag your face. Okay?”
The mercenary allows for a bark of laughter, scope rolling aside.
“Heeey! What’s funny about that? I’m serious!” Thunderblast pouts, running oil across her breastplate with a textile. “I’ve earned it." She pops her bosom open, baring what she keeps shielded beneath. "You’re treating me nicely, for a change.”
“Another steamy romp in the communal shower block." Shadow Striker makes no secret of staring, oggling. "This is romance, to you?”
“I’ll take what you’ll give me, Sir. And we're already in the shower." The boat cups her chassis. "Convenient to clean up our mess, huh.”
“Clever girl.” The mercenary inclines her helm with a smirk. “You ready for me?”
In reply, Thunderblast’s spike housing slides open, instantly pressurising. An impressive piece of equipment. It drips with oil and pre-overload. “Been ready a while, actually.”
“I can tell.”
"It's getting a little sore."
"Does carrying Flamewar always have this effect on you?"
"Her aft is wonderful. And she can be such a flirt, oh, Primus."
A velvet chuckle as Shadow Striker kneels, her sleek frame powerfully bending with a flex of armoured sheets, slick and dripping as she settles upon her knees.
"That's a good look for you, Sir." Thunderblast winks, statuesque, gleaming. "I like you like that."
"Yeah, I bet." The mercenary reaches for the boat’s hips, turning her as is more appropriate, finding a better angle. “Did you tamper with my special order?” comes a low growl, with a fond squeeze to the thighs, rough enough that the shapely armour creaks.
That radiant smile is like a knife. “Nope. Flamewar said she’d put your stuff on your desk for you, so if anything’s out of place, blame her.”
“Noted.” An upwards glance. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Sir.”
“I do like to reward good girls under my command.”
A shudder.
A glossa extends.
Thunderblast tips back her helm with a sigh. She stays and tolerates the less than wonderful living conditions with this ragtag bunch of weirdos by embracing the comforting fantasy of the power she will soon hold. When she has the right mech or femme in her clutches, she will own them. When she owns them, she will dominate them. From those she dominates, she shall take everything she can, everything of value, every little bit of desire that makes life fun and worthwhile living. Once drained, they will grow boring, tiresome, of little use. Then she shall move right along the chain of command, climbing laps higher and higher still, until Megatron himself will be the one eating out of her palm. Then she will own him. And then, she will own Cybertron.
Shadow Striker is just another lap to occupy for a while, during this dizzying climb.
Chapter 17: Homecoming
Summary:
Just when it all seems too much to bear, Ariel returns from her voyages across space and alien worlds as if Primus ordained it, demanding answers and dispensing comfort, thus granting Orion a friend to rely on in the coming struggle. Starscream awakens mended in a medical ward and meets the medic Knock Out for the first time, their natural chemistry making it easy to instantly befriend one another. Shockwave finds some part of himself developing empathy for his assistant, the Seeker Acid Storm, whose unusual intelligence and gentle ways awaken something deep within his code that he thought to have been purged by now to assume higher logic functions, though apparently he is not as logical as he had estimated. Orion Pax amasses a crowd and addresses Cybertron, but he does not do so without help, for Ariel stands with him, inciting Megatron and amusing Starscream.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The doors swing open.
The mechs look up.
“What’s all this about?” demands an imposing, classically beautiful femme who suddenly bars the way, her frame built to be both tall and powerful, a manual labourer of some description. In her scuffed servos she holds the stockier, more heavily set Strongarm suspended by the pauldrons, pedes dangling. The police officer bites her derma, optics most intrigued.
“Ariel!” Orion Pax gasps in the midst of his mental and emotional breakdown, his countenance now caught between delighted and reproachful. “Put her down! She is not cargo!”
Alpha Trion smiles tiredly, but pleasantly. “Welcome home, Ariel.” As if she is exactly where she needs to be, at exactly the time she is most needed.
“Good to be back. I think.” Ariel, as it were, gently sets Strongarm aside. “Sorry. Didn’t hurt you, did I?”
“Um. No.” Optic shutters flutter. “I’m fine. Wow. You’re really powerful.”
“I sure am!”
Orion sets his servos on his hips.
“What? She was in my way.” The words are gruff and brusque, but spoken with a sort of friendly abrasiveness. “And she wouldn’t move when I asked nicely. No hard feelings, though.” Ariel offers a light slap to Strongarm’s pauldron that almost sends her stumbling. “You know what I’m like.”
“She was very insistent,” Strongarm manages shyly by way of explanation, the burly police officer flushed and flustered as she helps her fellow officers stationed outside to force the doors shut against the rising tide beyond. “Primus,” she murmurs, slamming her spinal strut against the seal, gazing up at the imposing Ariel with awe. Thus Strongarm ends up sealed within Alpha Trion’s chamber to witness whatever may happen next.
“Why all the cops, anyway? And there are all those protestors on the streets, too.” Ariel marches up to Orion and Alpha Trion with unfailing determination and indomitable spirit. “What the frag happened while I was gone? It’s like Cybertron’s on fire!”
“Megatron happened.”
Ariel draws to a sudden stop before Orion.
He meets her optics with deep, profound Sparkache.
Her expression softens.
“Our friend has… gone down a dark path, and I cannot follow. In your absence, I fear I may have enabled his missteps. Perhaps I enabled him, all along. It torments me to think… that this is largely my fault.”
“You’re gonna have to explain that a little better to me,” she says, laying her palm over his cheek, cradling the heaviness of his helm. “And with a lot less self-blame.” She effortlessly guides him against herself, hugging him tightly. “I know you, Orion. You’d never do a thing to hurt him.”
“Oh, Ariel.”
They melt in each other’s embrace, then solidify, parting.
“You may want to sit down.”
“I’ll stand. Lay it on me.”
“Very well, then.”
Starscream’s optics flutter online. His internalised HUD runs strings of code with his boot-up sequence, scrolling about the edges of his vision. He groans at the feedback loop.
“Ah,” says a pleasant voice close by, “you’re finally awake.”
He detects movement on the periphery, the cacophony of elegant steps.
“Groggy, mm?”
His gaze slowly rolls over to discover someone very red and very beautiful, ambling across the room, busying himself with various things.
“Hungry frame like yours… and most unusual, dare I call it, unique…”
He stares in silence, a little awestruck.
“You took a lot of my personal care and attention. A lesser doctor would have been floored by your design – or rather, redesign. Fortunately, you are in capable servos. Shockwave’s talents are not lost on me. I’ve had a little work done, myself. And I performed my own surgeries. Fancy that.”
Still, Starscream says nothing. Staring.
“You know,” the strange red mech intones conversationally to fill the pause whilst fiddling with something in his servos, “you’d managed to burn through much of your Energon reserves, during that little stint you pulled. Very dangerous. You’re lucky you didn’t plummet. Luckier still that Megatron did not crush you beneath his considerable frame. You are powerful, that much is true, but do try to apply some common sense in the future.”
The Captain flushes when he suddenly finds himself the target of a very probing gaze.
“As your physician, I must protest such reckless behaviour.” The stranger proceeds to saunter closer. “But, as an admirer of that incredible frame of yours? Mm.”
Starscream can smell antiseptic solution and polish. And more subtly, a hint of inner Energon, spilled.
“I am impressed. Disapproving, mind you. But impressed. I didn’t see your heroics for myself, a pity, really, but I see the strain your body undertook. Consider your new frame sufficiently stress tested.” Finally, the stranger closes the distance, drawing to a gentle stop at his berthside. “It passed. But you have to get used to it. Learn your limits, then add a few performance tweaks here or there, to surpass them. Self-mastery is self-love.”
“Uh.”
“Excellent contribution. How do you feel? Sore all over, I imagine.”
“Yes,” the Captain rasps. “I hurt. Everywhere.”
“As I suspected. Well,” says the glossy, gorgeous stranger with a sly smile, “I’ve already dosed you liberally with numbing agents. Any more and I risk damaging your sensory network. Then you’d be in pain, in perpetuity, or you’d be incurably numb. Megatron would not approve either way.”
“Those prospects sound… deeply unpleasant.”
“Indeed. However, fear not! I’ve devised a little solution to that. A workaround, if you will. I’m so confident in my work, I’ve tested it on myself many times, with only negligible side-effects.”
Starscream feels a servo on his wrist, gently lifting his forearm.
“Being beautiful does hurt. I, myself, have had to bypass my pain processors on more occasions than I’d like to admit, being my own surgeon. But it’s worth it.” Finding a minor fuel line in the open slot of the Captain’s forearm, where a segment of the armour casing was already removed and set aside sometime before, the stranger proceeds to inject something into the port with a pressurised hiss. “Works like a charm. You’ll see.”
A sensation of relief floods Starscream’s various systems.
“Better, mm?”
“Yes. Much better. The pain’s almost… gone.”
“Wonderful. I’ve tricked your brain module into ignoring those impulses. Redirected the resources elsewhere. It is temporary, but it should last you long enough for your self-repair protocols to take care of the rest.”
“Errm… Thank you.”
“You’re most welcome. I suppose my work here is practically finished! You’ll be fully operational in no time. Try sitting up for me, please. Slow and steady, now.”
The Captain carefully eases himself upright.
“Very good. Any lingering visual artefacts? Are you hearing static? Do you taste iron?”
“No.”
“Then you’re cured. Congratulations.”
Starscream gives the stranger a lopsided smile. “Excuse me, but who exactly are you? I would surely recognise you, had we already met.” Smarmy to a fault.
“Oh, my manners! Hi, there.” A servo is offered, and willingly taken. “Name’s Knock Out.”
“It suits you.”
“Charmer!”
They shake once, firm and cordial.
“I’m one of Soundwave’s little ensemble. The medic, as it were, though I started out taking mechs apart, as opposed to repairing them.” A bewitching wink. “Funny how one’s career can take such interesting turns, is it not?”
“It certainly is.” A palm lays itself over a cockpit, regal and elegant. “I am Starscream, Captain of the elite Seeker unit, Megatron’s most beloved.”
“I know. You’re very important. He made that crystal clear to me.”
“And… why is he not here, attending to me in my hour of need? Ugh. Always busy, that one.”
“Hmm. He’s anticipating Orion’s response, I believe.”
“Then I’m to assume it happened?”
“Indeed. Quite the show!”
“Ugh. So I missed it. Pity.”
“You’ll catch the reruns. It’s all over social media. They’ve already made memes out of it.”
“You just have to adore online subcultures, mm.”
“Indeed. I’ll give him a buzz, let him know you’ve revived.”
“No need, good doctor. Allow me to test my legs.”
“You are aware that it cannot hear you.”
“She,” Acid Storm corrects mildly. “Yes. I know.”
Shockwave turns away from the projections of data splayed across the wall, his unblinking optic settling upon his assistant in enquiry, helm tilted a little to the left, posture indicating that he is distantly curious.“She is entirely unaware of you, in her current state.”
“It comforts me, though,” is the quiet explanation. “To talk to her, as if she can hear me… It’s comforting.”
“Your readings do not indicate that you are in distress.”
“I’m good at masking that sort of thing.”
He is respectfully silent, at that.
They caress the incubation chamber, cold to the touch, nurturing and hastening the moulding process of the protoform within, forcing it to assume the Seeker shape, forging an unwilling bond between Spark and brain module. “I’m doing this for my benefit, not hers.”
His singular optic watches his disembodied servo abandon its task to hover across the laboratory, settling itself upon his assistant’s pauldron in a manner he identifies as companionable.
They reach back, laying their own servo upon his, a warm and gentle pressure. “Thank you, Sir.”
He slowly lowers his gaze, pondering the precision multi-tool he soldered to his arm as a replacement for those very same digits. He still draws some sensation from their touch. The warmth, the gentleness of this pressure.
Megatron is pacing, changing channels with hasty presses upon the crystalline interface as if he may have missed Orion’s face on one of the broadcasts, the old gladiator’s grip threatening to shatter the remote.
Soundwave has already returned from Shadow Striker. He took one look at Megatron’s manic pacing and channel changing, shook his helm, and left him to it without saying a word.
Orion’s response is late. Uncharacteristically, he has been delayed. Is he panicked? Is he too distressed to face this?
The crowd bays for an answer.
“Good people of Cybertron–”
Megatron drops into his seat, optics upon the holoscreen. Finally.
“I stand before you, and I do not know the words I should say.”
Burning optics are wide, devouring.
“I have not prepared a written account,” Orion intones before the camera. His vocal processor warbles just a little more than is natural. His unusually harsh expression redefines some hidden aspects of his inward character. Always a very private mech, always careful, he is revealing more of himself than makes him comfortable. “I ask you to permit me to simply speak from my Spark.”
Megatron’s brain module aches.
“I am horrified.”
He grips the armrest of his seat. Heavy digits, scuffed and scarred and crude, curled, already threaten to warp the softer metal with a creak more akin to a whine.
“I fear I cannot console you, now.” The old archivist’s facial rigging is solemn, as is suited to the occasion. Yet there is a brief quiver of anger, it overcomes him in an instant, an undeniable anger that is not famous upon his face plates. And it is immediately cast out. “I cannot console myself.” Replaced with the most profound agony. This lingers.
Megatron has never seen Orion quite like this, before.
The old archivist’s mighty pauldrons are rigid. He is huge and imposing and hurt.
The old gladiator licks his dermas, sits further back in his seat, keenly observant of the little betrayals, yet struggling to reconcile them with the mech he has loved for millions of years. Is this what he wanted? Of course not. But it is a climax all the same.
“What Megatron has done…” There is the shadow of shame across the light of Orion’s optics, twitches of fear forming sentences within his twisted intake, and aged lines of loneliness deep and harsh over his defined cheeks. “I can only condemn. There is no comfort in this.”
The old gladiator’s Spark leaps in its chamber. His digestive tank feels bottomless.
“It is no secret that he and I campaigned side-by-side. I always believed we wanted the same thing. Yet it would seem that our dream split apart. I… have made a grave error in judgment, and he intends to deceive many more than I.” All beneath the gleam of the sun and the glares of the people upon the old archivist’s frame, he orchestrates himself and fails to contain the little tells that betray him. “I saw troubling signs. I should have stopped him years ago. I did not. So I will not rest, until I have corrected my mistake. I will do all I can, all I must, to put an end to what I helped start. Forgive me, Cybertron.”
The crowd roars.
“He will be made to answer for this.”
Their voices rise.
“I will…”
Megatron’s grip tightens further, effortlessly crushing what is weak. The armrest is warped. The holoscreen remote splinters, cracks branching across its crystalline shell.
Orion struggles to speak, now. He allows a servo to settle upon his arm, dragging slowly down the shapes until another palm compresses against his own, his digits captured and held in comfort. He looks aside as another frame steps into focus, bumping helms with him. “Thank you,” he finally murmurs.
Megatron chokes on his own vents. “Ariel?”
“Another old friend of yours?” drawls Starscream.
With a startled jerk, the old gladiator looks distinctly embarrassed, attempting to rise from his seat. “Forgive me, Star, I was just–”
“The plot thickens,” says the Captain with a shrewd smile, neatly plucking the remote from his lover’s grip before it shatters from the force. “Relax.” A digit neatly pushes down on a chassis, returning an aft to its seat.
Megatron flushes until he glows, with Starscream suddenly perched upon his lap, looping an arm about a thickset neck.
“I wish to watch this, too.”
A sigh, as if relieved.
“She’s very tall. Labourer, I take it.”
“Dockworker, turned explorer. She tends to live her life spacefaring.” Nuzzling into the Captain’s cheek, the old gladiator sighs again. “How do you feel?”
“I’m alright, dear. A lot on my mind.”
“We will talk.”
“Indeed, we shall.”
Megatron’s optics are on Orion and Ariel, despite the nuzzles applied to Starscream’s shell. “I trust Knock Out took good care of you. He was Soundwave’s recommendation.”
“Lovely fellow. I hope to see more of him.”
Orion holds Ariel’s servo throughout the remainder of his speech, tolerating the jeers and the accusations and the questions hurled at him betwixt the burly blue and white bodies of the police.
“Will she prove a problem for us?” asks Starscream, finally turning to gaze back at Megatron.
A wince answers that, first. “I hope to convince her otherwise.”
Slouched at her desk, Shadow Striker would appear to be asleep in her chair, a datapad forgotten upon her lap. Her scope is always alight, always staring. She left the door to her office open, just in case she is needed. Her instructions are not to interrupt her, otherwise.
Flamewar has always been a bit of a delinquent, though. And after being exiled from the recharge bay by Thunderblast with the proclamation that she needs her beauty sleep in order to function, the bike finds herself wandering. She usually just relocates to alternative places where she can casually sprawl out and take power naps to compensate, meaning that she inevitably subjects others to her snoring virtually anywhere, only to be inevitably chased away and forced to relocate again. “I knew it.”
The old mercenary’s scope whirs as it suddenly rolls its socket, swivelling neatly upwards and glaring at Flamewar.
She jerks back, startled.
Shadow Striker remains perfectly still and silent, despite this, apparently still in recharge. Yet perceiving. She does not interpret a threat, evidently, or the other femme would be very dead right now.
The bike exhales, then creeps forward again, laying her talons upon the desk and leaning in to peer deeply into the mercenary’s scope. “That is so fraggin’ spooky,” comes out soft, awed, their faces hovering inches apart. Then she looks down, peering at the datapad’s interface. “Nice.”
“Hello.”
“Aaah!”
Shadow Striker is decidedly awake, now. Her optic peels open, irritable. She smirks in her grouchy, mean way, taking pleasure in the scrambling retreat. “What do you want?”
“Uh, sorry.” Flamewar offers a fanged grin, adorably handsome, flushed, scratching her neck. “Nothing. Hey, uh, you’ll kill your back, Sir, if you keep sleeping like that.”
“Go away.”
“Will do!” The bike salutes, turns on her heel struts, and saunters out the mercenary’s office. “Oh, and Sir?”
“Humph.”
“I like your brand of self-care.” A backwards nod over a pauldron, aimed at the datapad in Shadow Striker’s lap, which was last used to access a rather scintillating weapons catalogue. “It’s a beaut.”
“A femme has needs.”
“Bigger the better, Sir?”
“That’s my preference.”
Being rather small, Flamewar laughs with a throaty rumble of her engine that far exceeds her scale, departing on swaying hips.
“I can’t leave. Cybertron is my home. If I abandon it, then…” Bumblebee allows Windblade to cup his cheeks in her palms, tilting his helm back, locking their optics together. “I’m sorry, but I can’t even imagine doing that.”
“I understand.”
“But I totally get it if you feel like you’ve gotta go back to Caminus for the same reasons I’ve gotta stay.”
“No. That’s not happening.”
“It’s okay. I’ll love you from a distance. Nothing will change between us.”
“Bee.”
“You don’t have to get caught up in this. Maybe… you should go back. You’re super important, Windblade. Not just to me, but to your home-world.”
“I won’t leave you. And Cybertron is my home, too.” She nuzzles him in the place just between his brows.
“Aw, Windblade.”
“You’re stuck with me. Sorry.”
“That’s awesome.”
She eases back a bit, her smile lopsided, exhausted.
He smiles cutely up at her, his engine offering a friendly buzz. It is all so very fragile.
“I love you.”
“Love you back.”
Chromia and Hot Rod are gone.
It is just them, now.
“Hold me.”
Windblade scoops Bumblebee in her slender arms, astonishingly strong, easily lifting his short but stocky frame up against her chassis. Their helms come to rest together.
“Just like this, yeah.”
She is usually the one to take initiative. But she will do whatever he tells her to do.
“Kiss me.”
She brushes their intakes together.
He smiles against her dermas. Then the kiss opens, yawning.
She is caught between her desire to protect him, to see him happy, to keep him close, and her sheer desire in and of itself.
He sighs into her throat, his digits skirting her jawline.
She swallows his recycled air with a soft hum.
Notes:
I’ve referred first and foremost to Earthspark for inspiration in characterising Ariel later dubbed Elita One/Elita-One/Elita 1/Elita-1 (yes, I know, though I’ll generally just call her Elita when the time comes). I do like to make references here and there to the comics, also. Overall, I like the interpretation of her being this tough older lady commander type with a good Spark and an abrasive sense of camaraderie, sort of as a character foil for the wise and gentle father figure Orion Pax later Optimus Prime, as well as the sinisterly soft-spoken warrior and philosopher Megatron who tries very hard to forget that was not always his name. Your feedback and ideas are always welcome. Thanks for reading!
Chapter 18: Birth
Summary:
Sentinel shows up and brings his elite guard with him, humiliated and betrayed, promptly assuming leadership of the entire operation, intent on stopping Megatron by any means necessary. Orion Pax and Ariel thus reunite with their estranged best friend, though there will be ample disagreements as to how, exactly, Megatron should be dealt with and what a future Cybertron should look like. Thus the High Council is first formed as a replacement of the Senate: Sentinel, Orion Pax, Ariel and Alpha Trion, who all stand to oppose Megatron and Starscream in one way or another. Slipstream suffers in a hovel underground with delinquents for companionship, but she is coming to discover that these delinquents are quirky and likeable, beginning to bond with them despite her misery and misfortune, though their leader Shadow Striker is perhaps the most surprising source of companionship. A Seeker is born, the first of a new era of their restored kind, and Starscream fondly names her Skywarp.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
“Thank you for coming to our aid, Sentinel.”
“I appreciate the summons, Alpha Trion. I would have arrived sooner,” the towering mech declares with a stern chin and narrowed optics, his array of commemorative medals gleaming like fire across his ample bosom. His heavily armoured, stately frame embodies the masculine ideal of strength and fortitude. “However, I was kept rather busy attending to funerals.” He has a booming voice, a commanding presence. “There were quite a few of them.”
Orion is about to say something intended to bestow comfort when a raised palm silences his attempt.
“Don’t.”
Ariel tightens her jaw. Glances at Alpha Trion, who sighs, stroking his beard. They knew this would not be an easy reunion.
“I lost good mechs and femmes back there.” Sentinel’s sneer reveals perfectly maintained dentas. “Your dear old friend brutalised them.”
Orion lowers his gaze, contrite. “Sentinel, I–”
“Don’t!”
Arial grimaces when Sentinel prods Orion with a digit to the chassis hard enough to transfer paint between them, forcing the gentler, less volatile mech to take a step back, simply to avoid a fight. It almost leaves a dent.
“To the outside looking in, it looks like my elite guard failed at their posts, which would imply that I failed when I had them trained and assigned them to safeguard the Senate! Do you have any idea how this damages my reputation? Don’t feed me those platitudes, Orion! This should never have happened! I hold you accountable for what he has done. You, and that idiotic little campaign of yours, filling one another’s helms with ridiculous dreams, poisoning the public.”
“Ease up, Sentinel. It’s not Orion’s fault Megatron finally snapped. It was a long time coming. I think we can all recognise that, now.”
“Oh, Ariel, your presence here does not evade my notice. There are many things I could say to–” Sentinel, having turned to her with a heavy sigh, only to pause, now leans in a little closer. “Wait.” He is squinting at her arm. “Is that a tattoo?”
She follows his optics, gazing down at the shapely casing that envelops the powerful cords of her right bicep. “Oh, yeah.” She flexes impressively. “Nice, huh? I lost a bet with the crew.”
“…Anyway. As I was saying.” He straightens out, looking her in the optics, now. “Funny you should mention what has been a long time coming. Considering you’ve been away for, oh, how long has it been since you abandoned us all? I suppose this is your long time homecoming, mm.”
“Sentinel,” Orion chastises, “that is uncalled for.”
“Not the time, not the place,” adds Ariel, folding her arms over her chassis, in turn only emphasising her tattoo. “Later, alright? I’ll let you tear me a new one when this is all over. In the meantime, Cybertron’s in trouble, and I’m gonna need everyone onboard to fix this scrap. As a team.”
“We’re not a team.”
“Well, get used to it, ’cause we’re gonna have to be.”
Sentinel huffs, drawing back proudly. “I hold rank here. I am the one who is qualified, and experienced. I don’t need a team. I have my elite guard.”
“Ugh. Please, don’t make this a whole ego thing.”
“You need me. But I don’t need you. Remember that! I’ll save Cybertron myself, with the combined might of my elite guard. You’ll thank me, then.”
“Look, Sentinel, I’m a femme of action. I’m in this to win this. And maybe you forgot, but we were all friends, once. Us, and Megatron, too.”
“Bah! I never really liked him.”
“Well, I did. I’m not leaving him to you. You’ve got my help, whether you want it or not.”
“Fine. You may assist, but you follow my orders.”
“Uh, I don’t think so. No way you’re bossing everybody else around. Not this time, pal. Your Academy days are long gone. We’re doing this as equals.”
“We are not equals.”
Ariel tightens her stance. “Then this isn’t gonna work.”
“Is there a problem with my command?”
“Old friends.” Orion steps forward, clearing his intake. “Let us direct our focus to–”
“I demand an answer.”
“Sentinel.”
“Ariel. What’s the problem? Mm?”
“Your superior attitude is the problem.”
“Oh, is that so?”
“Your job makes you mean.”
“My job makes me great and powerful. Most femmes appreciate that in a mech.”
“Well, okay, but it’s why I dumped you those millions of years ago.”
Sentinel’s chin quivers with emotion.
“You used to be an amazing guy, before all… this consumed you.” Ariel indicates his various medals. “I saw a fragload of potential in you from the day we met, and by Primus, I did my best to be supportive of your pride. But you just… let it all get to your helm.”
“I was dedicated! It means something, to me!”
“We stopped being compatible, when you started living the ideals that would keep labourers like me down. You got those upgrades, but I stayed the same. It made you mean, Sentinel.”
“Was I ever cruel? Did I ever mistreat you?”
“You forgot all about my thoughts and feelings and whatever dreams I might’ve had. I felt like a pretty accessory to you. But I made you ashamed, too. We all did, eventually. We weren’t shiny and new, not like you.”
“Say it,” he croaks, optic shutters narrowed. “Say what you really mean by all that.”
“C’mon. I’ve said enough. I don’t wanna make this any worse than it has to be.”
“Say it, Ariel. Please. I need to hear it from you, and… for real. Not what I’ve imagined you’d say.”
“Fine. I’m not sorry I left. There. I said it.”
“There it is! Hear that, Orion? She didn’t miss us at all!”
“That is not what she said, Sentinel.”
Ariel rubs her neck, grimacing softly. “I just had to go. I tried to explain it before I left, but you wouldn't listen.”
Sentinel squints down at her.
“It's true. I’m not sorry I left. I’m just sorry I hurt you.”
"Is that an apology?"
"It's a lousy one."
"Fine. Any apology might’ve meant something before. It could’ve spared me a lot of thinking about you. For my part, I’m sorry you felt like you had to run away from me.”
“I didn’t run away from you! Primus’ ball-bearings! We broke up. But it wasn’t your fault I left Cybertron after that.”
“So… I didn’t make you miserable?”
“No, Sentinel. You didn’t.”
He nods slowly. “Okay. Thank you."
She flinches.
"I feel marginally better about myself, now.”
"Can I give you a hug?"
"Ha! Not a chance."
“We’ve both gotta get over ourselves for the greater good.” Ariel offers Sentinel her servo instead. “Can you at least tolerate me long enough to stop Megatron?”
Sentinel glares at the digits, suspicious. He wants to kiss them.
“Please. Work with me, here. Just think of me as a necessary evil. The means to an end. Okay?”
“I do not approve of your wording,” Orion gently interjects. “That is very unkind, Ariel.”
“It’s acceptable,” drawls Sentinel. “Very well, then.”
Ariel feels his grip. It is familiarly steadfast.
“For Cybertron.”
“For Cybertron.”
They shake once.
“Oh, and Ariel.”
“Yeah, Sentinel?” She quirks an optic ridge when he brushes his thumb across hers.
“For what it’s worth…” He sighs loudly. “Welcome home.”
“Thanks.” She smiles, tired and old.
He does something that almost looks like a smile, too.
Their servos finally part ways.
“My friends.” Orion gazes upon them with familiar, intimate warmth. “Fate finds us together, again. Let us stand united. Henceforth, we should not fight amongst ourselves, for that is not the way forward.”
“Still gives speeches like he used to,” Ariel murmurs fondly.
Sentinel chuckles at that. “He never stopped. You missed out on some real doozies.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that.” Orion’s smile turns decidedly playful, and then entirely fades. “It is so good to see you again. I only wish the circumstances were happier, and that we were whole, again. Megatron should be here, too.”
Ariel promptly pulls Orion into a big, macho hug, with plenty of back slapping and soothing grunting noises buried in his neck, her arms squeezing him tightly enough that his frame creaks.
Sentinel offers Orion a placating little pat on the pauldron.
“Thank you, my friends. I needed that.”
“Now that we are all in agreement.” Alpha Trion folds his arms behind his back. “We shall form the leadership of our resistance movement, which I tentatively refer to as a High Council. Any objections?”
“Diplomatic ring to it,” chimes in Orion, still getting thoroughly hugged.
Sentinel and Ariel murmur their agreement.
“We will have our strength, and wisdom, in numbers,” Alpha Trion continues patiently. “Clearly, Megatron is not operating alone, so he already has the advantage. There is the matter of aerial Captain Starscream to contend with.”
“Very unpleasant mech.”
“Humph. Never met him.”
“Be glad for it.”
“Which will in turn involve his elite Seekers.” Alpha Trion shakes his helm solemnly. “If they were to resume cold construction, the consequences would be dire. We cannot allow that to happen.”
“Alright, then.” Arial releases Orion, finally, and slams a fist into her own palm, bouncing on her heels. “Team! Let’s talk strategy, and keep it short and simple. We’re on borrowed time and we’ve already been at this for way too long.”
“Front and centre. I’m going to take the fight to Megatron, personally.” Sentinel bangs his own breastplate with a sturdy, heavy clang. “So whatever plan we come up with, I want a go with the old gladiator myself, mech to mech. I’ll take him down and humiliate him. That’ll demoralise his rebels and end his crusade in one fell swoop.”
“That would be suicide,” Orion cautions. “You are a strong combatant, Sentinel, and I do not mean to offend you. Yet we all know Megatron is mighty in battle. You would fight with honour, he would fight to win.”
“It would be suicide – for him.” Sentinel sets his servos on his hips, puffing out his chassis. “I have my honour, but I also have a really big hammer. I got it with my latest promotion. Does he have a really big hammer? I think not.”
“He has a rather imposing flail, if you recall.”
“I know what he has, Orion! No matter. I’ll crush his insurrection, scatter his allies to the wind, and have him strung up publicly before all of Cybertron. He’ll be executed for treason.”
Ariel throws out an arm, as if to strike the notion aside. “No way is that happening!”
“Sentinel!” Orion is appalled. “We are not barbaric!”
“You know the law! You are a learned mech, yourself. File clerk.”
“Archivist,” he corrects a little stiffly. “Retired.”
“Whatever.” Sentinel turns to Ariel, next. “Justice will be done, and we’ll do it as it is written down. It’s what the Senate would demand of us.” A solemn sigh. “May their Sparks rest in peace.”
“The Senate’s gone,” she concurs brusquely, with a remorseful incline of her helm. “But this is our chance to do things differently, Sentinel. To do things better.”
Orion feels a surge of affection and gratitude for her resolve, so akin to his own. He finds her servo and squeezes it fondly. “Thank you. This, I hope to do.”
“And we will.”
“Together.”
“Better?” Sentinel echoes, glaring down at their interwoven digits. “How would you know what’s better for Cybertron? Orion, you’ve been compromised by Megatron’s lunacy!”
“He is not a lunatic.”
“Ariel, you’ve been gone for far too long to judge our way of life!”
“Looks like nothing much has changed since I left.”
“I knew the ways of the Senate! The Senate was not perfect, this much is true, but theirs was a system that worked, it kept order!”
“We are not executing Megatron,” Orion repeats firmly. Scarily, even. “I will never consider it. I will never allow it.”
Sentinel actually takes a step back. “He destroyed my guys!”
“An abominable action, for which he will answer – severely.”
“We’re gonna put him away.” Ariel folds her arms with a pneumonic hiss. “For a long, long time.” But she has her doubts.
“I want him offline, not imprisoned with a life sentence!” Sentinel glares between Orion and Ariel for several moments, then turns away with a snarl. “Alpha Trion, I implore you, make them see sense! That monster needs to suffer termination!”
“You would only make him a martyr,” the ancient intones wearily. “So much for a peaceful resolution. This will be a long, long meeting.”
And this bold new day is still young.
According to the readings, it is bright and beautiful on Cybertron, out across the surface of the planet. However, its light and warmth do not extend underground. The air is stale down here, still and damp. Bare walls are closing in. The ceiling is sinking. The lights hum their encroaching madness. Tectonic plates of primordial living metal throb below, distant and huge, a dreamless slumber and an endless womb fed by the rivers of mercury, pockets of gas, and crystalline shards of raw, unrefined Energon.
Slipstream feels like crawling out of her own shell to relieve herself of the discomfort of being a flier trapped underground.
“Hey.” Flamewar gives the bigger femme a playful prod in the side, with a rather sharp talon. “You okay?”
The Seeker grunts, wincing, optics tiredly gazing at nothing. “I’m just great, thank you.” The tone is, for lack of a better descriptor, perfectly articulated for customer service, if one were not fond of customers.
“You’re definitely not okay, then.” The bike sips her morning ration of Energon. “More bad dreams?”
“No. It’s this place.”
“Yeah, it’s nasty.”
“Actually, I mean – well, yes, it is, but I’m a flier. I’m not built for living like this. It’s worse for me.”
“Hey, I geddit.” Flamewar sighs, slouching rudely on the bench. “I miss the open road, wind flowing across my shell. I always drove solo, going my own pace. Owning that open road.”
“Didn’t you ever get lonely?”
“Nah. I’ve always been a solitary sort. Great fun at parties, though.”
“It sounds lonely, to me.”
“Don’t you ever fly solo?”
“Seekers are instinctively drawn to trines. We fly in formation.”
“Ah. Okay.” A sidelong look. “Guys with wheels like me, or treads like Demolishor over there? We may be called grounders, but we’re all feeling the pinch, here, Slippy.” It is not said harshly. “We don’t actually live in, like, burrows underground.” A little teasingly, perhaps.
“Oh, I didn’t mean to insinuate–” Slipstream stops, struggling with herself, flushed. Starscream has made crude jokes about this very scenario. About how grounders bury themselves in the dirt, where they feel most at home, thus explaining their perpetual imaginary filth. “Um. Sorry. That wasn’t what I meant.”
“It’s okay. You fliers have some funny attitudes about us grounders.”
The jet gives the bike a wounded look. “Just because I’m a Seeker, doesn’t make me prejudiced like that.”
“You know what? You’re right. I’m sorry, Slippy.” Flamewar picks at her cheek with a claw. “Looks like I need to reassess my own preconceptions about fliers, if I’m gonna go misjudging you like that.”
“It goes both ways,” intones Demolishor very wisely.
“Oh, we are making such societal strides this morning,” Thunderblast purrs with a giggle, inspecting her slender digits, applying a little polish to the tips. “I sympathise, Slipstream, sweetie. I’m built for the open sea. I was the terror of the silver waves, once. Now, I’m stuck surfing storm drains.”
“Terror?” the Seeker echoes.
“Mmhm.” The boat nods. “I sunk and plundered a few suckers for their cargo, I transported contraband for hefty profit, I had a crew. Made a lotta bank, honestly. And it was exciting.”
“Wait.” Flamewar gasps. “So, when you told me you used to be a pirate–”
“Smuggler, sweetie. I do not like the term ‘pirate’ – it’s tacky.”
“Yeah, but, like, you weren’t messing with me? All the stories you told me out on the mercury, they’re true? That stuff actually happened?”
“Barely any embellishment at all. What, didn’t you believe me? Shame on you, imagining that I would lie.”
“Whoa.” The bike slouches with an eager rev of her engine, throaty. “You just got upgraded in my mind from being kinda cool, to actual certified badaft material!”
“Ahh. I was crazy, back then.” The boat hums, adding a little extra polish to the digit she uses as a stylus when browsing her social media. “What I didn’t tell you, is that I used to be in search and rescue, the oceanic division, before I dived into a life of crime.”
“No way.”
“It’s true. I was real heroic, a good girl. But then I met a really bad girl. And she made me bad, too.”
“A pirate?! You fell in love with a pirate?!”
“Smuggler!” Thunderblast gives Flamewar a look. “What is it with you and the whole pirate thing, anyway? It’s endearing, but weird. Like, maybe you’re actually a little fixated on it.”
“I wanna be a pirate! But, out in space.” A clawed servo sweeps the air, as if to illustrate a picture. “With my own shuttle, my own crew, with energy swords and everything.”
Slipstream turns to Demolishor in utter disbelief.
“It sounds quite adventurous,” he offers kindly, because he is a really nice mech most of the time.
“Hey!” Flamewar leans over the table, optics bright, wide. “Can you do the pirate voice, and the accent? Please?”
Thunderblast purses her plump, glossy lips. “No.”
“Aaaaw!”
“I’d like to hear more about your, um, smuggler ex-girlfriend,” Slipstream speaks up shyly, to which Flamewar nods with great enthusiasm.
“Ohh, her optics were intense, farseeing. The rack on her! Her thighs were so thick, too. She even had a hook for her left servo, which was pretty neat.”
“Like a pirate!”
“I know someone with a hook for a servo.”
“Is he a pirate?”
“No.”
“Bummer.”
“Anyway, one look at her, and I was a goner. I dropped my old search and rescue team and threw myself into her arms. Literally.”
“Wow.”
“I worked my way up the ranks, became her second in command, after a million years or so.”
“That’s kind of… romantic, really,” Slipstream mumbles. “Even if you did offline people and take their stuff.”
“It was very romantic.” Thunderblast smiles prettily, sighing. “She was the best frag I’ve ever had. The things she did with that hook, girl, you would not believe!”
“Like a kinky pirate!”
“I’ll say.”
“What a life I’ve lived. No regrets!”
“And is she dead?” asks Shadow Striker suddenly. “I get the feeling this story has a sad ending, since you’re here now, stuck with us.”
“She died.” Thunderblast sighs, laying a palm to her chassis. “I ran the crew for a while, but… my Spark just wasn’t in it. I lost interest.”
Flamewar looks utterly dejected at the notion.
“And since I was a wanted criminal,” Thunderblast continues evenly, “I couldn’t go back to my old life. I found my salvation the moment the right mech came along. He was an admiral with connections in the right places. Got my crimes officially pardoned and started a new life with him.”
“Is he dead, too?”
“He totally is! How’d you guess?”
Shadow Striker gives Thunderblast a probing look, saying nothing.
Demolishor and Slipstream exchange glances of their own.
“And now, here I am.” Unbothered, Thunderblast blows air on her digits, coaxing the polish to dry. “The rest, as they say, is history.”
“I’m surprised you kept your alt-mode,” Slipstream speaks up, as politely as such a thing can be said. “It’s so… distinct, and specific.”
“Niche, you mean. It can be inconvenient inland, true. But I like being a boat. We’re pretty rare, and just pretty in general. Can’t fit curves like these on just any frame, you know. Not to frame-shame, of course.”
Flamewar suddenly drags her claws over the table with a metallic scrape, splaying the unusually sharp digits out before Thunderblast, who quirks an optic ridge in response. “Hey, do me, next.”
The boat obligingly scoops up the bike’s smaller, sharper servos, applying polish to the bladed tips of her digits, making them shine.
“Is that actually happening?” Shadow Striker intones, briefly contemplating her canteen, as if Shockwave may have spiked its contents with hallucinogenic agents.
Slipstream watches this absurd event unfold from up close. “Yes, Sir.”
“She’s making me pretty,” Flamewar chirps happily.
“So pretty,” Thunderblast intones with fondness. “Wanna go next, Slipstream?”
“Um. No, thank you.”
“Can I have some, too? My servos are a mess.”
“Of course you can, Demolishor. If I’ve got enough polish for that.”
Shadow Striker is fascinated by these fools she is in charge of. “Frag me sideways, I’m too old for this scrap. You’re all so weird.”
“Aaand done! It’s just one coat. You probably should get, like, three, minimum. But it’s nice, huh?”
“Like an ambush predator,” murmurs Flamewar, admiring her gleaming claws, the wicked points sinfully sharp, shiny and refreshed. “Ready to pounce and rip somebody’s face right off.”
“No, you’ve done enough damage to your servos already.” Thunderblast wags a shiny digit disapprovingly, then flicks the smaller femme affectionately over the forehelm. “Get yourself a knife like normal people do.”
“Sir, tell me I look pretty.”
“You look pretty.”
“Like you mean it, Sir!”
“I second the knife suggestion,” is Shadow Striker’s compromise. Meaningfully said.
Flamewar giggle-snorts, delighted by her claws. “Ooh, look at me.” She licks a fang, a rather seductive gesture, and passes her servos to Slipstream. “I’m fabulous. See?”
The Seeker awkwardly accepts the bike’s servos, cradling the considerably smaller digits in her own, inspecting them. “Oh, that does look nice.”
Shadow Striker squints at Demolishor, getting his tubes polished courtesy of Thunderblast.
“Heh-heh-heh. It’s kinda ticklish.”
“Gonna make you so pretty.”
“Okay! I’d like that.”
“You should give this a go, Sir,” Flamewar says, quite happy to have Slipstream hold her servos, because she does not know what else to do with them.
Shadow Striker looks quite unimpressed.
Flamewar flashes her fangs. “We’re bonding, Sir!”
“Uh-huh.”
“I feel so close to you guys, right now. Especially you, Slippy.”
“Uh.”
“Gal pals,” Thunderblast intones agreeably, busy with her polish, applying it to the massive servo laid out on the table before her. “And Demolishor’s here, too.”
“Yup!”
“We’re such a team, now.”
Shadow Striker curls her lip with utter disdain. “Okay, I’m done.” She downs her Energon and disposes of the canteen, sauntering past them. She never sits at their bench. “I’ll be in my office. Don’t bother me.”
“Aw, Sir, come back! We’re just about to talk about guys we like!”
“Oooh! Let’s talk about Starscream and Megatron.”
“I would rather blow my own mainframe out.”
“You’re no fun, Sir!”
Shadow Striker pauses at the door, directing a backwards scowl, scope whirring. “Excuse you, I am tons of fun.”
“Slippy, tell her she’s boring.”
“Actually, she’s an incredible dancer.”
“What? Really?”
“Yes,” Slipstream intones, flushed, playing with Flamewar’s claws. “Really.”
“You guys danced together, huh?” Thunderblast has a dirty thought. It shows on her gorgeous facial rigging.
“Um, no, I don’t dance. I just watched her.”
“Ooooh. Did she dance for you?”
“Not on her lap, for frag’s sake.” Shadow Striker barks with a laugh, and finally disappears. “Get your afts to work.” Her voice echoes in the dim. “You know the roster.”
“Yes, Sir,” they chorus after her, in their varying tones.
“Flamewar, you’ve got really nice servos. Unusual.”
“Thank you, Slippy. They’re modified for my bowstring. I give a mean back scratch, too, if you’ve ever got an itch.”
“I’ll be sure to remember that.”
“Don’t do it, sweetie. She’ll ruin your paint.”
“Thunderblast, I apologised.”
“I didn’t say I’d forgiven you.”
A fully formed, inert Seeker emerges gleaming from the decompressing mould.
“Ohh, by the Thirteen,” Starscream murmurs, optics wide with wonder. “Look at her. She’s… perfect.”
Visual inspection indicates she is perfectly standard.
Yet he almost swoons, catching himself on Megatron’s arm.
A rugged smile. “It is as I promised you, Star.”
“My Spark is… resonating with hers. It is singing.”
Acid Storm, normally very placid, has acquired an unusual tremble throughout their frame. They feel it, too. Something awesome. Awful.
“Power levels sufficient,” drones Shockwave. “Cutting Energon flow. Initiating startup sequence.”
There is a shudder, an untempered sensory network among the first of her functions to come online. The Seeker femme gasps, thus jerking awake. Her optics pry open, flickering.
Acid Storm leans on something solid for support, staring with some disbelief at the life they helped create.
“It’s really happening!” Starscream laughs once, squeezing Megatron’s servo. “A fresh face to call my own!”
“This is just the beginning. What shall you name her?”
The scrolling of text prompts fills a portion of the freshly forged Seeker’s internalised HUD, thus she is largely blind, for the moment. She tests some movement, discerns that her limbs are restrained by the maternal guts of cables where Energon used to flow via the insulated connectors scattered throughout her frame. She is sagging in place, held awkwardly upright like a prisoner in shackles.
“How about…”
The brain module is filled with names and faces and places and combat parameters long dormant. Imparted information, none of it original. None of it hers.
“Skywarp.”
Even her own designation has been imparted upon her. She knows all she needs to know, except this one thing, which she will learn to accept in time.
“Can I approach her, now?” Starscream is mindful enough to ask of Shockwave, despite being giddy with excitement. “It is, um, safe to do so?”
“Affirmative. You may proceed.”
The Captain beams brightly as he swaggers on over to where his new Seeker yet dangles in place, blinking against the harsh lighting. “Hello, my darling Skywarp.”
She fixes her bright optics upon him. Reacts to his approach with a tilt of her helm, avian and adorable.
“Skywarp, that’s who you are. Yes. Hi!” He settles before her with his servos held invitingly out, reaching for her cheeks, caressing her face plate very gently with his thumbs as he cradles her helm betwixt his palms. “Do you like it? It’s the name I’ve chosen for you.”
After a moment to reflect on her given designation, she nods into his servos, apparently satisfied.
“Excellent. I think it suits your colours. What a flattering composition! You’re rather pretty, my dear. We will look good together.”
She pauses to gaze down at herself. Ponders her own appearance. Nods again.
“Do you recognise me, darling?”
She frowns, taking in his unusual appearance. She understands that he has had his frame rebuilt, because that is what the updated data transfer has led her to know, thus explaining why he looks so strange.
“Oh, my love, do I look a little different? Is that confusing?”
She nods.
“Evidently not the talkative type. Well! No matter. I am Captain Starscream, of course. You answer to me, now. If my appearance confuses you, that is quite alright, my dear. Your leader must stand out, you see. I’m distinct for good reason.”
She just stares at him, now. It is actually quite unsettling.
“Um…” Starscream turns back to Shockwave and Acid Storm. “She can talk, can’t she?”
“There were no abnormalities detected during the forging process to indicate that she is defective.” Shockwave frowns at his terminal. “Speak, Seeker.”
Skywarp says nothing.
Acid Storm cringes when Shockwave makes a low sound.
“Disappointing.”
“Sir, may I inspect her? Perhaps I might be able to determine the cause.”
“Affirmative.”
“Allow me.” Megatron steps forth.
Skywarp looks up at him.
“Can you talk?” he asks her.
She nods.
“I see. Yet you choose silence.”
She nods again.
“Well, there’s your answer, then.” He seems quite amused by this. “You Seekers are just full of character quirks by your very nature, it would seem.”
“Indeed, I must believe it so. Ah, well. As I said. No matter.” Starscream strokes Skywarp’s helm, eliciting a little purr. “You’re the start of a whole new era for our kin, you know. Come, let us disconnect you from these feeding tubes and set you on your first steps. Welcome to the world, my love.”
Strongarm sits at Prowl’s berthside, holding his servo. She comes to see him in his medbay at least once per day, when she can find the time. Recent unrest has kept her busy.
He is still in deep stasis, recovering from his wounds. His bosom has been painstakingly reconstructed.
She sighs, squeezing his digits.
“In these tumultuous times,” Sky-Byte intones solemnly at the bar, stood with a microphone in his servo and a tall drink propped up beside him, poised dramatically before his groaning audience, “I would like to lift your Sparks with a special selection of poems I’ve prepared for this evening. Ahem. I shall now begin.”
“Aw, yeah! Poetry,” Clobber declares with a delighted clap of her pincers, smiling over at Lockdown. “Thunder would love this.” And then her smile is suddenly gone. “Oh. But he’s not here.” And she looks so very unhappy.
“I hope the Seekers are okay,” says Lockdown, his handsomely ghastly face rendered soft with concern. “Especially now Starscream’s in the news.”
“Ohh, yeah. That guy’s in a lotta trouble, huh.”
“I think so.”
Dead End slowly shakes his helm. Being the smart one can be a burden.
Notes:
I've based this iteration of Sentinel on a variety of sources, with my own peculiarities thrown in (such as an imagined redesign that does not stray far from the most popular source). As for Skywarp, she is a femme in Cyberverse who appears for, like, five minutes, with no speaking lines (or pranks) at all! You may not have even realised she was there. Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed!
Chapter 19: Recompense
Summary:
Starscream explains a rather personal reason why he has allied with Megatron - for the good of the Seekers and the restoration of their kind, subjected to such selective cruelty by their former masters and makers. Strongarm encounters her runaway ex, Nightra, who wants to make amends in these dangerous times. Bumblebee meets the High Council for himself to lend Orion Pax support as a new recruit, Ariel instantly taking a liking to the little guy, though Sentinel is a bolt-head. The friends are inspired by Bumblebee's bravery and all opt to join, except for Chromia, who just wants to take Windblade and go back home, to Caminus, where she will be safe. Flamewar ends up in berth with Slipstream.
Notes:
Possible trigger warning: allusions to a gradual genocide.
Chapter Text
“Indulge my brief history lesson, to restate the obvious. It is of considerable personal investment, you see.”
“Please, go ahead.”
“Thank you, Megatron.” Starscream gestures, bringing up a hard-light interface. “That war was over. For better or worse, the Senate took control as the victors. Although we existed before their rule, they considered Seekers theirs to dispose of, once our purpose had been served.”
Megatron’s vents exhale harshly, but he stays politely silent.
“I was forged late. I did not see much action. Most of my kind were destroyed during that war, leaving myself with the inexperienced dregs to command once my old Captain had stepped down. I soon realised our grossly diminished numbers were no longer to be replenished and my pleas for help were denied, and then ignored. We are all that is left of us, now.”
Acid Storm feels Shockwave’s disembodied servo squeeze their own.
“We Seekers were permitted to exist pathetically like this, as symbols of the past – mere reminders of the Senate’s benevolence and victorious warmongering alike. Yet, we were deemed too dangerous to be left to reproduce, too inherently weaponised to be cost-effectively reconverted for civic functionality. The rise of Functionism gave the Senate power, and our forms dictated our function. As we were soldiers, and there was to be no more war, we had been deemed redundant. We became ornaments. We are not unique in this regard. Other combat-ready frames would suffer similar fates.”
Their optics are upon a three-dimensional holomap projected within the centre of the room, manipulated with deft digit strokes.
“Measures were taken by the now dearly departed Senate, ensuring that we Seekers would be doomed to eventual extinction.” Starscream has spoken calmly, thus far, to his unusual credit. This is not an impassioned rant. “The Senate was sure to confiscate the knowledge of cold construction, not only of the Seeker frame, but of others as well, before they gutted the factories that once produced Seekers by the thousands, leaving us to die out.”
Locations now flicker into prominence across that globe, pulsing.
“But I know of hidden factories, shielded from cursory scans. My ancestors were not always owned by the Senate. My predecessor told me of these places. If we can get these factories operational again, I will set my Seekers free. Then there will be justice.”
Acid Storm remains outwardly placid when Starscream suddenly turns.
“We Seekers do not need the Senate’s permission to exist. It is finally time to right this terrible wrong.”
Megatron smiles ruggedly at the emotive twinkle in Starscream’s optics.
“It has been some days, now, and Skywarp still functions. Mischievous and mute, she may be, but… she is vibrant, in good health, and accepted by the others.” Starscream rubs his brows, clearing his intake. “She is living proof of your concept. I have the hope that this forging can be achieved again, and again, and again. Yes. I have… hope, now.”
The stationed police officers and elite guard imposingly mingle together, an intimidating barrier between the High Council and any outside threat. However, they also prevent Cybertronian civilians and journalists from entering the inner sanctum, which Orion does not entirely agree with but Sentinel insists upon as a matter of pride as much as security in the wake of the Senate’s fall. The officers and guards swap stories, enquire about gear and training, and bemoan their bosses.
“Ugh, Sentinel is just the worst! He’s always so rude. Makes a big deal outta nothing. Elite guard my aft! We’re just security. And he does not pay an elite wage, lemme tell ya.”
“Well, can’t be much worse than what we’ve got. Prowl’s a total hardaft. Fancies himself another Dropforge from way back when. Thinks he can turn the force around, fix our reputation.”
“Ha! Like that’ll ever happen!”
“Be respectful, you two. Prowl’s incapacitated. I heard it was really bad.”
“Yeah, having Megatron punch you in the tits would be bad. Nice tits, too. Shame.”
“Ayo!”
Strongarm clenches her jaw and marches on. She never was the chatty type. She avoids optic contact and scans the perimeter as she patrols, running a constant threat assessment in her background processes.
“Hey, girl,” one of the elite guard says, suddenly walking alongside the irritable police officer. Although her helm is closed, blocking direct view of her face plate, her smile is audible and her voice is familiar, as are her optics. “Long time no see.”
“Nightra,” Strongarm murmurs, her powerful, stocky frame sagging as she draws to a stop and turns to the other femme with disbelief, softening her ready stance. “Is that really…?”
“Me? Sure is. Just a different look. Like the kibble? It’s alright, huh?”
“You’re… very much in uniform.”
“Like you.”
“Mine’s a little less ostentatious.” A tired smile, a servo outstretched, digits trembling. “No offence.”
“None taken!” The guard grabs that servo, offering a firm grip, a friendly shake. “How’s it going?”
“Terribly,” replies the officer, returning it with more world-weariness.
“Yeah, same. Everything sucks.”
Their servos disconnect, dropping at their reinforced hip joints.
“Hey, check you out, though. You look good! Seeing you has brightened my day!”
“Thanks. I can’t really see much of you, in all that,” Strongarm admits in her vaguely shy, slightly gruff way of speaking, to rather endearing effect. “Could you, um…?”
“Sure.” Giggling, Nightra finally opens the protective panels of her modified helm, exposing her own expression. Her smile has a guilty weight to it. “Better?”
“Wow.”
“Pick your jaw up off the floor, I’m not that pretty. ’Sides, most of this shiny scrap is just for show. Makes me look bigger and tougher than I really am. Not too crazy about the colours, though.”
“It’s working.”
“Yeah? You impressed?”
“I am.” The officer’s optics are wide, tracing the guard’s facial features intimately, familiarly. “But underneath all that, you’re just like I remember you.”
Nightra flinches, then smiles guiltily again. “You telling me I haven’t aged at all?” She hopes that is what Strongarm meant.
“You really haven’t. You’ve barely changed.”
The guard looks down.
The officer steps closer.
Nightra shivers when Strongarm runs a scuffed, thickset digit ever so softly over her exposed cheek.
“Wow,” echoes the officer.
The guard flushes.
“How long has it been?”
“A while.”
“Primus.”
“Um. Can we catch up, then, or are you too… in it, right now?”
“In it?”
“You had that ‘don’t bother me, I’m busy’ look on your face when I came up to you. I remember that look.”
“It’s fine.” Strongarm chuckles softly at that. “Walk with me.”
“Sweet.” Nightra falls easily into step alongside.
“It’s good to see you again.”
“Same! Just had to say something when you marched right past me without a second glance.”
“Sorry. Didn’t recognise you.”
“It’s cool. The armour’s a lot. I know.”
“Ornamental, yes, and imposing. Is it decently protective, though?”
“I mean, it’s mostly a deterrent, but it can take a bit of punishment. Why? You running a scan on me?”
“No!” The officer flushes. “I wasn’t implying you’re a threat, just now. I’m only curious.”
“Easy, girl. I’m teasing.” The guard looks aside. Sighs. “Yeah. Wouldn’t blame you for scanning me, though.” That bit comes out very, very quietly.
“Sorry. With my superior in medical and the Senate gone, I’ve been… stressed. On my pedes all the time. Tired. I’m not great company, lately.”
“Still cute, though.”
“Heh. You think?”
“Yup. I do.”
“Thanks. You’re, um… beautiful, of course.”
“I’m alright, yeah.”
They lapse into silence for some time in their shared patrol about the High Council grounds. Eventually, they brush pauldrons companionably, their steps unknowingly synchronised.
“I missed you,” murmurs the officer. “I wish you’d answered my calls. Texts. Anything.”
“Aw, c’mon.” The guard rubs her reinforced neck. “You know I missed you, too. I just needed to be alone, for a while.”
“And I needed to know you’re safe.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“The way we broke things off…” Strongarm struggles for a bit. “I never got over…”
“Let’s talk about nice stuff,” Nightra interjects. She hastily tacks on a macho laugh, so that other guards and officers will not take interest in their conversation.
The officer realises that this is not really the moment for that conversation. “Sure. Like what?”
“Liiike…” The guard offers a lopsided grin. “You seeing anyone?”
“Seriously?” Strongarm scowls handsomely, now. “That’s what you wanna ask me? After everything?”
“Chill! Sorry! Never mind!” Nightra holds up her palms, wincing. “Forget I asked. You’re right. That was majorly insensitive of me, I geddit. Easy.”
After some huffing and puffing, the officer grinds out, “I’m single,” through bared dentas. “Perpetually.”
The guard looks a little surprised, moderately hopeful, and mostly guilty.
“I haven’t dated anyone since you.” Strongarm shrugs her impressive pauldrons. “Just don’t have the Spark for it any more.”
Nightra looks at the ground they walk upon. “I ruined love for you, huh.”
The officer stops, folds her arms, stares at the sky.
Then guard lingers beside, awkwardly dragging a pede over the ground
“This is far heavier a conversation than I’ve got the resources for, right now.”
“Should I walk away? Pretend we didn’t see each other? Stay outta your life forever?”
“You probably should do that.”
“Okay. Cool. ’Cause I just saw you and I felt, like, I mean, with the world going crazy, maybe I could use a friend. And you just looked so miserable, so I thought, like, I dunno, maybe you could use a friend, too.”
“We’re not friends any more.”
“Because I fragged up, and never made the move to fix things, before.”
Strongarm drops her helm with a sigh, the powerful cords of her thickset, reinforced neck flexing, her powerful jaw rolling on its hinge, grinding. After some moments of silence, she finally looks aside, at Nightra.
“Can I at least buy you a drink, after work?” the guard offers feebly, tapping the tips of two pointer digits together.
The officer flushes, nodding curtly. “Yes.”
“Sweet.”
“Do not make me regret this.”
“You seemed happy to see me for, like, a minute, back there, so…” Nightra tries to grin, reaching over to slap Strongarm affectionately on the back. “Maybe there’s still hope?”
“If you can prove to me that you’re in it for real, and not just because you need something from me,” levels the officer sternly.
“Hey, you wanna write me a ticket with that?”
“Nightra.”
“Strongarm, I am not doing this ’cause I need a favour outta you. It took huge ball-bearings walking up to you like that, y’know! Especially in front of my crew.”
“What do you want from me?”
“Friendship. I just told you! I need a friend.”
“That’s going to take a lot of investment of your time, making me trust you again.”
“Guess what?” The guard pokes the officer in the breastplate. “You hurt me, too. So I think you oughta give me more credit than that. I’m making an effort, here.”
“After you dumped me and cut contact for a few million years,” Strongarm retorts, getting up in Nightra’s face. “That really hurt. It really, really hurt me. For a long, long time.”
The guard stands level with the officer.
Strongarm’s optics are bright, burning.
Nightra opens her intake, sucks in air, and says, “I’m sorry,” without any bite to it at all.
“That’s better.”
“You gonna apologise, now?”
“Yes.” The officer looks down, looks up. “I’m sorry, too.” Humble, sincere.
“Okay.” The guard smiles lopsidedly. “Can we work on us?”
“No promises.” Strongarm raises a palm, as if barring entry. “But I’ll have that drink with you, after work.”
“Thank you. Seriously. I mean it,” Nightra gushes, grabbing that servo and holding it, to the other femme’s flushed surprise, “I wanna see you again. I’ve missed you. So, so much. My pride kept me away. But the world’s all weird now and I feel so freaked out and poof, here you are. That’s, like, fate, right? That’s gotta mean something huge.”
The flushing officer ponders their interwoven digits. Her servos are a bit bigger than the guard’s.
Nightra smirks when Strongarm’s engine gives off a telling purr, cooling fans roaring rather conspicuously. “I know a really nice place, over in the next district. Quick, easy drive. We’ll dodge the traffic. I’ll show you a good time. And after that, maybe you’ll come back home with me.”
The officer quirks a brow.
“To talk,” the guard adds quickly. “Easier if it’s some place private. Y’know.”
The cynical old femme that Strongarm has become tells herself that this is stupid. But something about Nightra makes stupid look so tempting. And so the officer smiles despite herself, for she is older, but not always wiser, and she tugs on the guard’s servo, pulling her back into an easygoing, ambling patrol. Mutually distracted in each other, they do not see Bumblebee coming.
“Halt, civilian. This is a restricted area,” declares a bored elite guard, irritated by the interruption. “State your business.”
“Oh, uh, hey. I wanted to see Orion Pax, the big guy. He knows me. We’re good friends.”
“Designation?”
“Bumblebee,” he says, holding up his arms whilst he is searched for any weapons or contraband by a much bigger police officer.
“One moment, please.” The guard presses a digit to his helm, evidently utilising a secured comm link, stepping aside. “Forgive the interruption, Sir, we have a civilian by the designation Bumblebee who wishes to speak with High Councillor Orion Pax. Mmhm. Yes, Sir. It is a ridiculous name.”
“Hey! Ouch.”
“Of course, Sir. Again, I apologise. You are very busy. Very important business. I understand.” A roll of the optics as the call disconnects and the guard returns. “Seems Orion Pax is vouching for you. You may proceed. Carefully. High Councillor Sentinel is in a mood.”
“Okay, sure, awesome.” Bumblebee smiles apologetically as frames step aside, allowing him to slip between them. “Uh, thanks, guys. Have a good one.”
“I do not appreciate having you intercept my private calls, Orion,” booms a masculine voice up ahead, as the doors swing open.
“I did not intercept anything,” is a familiarly level, calm reply. “You said a name I recognise out loud, and I merely reacted accordingly.”
“Would you two just stop your glitching?” intones a femme, who sounds big and strong. “It’s exhausting.”
“Ariel, I need you to take my side too, sometimes. I feel very excluded right now.”
“You didn’t even want this to be a team effort, remember? You need to give off better energy, Sentinel, if you wanna receive it back.”
“So much for setting your personal feelings aside for the betterment of the majority.”
“Ugh. And now I’ve got a helmache.”
“Bumblebee,” Orion speaks up with audible delight as familiar yellow ascends the steps into the inner sanctum. “Welcome to the High Council. It is good to see you.”
“Hey, big guy, good to see you, too! Been a while. You been cooped up here this whole time?”
“Indeed. We have been busy.”
“I bet. Saving Cybertron and all, that’s gotta involve a lotta work.”
“Oh, my friend, that it certainly does.”
“You mind if I give you a hug in front of your team?”
“Please, do.”
Sentinel sneers as the mechs share a brief, but friendly embrace.
Ariel smiles at it.
“Allow me to introduce you. Everyone, this is Bumblebee, my stalwart and cheerful ally.”
“Whew, that’s quite the upsell!”
“Not at all. Our group is comprised of myself, and this is Ariel, the spacefaring explorer.”
“Hi. I like your tattoo.”
“Hey. Thanks. I like your yellow.”
“And this is Sentinel, head of his elite guard, whom are stationed outside.”
“Nice hammer!”
“Humph.”
“And Alpha Trion surely needs no introduction.”
“No way! You were totally like Orion’s mentor back in the day, right? It’s an honour!”
“Likewise, young Bumblebee.”
“Enough pleasantries.” Sentinel steps forth, towering over Bumblebee. “State your business, here.”
“Sentinel,” Orion intones disapprovingly with his servo upon Bumblebee’s pauldron, “manners, please.”
“You guys are gonna stop Megatron and Starscream,” Bumblebee says with his optics upcast, unperturbed by Sentinel’s sneer or size. “I wanna help.”
Sentinel is just about to laugh, when Ariel silences him with a glare.
“I know I might not look like much,” Bumblebee continues, turning in place, addressing each face. “But this is my home, and I wanna protect it. I wanna protect its people. My people. I’m tired of being scared, sitting back, just anticipating the next bad thing that’s gonna happen to us. I’ve got friends to take care of, and they’ve taken care of me, so… here I am. I’m a little late, but I’m doing something about it. Nobody else needs to get hurt.”
Orion nods approvingly. “You were by my side when I confronted Megatron and Starscream.”
“And I’m gonna be by your side from here on out, if you’ll have me on your team.” Bumblebee dares to meet the optics of the High Council.
Those towering figures, kept in the stifling company of the elite guard and police officers alike, imposing armoured frames intended to shield their budding leadership of a suddenly rudderless Cybertron cast into mounting social unrest on the fringe of chaos and conflict.
“Please, let me help.”
“Actually, you have arrived just in time,” intones Alpha Trion. “We would be glad to receive you.”
“Yeah? Awesome! Okay! So, how does this work? Do I fill in an application form, or are you gonna interview me, or…?”
Ariel folds her arms, grinning ruggedly down at Bumblebee. “You’re in.”
“Wow, just like that?”
“I like you. You’ve got punk. We could use that.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I’m exceptionally spunky.”
“Primus’ ball-bearings, don’t call me ma’am.”
“Okay, goddit. You can just call me Bee.”
“Well, I’m not convinced,” sneers Sentinel. “You have conviction, but I need a list of skills. Concise and relevant.”
“Would you cut that out?” Ariel glares at him. “Sign-ups are open. They’ve been open. We need all the help we can get, and he’s willing.”
“Qualified help. You have from the count of fifteen to impress me, Bumblebee. Starting now.”
“Whoa, okay! Um–”
“C’mon, Sentinel, like you said, he’s got the spirit. Back off.”
“Fourteen.”
“Heh, well, clearly, I’m great under pressure–”
“This is ridiculous.”
“Thirteen.”
“I’m fast. Like, really fast. Oh, and I’m agile, I’ve got balance, I’m fine-tuned for performance–”
“Bee, it’s fine, you’re in. He’s messing with you.”
“Twelve.”
“Uhhh, I can get into tight places? Yeah! And I can pull just the sickest stunts, like, I’ve gone totally airborne–”
“Great. It’s another power trip. Orion, say something. He’s being an aft.”
“Eleven.”
“I’m a great dancer?” Bee adds with a raised digit, in a hopeful tone.
Before Sentinel can count to ten, Orion interjects.
“Scout.”
Bumblebee perks.
“I believe we are in need of a scout.”
Ariel prods Sentinel, who sighs.
“Fine. With a frame like that, you just might do.”
Bumblebee pumps his fist. “Yes! Gonna help save the world! Awesome!”
“This is not a game! You will take this seriously!”
“Oh, no, I don’t mean to make light of it, not at all, sorry! It’s just so empowering to be actively taking a stand for something I believe in!”
Sentinel softens. “That is… a surprisingly mature stance.”
“Do not underestimate Bumblebee,” Orion says with a paternal smile.
“You will be worked hard. The expectations placed upon you will be great.”
“And I won’t let you down, Sentinel!”
“That’s High Councillor Sentinel, to you, scout.”
“You can call me Bee, if you want?”
“No.”
“Okay, no biggie.”
“C’mon, Bee, let’s get you up to speed.” Ariel slaps a servo across on Bumblebee’s pauldron, almost bowling him over. “That’ll be easy for you, huh?”
“Absolutely! Thanks, guys! You won’t regret this, I swear!”
“You do not need to make this a promise.” Orion chuckles when Bumblebee hugs him about the torso, again, offering a paternal pat atop the adoring mech’s horned helm. “I already know you will be a valued member of this team. Thank you for offering your aid so freely. I commend your brave Spark.”
“Anything for my friends, big guy. That means you, too.”
“I am humbled, and grateful. You inspire great comfort, Bumblebee. I hope others will take inspiration and follow in your steps. We truly are in dire need of help.”
Ariel rubs her neck.
Sentinel looks aside, huffing.
Alpha Trion has his optics on the window, gazing out at this slice of Cybertron.
“Aaah!” Thrust jumps in place when he feels a playful pinch on the back panel of his pauldron. “Skywarp!” High-pitched and petulant, like an aggravated sibling. “Stahp!”
She is already gone by the time he has spun around, thus he addresses the empty air.
“Hey! Where’d you go? Face me like a mech, coward!”
Thundercracker giggles, polishing the barrel of his arm-mounted blaster.
“How does she keep doing that?”
“I dunno. It’s gonna be a classic, though.”
“Do you think she can, like, teleport or something? Ugh. I hope not.”
“That’d be so cool!”
“Just wait ’til she sneaks up on you. Stop giggling.”
“You get all squeaky when you’re startled. It’s funny.”
“Shuddup.”
“Aw, c’mon, she’s adorable. Don’t be mad. She doesn’t mean any harm.”
“She pinches kinda hard!”
“Maybe it’s her way of telling you she likes you?”
“That doesn’t excuse it.”
“Well, no, I guess not.”
“Besides, of course she likes me. I’m awesome. Everybody likes me.”
“Nooo, bolt-head!” Thundercracker rolls his optics, as if he is stating something supremely obvious. “I mean maybe she like-likes you.”
“Oh! Well, um. In that case.” Thrust flushes, preening handsomely. “She should just ask me out already. I could learn to speak in sign, maybe download an informational guide on the subject, if that’ll make it easier for her to communicate.”
“Aw,” the Seeker mech intones fondly, “that’s a nice idea.”
“But we’re gonna establish some boundaries.” Thrust glances warily about. “Soon as I can actually see her, I’ll tell her what’s up. Lay down the law around here.”
“Sure, but don’t crush her spirit when you do. We need somebody fun around, with Slip and Acid gone.” Thundercracker sags, his gaze downcast.
“C’mon. Don’t do that.”
“I’m not g-gonna cry.”
“Slip’s just on a temporary reassignment. Acid’s learning all that badaft science stuff.” Thrust loops an arm around Thundercracker, placing a quick little kiss on the mech’s cheek. “In the meantime, we’ve got a world to conquer, yeah? Just think of the glory, and the power, and, uh, stuff. Like Megatron said. We’ll be heroes! We’ll make Cybertron better for everybody, but especially us fliers.” Thrust’s Spark is clearly not in it.
“Yeah. Right.” Thundercracker knows. “Heroes.”
“So, uh, I did it.”
Windblade inhales sharply, choking on her drink.
“Took me a while, but… I finally went for it. I’m in.”
Chromia pats the flier’s back, quietly stunned.
“I’ll be helping the High Council save the world, you guys.” Bumblebee looks up, halfway serious, halfway anxious. “I’m officially a scout.” And then he smiles.
“Bravo, Bumblebee!” Grimlock raises his cup. “We salute you!”
“Hey, I haven’t done anything heroic just yet.”
“Oooh, sweet Spark, you’re so brave!” Arcee reaches across the booth, effortlessly pulling Bumblebee into a rough kiss on his cheek which leaves him grinning, flushed. “I’m so proud of you! Hey, you know what? You’ve inspired me!”
“Really?”
“I’ll join, too, if they’ll give me the job.”
“Definitely! You’re a badaft adventurer, you’ll be a huge help! Ariel’s gonna love you!”
“Hmm. Is she cute?”
“Oh, dude, she’s so cute.”
“Even better!”
“Perhaps it is time I, too, took a stand for my home-world.” Grimlock nods once, a solemn palm atop his Spark chamber. “More action, and less debate. Put my servos to the task, wherever they’re useful.” Then he winks. “Count me in.”
“Grim, yeah!” Arcee hugs him. “That’s my guy!”
“Awesome!” Bumblebee gazes at his friends with pride and affection. “Orion said there will be loads to do that won’t put any of us in danger, like, if Megatron does drag this out into a war. So if you’re worried about having to fight or something, don’t be.”
“Danger’s my middle name. Though, I don’t like fighting.” Hot Rod rubs his jaw, handsome and heroically posed in his seat. “I can’t let my friends go ahead and save Cybertron without my help, now, can I? I love you guys way too much. You can count on me to be there.”
Arcee proceeds to kiss his cheek, too, which makes him pose even more heroically.
“Please, shower me with affection.”
Grimlock shrugs, stooping to kiss Hot Rod’s other cheek.
Chromia looks to Windblade, fellow Camien, often times aloof and wilful.
“I’m a Cityspeaker.”
The friends grow quiet and still.
“I’m not supposed to get involved in Cybertronian politics,” the jet intones seriously, drawing every gaze to her stern expression. “But this is my home, too.”
“Windblade…”
“I’d like to defend it. Hopefully my involvement won’t cause a huge debacle back on Caminus. Too bad if it does.”
Chromia grimaces handsomely.
Bumblebee finds Windblade’s servo.
“I’m with you,” she reassures him softly.
“Thanks, bestie.” He squeezes her digits, interweaving the slender metal within his own chunkier servo.
Grimlock and Arcee cheer.
Hot Rod looks at Chromia, his smile diminishing at the sheer panic in her optics. He knows, somehow, not to say something just then, even if he wants to reassure her somehow.
She now stares at her cup, hiding her unease with a stern jaw and stoic silence. She does not volunteer her help, and nobody else demands it.
“Flaaamewaaar.” Slipstream sounds groggy and moody as she drags out the name, slouching over the neighbouring berth and prodding the smaller femme with foggy optics and a handsome squint against the dim lighting. “Stahp.” The digit is poorly aimed, poking a little too close to the olfactory sensor. Such is the cost of being waken from a deep recharge.
“Whuh?” The bike stirs, wrinkling her facial rigging. Her engine sputters. “Whassit?”
“Snoring.” The Seeker prods again. “S’loud.”
“Mmhm.” As the digit departs, the expression lapses, perfectly contented and agreeable. A pleasant purr resonates.
“Better. Thanks.” Already surrendering back into her interrupted sleep mode, Slipstream throws herself backwards upon the neighbouring berth with a heavy, reverberating clang, promptly passing out despite the pain in her back strut.
Flamewar stirs, frowning again.
The Seeker misjudged her trajectory, having flopped too close to the edge of the slab. Overbalanced by her hanging limbs and wing at the one side, she slides right off onto the floor with another heavy clang. There she groans, sprawled on her belly armour.
The bike sits up with a throaty bark. Now she is the one startled awake. “Huh?” Wide awake. Alert. Claws at the ready. “Who’s there?”
“Ouch.”
“Slippy?” Relaxing, Flamewar turns about. She cannot locate the other femme upon the open berth opposite. “Where you at?”
“The Pits,” Slipstream mutters, out of sight, from somewhere below.
The bike leans over the edge of her berth, peering down at the heap of exhausted Seeker. “What the frag are you doing down there?”
“M’tired.”
“That’s the floor.”
“Mmhm.”
“Did you roll off the slab, Slippy?”
“Shh.” Vents hiss, partially compressed. “Shh. Shh. Shh.”
Flamewar finds herself smiling with affection and amusement, awkwardly rendered within scars and scuff marks. “Okay, that’s kinda adorable.”
There is no response.
“C’mon, get your fine aft back to berth. You can’t sleep like that.”
Slipstream makes no move to comply.
“Slippy.”
Nothing.
“Hey. Wake up.”
She does not.
“Well, fine. I’m probably gonna step on you, but here goes,” Flamewar grumbles, but manages to navigate the limbs and wings, dropping off the slab and stooping to get hold of a pauldron. She shakes it. “Hey. Hey. Wake up. Hey.”
“Nooomph.”
“Slippy. Slippy!”
The Seeker is so much bigger, so much heavier. The bike’s jostling barely registers, but her demanding voice certainly does.
“Frag me sideways.”
“Huh?” Slipstream lifts her helm, turning to peer back at Flamewar. “You wanna what?”
“Finally! Help me get you up. You fell off the berth or something, I don’t even know.”
Slowly processing, the Seeker obediently pushes herself up on her bulky arms, helped by the bike’s gripping claws about the torso, to settle on both knees.
“There ya go.”
“You were snoring, I think.”
“Sorry. But I didn’t put you on the floor.”
“It’s okay.” Slipstream fumbles to grab the edge of the slab and heaves herself up onto it, halfway. “Just tired.” A yawn. “Shadow Striker’s a real taskmaster.”
“Had you laying cables again, huh. That job sucks.”
“Mmm.”
Flamewar gets an armful of a bulky, handsome femme’s pede, lifting it onto the slab. “Oof. Primus, you’re heavy.”
“Embarrassed, too,” comes out drowsy, but grateful, face plate settled upon the minimal synthetic pillow. “Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it,” is murmured reassuringly, followed by a grunt of exertion as another pede is lifted onto the berth, set beside its twin. “Holy scrap. Whew.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, or whatever.”
“You’re nice.”
“I’m not so bad, yeah. You wanna roll over?”
“Back hurts.”
“Mm. Bit of a mark, but that’ll buffer out easy.”
“No dent?”
“Can’t see any. Lemme check.”
Slipstream shivers when Flamewar’s claws brush across the spinal strut, skirting between extended wings that flutter at the touch, seeking for any unevenness to the reinforced plating.
“…Nope. You’re good.”
“Thanks.”
“It’s cool, Slippy.” The bike perches on the edge of the berth beside the Seeker, in order to reach out and touch her spread, exposed back. Now, Flamewar finds herself frozen in place, gazing down on Slipstream, pondering her size and shape, a palm upon her. That palm is so small, so light, so sharp on those smooth planes. “Wow, you’re one bigaft glitch.”
This makes the Seeker rumble softly with amusement, tectonic and lethargic and heavy.
“No offence,” adds the bike with a smirk, offering the bigger femme an apologetic little pat on the back. “It works for you. How you fly, though, I dunno.”
“None taken. I have very potent thrusters.”
“Yeah?”
“Do that again. That feels nice.”
“Yeah.” Flamewar drags another slow stroke between Slipstream’s wings with a single claw, ever so lightly. “I told you I give a mean back scratch.”
“I think I’m just… touch-starved.”
“Seekers do seem pretty, uhh, touchy-feely with each other.”
“Mmhm. We sometimes have cuddle piles.”
“Slippy, that’s silly. You sound really tired. You should get back to recharge. I’ll make sure my snoring isn’t gonna keep you up any longer. Okay?”
“You gonna leave, again?”
“Yup.”
“You don’t have to go.”
“I know, you said so before, but it’s probably just easier if I do.”
“I’ll feel bad.”
“Aw, Slippy. C’mon, now.”
“Stay.”
Flamewar sighs at that. Rubs Slipstream’s back slowly, mindful not to press in with those claws, careful not to leave any marks behind.
The Seeker makes a humming sound, as if she is about to take off and fly. It vibrates within her. Yet her thrusters remain cold and dark.
The bike contemplates her assigned recharge slab. It looks barren and uninviting.
“Wanna cuddle?”
Optics widen, then narrow.
“We can cuddle.”
“Did you hit your helm on your way down?”
“No.”
“Lemme take a look at you.”
Slipstream patiently allows Flamewar to shuffle upward, claws gently capturing the seeker’s heavy helm, inspecting it.
“Huh. You look intact.”
“That tickles.”
“No cracks or dents, here. I don’t see any of your brain module leaking out your audials or something.”
“Eew. Gross.”
The bike sits back, stroking the Seeker’s resting helm. “Say that again.”
“Eew, gross?”
“Not that, dumbaft. The… other thing you just said. Make sure you actually hear yourself say it.”
“D’you wanna cuddle?”
“Wow. You’re serious.”
“I’m lonely. And I’m trapped underground. And my back hurts.”
“I’ll ask the boss bot to check you over when we’re up. We’ve got some time, so… I guess you’ve just gotta try sleep this scrap off. Okay?”
Slipstream sighs. “Okay.”
Flamewar slips nimbly off the occupied berth, strolling quietly for the door.
“Please don’t go.”
“It’s gotta be this way. I’ll keep you up again. Can’t help it.”
“Then I’ll just–”
“It’s fine.”
“Whenever I wake up alone, I feel worse.”
The bike’s intake hitches.
“I’m a Seeker without a trine.”
“Is that why you never chase me out?”
“Mmhm.”
“’Cause Thunderblast does, and even Demolishor. Boss bot sleeps alone, but I bet she’d throw me out, if I woke her up.”
“S’not your fault you snore.”
“Have you asked the other guys if they wanna cuddle?”
“Pfft. No.”
“Then why ask me? I could judge you. Judge you real hard.”
“I dunno. You can judge me if you want. I judge me.”
“Slippy.”
“You just look cuddly.”
Flamewar cannot find it in her twisted, damaged Spark to laugh. She gazes down at herself. Her claws. The sharpened edges to her flame-emblazoned framework. “Because I’m small?”
“And you’re curvy.”
“So you have been checking me out. I was wondering.”
Slipstream gazes aside, at the neighbouring recharge slab, empty.
“Well! If we do this, it’ll make things weird.”
“Does any of this seem normal?”
“Heh, no. But my definition of normal isn’t normal, apparently.”
“Yeah. You’re already kinda weird.”
“I am, huh.”
“I like that, though.”
“Oh, Slippy, you are too pure for this world.”
“Come cuddle me? If you want.”
“Frag’s sake. Handsome femme invites me into her berth, how could I say no?”
“I won’t tell anyone.”
“I don’t care if you do. Lemme be cuddly. I’m not ashamed. Are you?”
“No. Everybody here thinks I’m soft and dumb, already.”
“Because you kinda are, Slippy.” The bike’s undertone is warm, rumbling. “And I like that about you.”
The Seeker’s wings twitch when a servo drags over her ankle joint, offering a fond squeeze.
“I can’t promise you I’ll make it any easier for you to sleep.”
“I accept that.”
“Okay. Can’t believe I’m fragging saying this, but sure. We can cuddle.”
“I like being the little spoon.”
“That does not surprise me at all. Move over.”
Slipstream retracts her wings and winces as she shuffles aside, freeing up room for Flamewar to crawl into. Another shudder as hot vents caress back panels, followed by a pleased groan at the sensation of claws scraping softly over pauldrons.
“Am I hurting you?” the bike asks very gently, curling her smaller frame against the bend of the Seeker’s scuffed spinal strut.
“No. That’s perfect.”
“Are you, um…? I can move, if… Y’know.”
“Perfect.”
Flamewar flushes as she squeezes the unyielding metal just above a hip seam, before draping an arm across the chassis, claws scraping over Slipstream’s abdominal plating.
“Thank you.”
“You’re, uh, welcome.”
“If you don’t wanna–”
“I wouldn’t be doing this if I wasn’t willing. Trust me. This is… really nice. It’s been forever since I just held somebody.”
“Mmyeah?”
The bike presses her intake against warm living metal, depositing a chaste kiss there. “Mmyeah.”
The Seeker’s optics flutter shut. “I like being held.”
Flamewar falls back into recharge typically quickly, limbs draped as best they can be around Slipstream’s bigger frame, hugging her close. The Seeker feels the bike’s purring engine, reverberating throatily and with barely any stutter between lulling rumbles that put Slipstream to sleep. It remains low and unobtrusive for the remainder of their rest. When their synchronised internal alarm chimes to rouse them both, Flamewar mutters a curse and presses in closer, to which Slipstream giggles huskily.
Things are, indeed, going to get very weird.
Chapter 20: Marked
Summary:
Sentinel captures a propaganda drone and tosses it at Wheeljack for analysis as a reward for coming up with the catchy new title of the now aptly-named Decepticons, Ascenticons no more. Ariel keeps objecting to Sentinel's more extreme methods. Slipstream and Acid Storm are briefly reunited as Shadow Striker takes her team to one of Shockwave's secretive clinics to receive Megatron's sign, the Deceptibrand, but the procedure is agony. Upon witnessing their leader under torture, Thunderblast contemplates running away from her ambitions, Demolishor doubts his orders yet cannot help but be loyal at Spark, and Flamewar tries to tell herself that Megatron still stands tall for the little guys like her whilst Slipstream looks at Acid Storm with betrayal. Wheeljack's tinkering blows up in his face (literally) and he recognises the work of his ex and former partner in technological feats, Shockwave. Slipstream confronts Shadow Striker in her office for attacking Acid Storm, but this confrontation inadverdently changes things between them when rather than a reprimand, Shadow Striker opts to offer Slipstream comfort instead.
Notes:
Possible trigger warning: bodily modification/marking (not sexual) with hierarchical coercion and thus dubious consent, leading to trauma.
Chapter Text
Nightra is not there when Strongarm wakes. Of course, this just confirms every nasty thought as correct, reaffirming every old hurt afresh.
“Stupid femme. Stupid, stupid, stupid.”
Soft sunlight filters in through the viewing port, set to dim the rays.
She sits up in berth with a shaky sigh and reluctantly rises to take a hot oil shower, after which she will stoically tuck into an Energon cube to fuel the start to another dreadful day. Her life is dull and meaningless and she is just getting older, alone.
“Hey, regs.”
“Aaah!”
Nightra flinches, yet remains mindful of the laden tray in her servos.
Strongarm relaxes her automatic combat stance, deflating with a groan. “Oh, frag’s sake.”
The elite guard smiles ruefully. “You thought I did a runner on you again, huh.”
“Yes.” The officer rubs her bulky arm. "I did."
“It’s cool. I just got up a little extra early to whip up something nice for us. Y’know. To enjoy in the berth. Together, and stuff. While we… cuddle?”
“That’s so sweet of you. I’d like that.”
“Cool. I have my moments, I guess. And don't worry, I did clean up after myself. Not gonna wreck your place.”
Strongarm approaches Nightra with contrition.
"What?"
"I owe you an apology."
“Oh, c'mon, it's whatever. Please don’t look at me like that.”
“I just assumed the worst of you.”
“Regs, listen, after last night? And the night before that?” The guard huffs good-naturedly. “And the night before that? And… the night before that?"
"Okay, okay. It's been a few nights together, now. I just have overactive instincts, I guess. Trust issues."
"I’m back in your life, now."
"You are."
"And… I feel kinda happy again."
"Nightra."
"You really think I’m gonna throw that all away, girl? This is a good thing we got going. I’d be stupid!”
“I like having you here,” the officer murmurs, gently taking the tray. Directs a soft smile down at the assortment. "I think, in time, I could finally get used to this."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
“I know I hurt you real bad. But you’ve given me this chance to do you right, this time, and I mean it when I say I’m gonna make us work. I need a friend, and so do you. So, please, relax a little. M’kay? We’re cool, now, but it takes two.”
"You're right." Strongarm sets the tray aside. "C'mere."
Nightra gasps as she is swept off her pedes in a crushing hug, then dipped onto the berth, laid out with a shudder. “Whoa, girl, easy!"
"You are so, so beautiful. I almost forgot." The officer nuzzles under a quivering jawline, licking at the throat. "I might be…"
The guard's optics roll back as a hot intake suddenly sucks hard on the fuel line in her neck. "Oooh, mmm!" Jerks as a servo caresses her modesty panels. "Wow! Nice! Okay!"
"…A little out of practice."
"Whew, me too? Girl, you're gonna make me blow my fuse too quick."
Strongarm hums into Nightra's neck, caressing the hot, thrumming metal between her quivering thighs.
"W-wait!"
The eager groping and sucking cease immediately. "Nightra?"
"I want to! Believe me, I wanna so bad! But, uh, we're taking it slow, you said, remember that?”
“Ugh, scrap.” Poised above, the officer sighs. “I did say that.”
“I mean, we could be friends with benefits?” The guard offers a hopeful grin. “That’s still friendship, yeah? It’s in the name! Just, if we do this, last thing I need is making you feel bad after.”
Strongarm rises again, gazing softly down at Nightra.
"Please, don't put my Spark through that."
"I'm being such an aft."
"You've got such an aft. But that aft can wait."
The officer removes her servo from the guard's interface array, still sealed away, and tenderly captures her cheek instead.
"So, um, about that friends with benefits thing. Is it okay if we make out, maybe touch each other a little? Save the rest for later?"
"Sure. I'd like that."
"Well, gimme a smooch, then."
"A smooch, mm?"
"A big one."
Strongarm dips her helm and kisses Nightra soundly.
“Evidently, Megatron suspects my guys are infiltrating the general populace in search of his hidden agents, so he’s got drones out on the streets to do their dirty work instead.”
“Hear me, people of Cybertron, and listen well–”
“Silence, drone. It was blaring his propaganda when I caught it, and inviting sign-ups from the public,” Sentinel drawls, tossing the sputtering drone vaguely towards Wheeljack. It sails overhelm with a warbling screech. “Amassed quite the civilian crowd.”
“Hey, watch it!” Acting as the High Council’s tech support and scientific genius, Wheeljack hastily dives to catch the drone before it can hit the floor. “Oof!” Drone secured in his outreaching palms, he exclaims a relieved, “Goddit,” from his place on the floor, pressed face-first against glossy metallic tiles.
“No more shall you break your backs in service to the elite, for it is time that you rise up,” declares the drone, with static. “Join me, and help forge a future for all, as one!”
“That was my line,” Orion intones a little bitterly. “I wrote that into his speeches.”
Ariel shakes her helm and helps Wheeljack up, hefting him to his pedes with apparent ease.
“Why, thank you kindly.”
“You’re welcome.”
“We Ascenticons will be our own masters!”
“That’s what they’re calling themselves now.” Sentinel huffs, running a servo across his distinguished chin. “There are bound to be more propaganda drones out there, amassing support for his cause. His lies will deceive many. Ascenticons, my aft! More like, uh, Deception… Deceptive…”
“Decepticons?” offers Wheeljack as the drone warbles in his embrace.
“Yes! Exactly!” Sentinel snaps his digits. “Decepticons! I like it. It sounds diabolical.”
“And dishonest,” Orion interjects defensively. “Megatron is not diabolocal. He is misguided.”
“The name’s perfect. Such a name will surely sway the public against that maniac and his nefarious cause. We’re going to use it from now on. Understood? They are Decepticons and they are to be referred to as such in all publications and speeches. We’ll broadcast it all over Cybertron.”
“Should we send out our own propaganda drones?” asks Ariel with sarcasm.
“That is not a bad idea,” Sentinel replies, entirely oblivious.
“Nah. Too much of a security hazard, if you get too dependant on drones. No offence to them, of course, I love mine! Though, with the right technical know-how – such as my technical know-how – a little drone like this could be practically untraceable,” Wheeljack interjects cheerfully, turning over the talkative drone in his servos, noting the gruesome cracks across its shell. “I bet I can get all sorts of info outta this little guy. Uh, that’s assumin’ you didn’t smash its onboard memory storage too bad, or it’s not set to erase the data the moment I try tamperin’ with it.”
“Do you believe Megatron would have the resources for such a drone?” enquires Sentinel superiorly, to hide his own mounting unease at the prospect.
“It looks perfectly ordinary to me! ’Course, that’s just referrin’ to a cursory look-over. I’ll know for sure when I’m inside.”
The drone wails, “For Cybertron!” It quietens down after Wheeljack gives it a fond little pat.
“Nah. I doubt he’s got anybody quite as tech savvy as I am on his payroll. Not to toot my own horn, of course.”
“Is the drone salvageable?”
“Mm. Damage seems mostly superficial. Should be able to open it up and take a look at its files, no problem.” Wheeljack gives Sentinel a reproachful look. “You coulda compromised a full data retrieval if you’d hit it any harder than ya did, though. Please be gentler when acquirin' tech for me to analyse.”
“It annoyed me.”
“That’s a little mean. It’s just doin’ what it’s told.”
“As shall you.” An airy gesture, dismissive. “Make what you can of its contents. I want all of the operational secrets it contains pertaining to the inner workings of Megatron’s little uprising, and anything else of use you can find. Then report back to me.”
“You goddit, boss bot. Should be a cinch, I’ll have it sorted in a jiffy. One hopefully uncompromised data retrieval, comin’ right up!”
“That’s High Councillor Sentinel, thank you very much.”
“There, there, now, I’ve gotcha. I won’t make it hurt.” Wheeljack is not listening, hurriedly conveying the sputtering drone to his workstation for further study. “Honestly. Some people! No respect for technology. Hmm, I think I’ll fix you up, like new, and hook you up with my personal motivational playlist! Then you can keep me pumped while I tinker! That’d be cool! Why didn’t I think of this before? I’m so smart!”
“For Cybertron!”
“Yeah, little buddy!”
“He is very strange,” Sentinel notes of the departing mech, coddling the enemy’s drone.
“I like him,” replies Ariel readily in Wheeljack’s defence.
“That is because you, too, are very strange.”
“Yup.”
“Where did you capture this drone?” Alpha Trion enquires mildly. “I wish to make a note of Megatron’s reach.”
“Uh…” At this, Sentinel flushes, balked by the question. “I found the drone just… fluttering around. You know. As drones do.”
“Please, do be more specific.” Alpha Trion readies his Quill. His is ancient, and he is old-fashioned in his record-keeping.
“On the fringe of the red-headlight district,” comes out ever so quietly.
Orion quirks an optic ridge. “I did not quite get that?”
“I said,” Sentinel repeats with visible discomfort, “I found the drone wandering along the fringe of the… the red-headlight district.”
Ariel bites her derma, her gaze hooded with amusement.
“On the fringe!” Sentinel reiterates forcefully. “I was… taking a walk. I did not enter there! I spied the drone from afar! It’s like Megatron is preaching to the pleasure frames! Can you believe that? No shame!”
“Do not speak ill of them,” intones Orion with a soft scowl.
“Oh, don’t get your gearbox in a twist!”
“It’s your gearbox that’s gotten all twisted, Sentinel.”
“Ariel, do not insist on always taking his side! Anyway! Though I was vigorous in my investigation–”
“I bet you were.”
“The citizens who engaged with that drone were not willing to answer my questions, nor would they identify themselves when prompted to do so, and they scattered like cowards when I attempted to make arrests. Mark my words, I will remember their faces.”
“They’re just people, Sentinel. We’ve gotta show them there’s a better way than Megatron’s way.”
“After all our recent social outreach efforts, is this not already obvious? We are the good guys! Clearly! The people must comply, or they will be detained!”
“Wow. That’s draconian.”
“Traitorous scum just want to watch the world burn, Ariel. You’ve been in space for far too long.”
“I know a mutiny when I see one, Sentinel.”
“Perhaps you should not be so, errm… confrontational when dealing with the public,” suggests Alpha Trion gently. “They are not used to interrogations. A kinder approach may work.”
“Without so obvious a weapon,” adds Orion dryly. “The hammer may dissuade them from talking.”
“Noted.” Sentinel straightens out handsomely, wielding his Energon-infused battle hammer as if it were a walking staff. He has hardly parted from it in days. He even recharges with it in his arms.
After a brief but unpleasant decontamination process, the doors unseal with a hiss, allowing admittance into the small laboratory serving as part of an outreach clinic Megatron maintains in secret among other such clinics. Their true function and allegiance are disguised under layers of mind-numbing datawork and the actions of covert staff pretending to do fake jobs convincingly, credible reports being studiously prepared under recognised names willing to certify deception for the cause.
Acid Storm automatically looks up at the distinct sound, busy with a datapad and ready to receive the latest influx on the encrypted list, unalarmed. Anyone who gets this far has managed to pass security measures, rendering them either entirely safe, or entirely dangerous. Not much can be done either way, at this stage.
Slipstream spots Acid Storm almost immediately and lets out a not entirely masculine squeal of excitement, startling her teammates.
“Hello,” the on-site laboratory assistant greets the group pleasantly and with a placid smile, perfectly composed.
The disgraced Seeker hurries over without care for how she looks right now, arms outstretched for a hug.
Acid Storm mindfully sets the datapad aside and steps away from any sensitive equipment, opening their arms to receive Slipstream.
“Aw,” murmurs Demolishor softly, witnessing the reunited Seekers collide together.
“I missed you!”
“As I have missed you, my love.”
“Cuuute,” coos Thunderblast in agreement, servos clasped at her cheek.
Shadow Striker’s crooked smile is squashed quickly with a grimace. “Where’s Shockwave?” She does not like him one bit, but he unfortunately an essential element.
“I am overseeing clinical operations remotely,” he answers from hidden speakers, making Demolishor jerk with a squeak of alarm, the hulking mech stepping away from one such source of the ominous, low monotone. “Greetings. You are late.”
“And you’re not even here,” Flamewar mutters irritably back, scratching her cheek with a claw.
“Do not delay any further. Cease your affectionate display immediately and resume intended operations.”
Acid Storm sighs into Slipstream’s neck. “Yes, Sir.” Easing out of her arms, depositing a quick peck on the cheek to assuage her mewl of protest, they murmur, “We’ll catch up later,” with a wink.
“You are all familiar with Megatron’s chosen seal,” Shockwave intones dully, and an image flickers on-screen, displaying the stylised purple face plate insignia.
“Just like my graffiti,” exclaims Flamewar, pumping a fist. “I hope the big guy appreciates the free advertising!”
“He did not approve of the defacement of public property.”
“Ohh.”
“However, your enthusiasm for the cause has been commended.”
“Sweet! He noticed me!”
“Looks like Soundwave,” Shadow Striker mutters with gruff fondness that garners a sidelong look from Demolishor, who then leans in, squinting his unmodified optic up at the insignia.
“Hey, it kinda does!”
“Yeah, uh, sorry. About that.” Thunderblast waves airily. “I know you said it’s mandatory or whatever, but you can just leave me out of it, okay? My appearance is carefully maintained and I like how I look. Thanks!”
“Irrelevant. I reiterate – the brand is required.”
“Um, no.”
“Then why are you here?”
“I wanted to get out and about. Obviously. You try being cooped up in the cold and the dank and see how you like it. Oh, wait. You’ve probably got a lair just like that.”
Shadow Striker already exchanged words with Thunderblast on the way over. Gave up rather quickly. The old mercenary sighs and shakes her helm as the boat flutters her optic shutters coquettishly in defiance.
“Your refusal is noted. You will be removed from service and disposed of.”
“Hey, now, hold on one second, I am not a quitter! I did not say I was gonna quit!”
“Then you must prove your allegiance and accept the brand.”
“Nuh-uh. No way.” Thunderblast holds out her digit, wagging it. “That’s just fragged up.”
“She’s right,” Slipstream adds with a frown at Acid Storm’s chassis, upon which Megatron’s mark seems to eerily glow with a faint, baleful purple, gleaming when they self-consciously turn away, as if to hide their fresh mark from her gaze. “Forcing this sort of thing doesn’t seem ethical.”
“Your concerns have been noted. Do you wish to forward your resignation to Captain Starscream at this time? It will be recorded as a dishonourable discharge.”
“Um! Wait! No! Please!”
“Look, pal, I can’t speak for anybody else, but I am not letting you mark me with a fragging logo like I’m a company shipping container!” Thunderblast sets her servos on her hips, optics narrowed. “Do I look like a product, to you? Answer that veeery carefully.”
“This is no mere corporate symbol,” Shockwave intones, unseen, but it sounds like he is scowling at Flamewar’s giggle-snort at his expense. “It is a complex and intricate technological feat, entirely my own invention. It will do more than adhere to your outer shell as a visible signifier of your allegiance. It will become a part of your circuitry, bleeding my code into your various systems.”
“Eeeeew!”
Even Shadow Striker balks. “What fragging code? You didn’t include that in the brief.”
“It serves many necessary functions. For example, it will act as a virtual security tag, separate from your Energon or Spark signatures, and thus permit you limited access to–”
“I don’t care!” Thunderblast folds her arms, turning her helm aside. “I don’t want your ‘brand’ on me, I don’t want your ‘code’ in my systems, thank you very much! And I am not gonna let something silly like a tattoo with a virus stop me from achieving my personal ambitions with Starscream and-or Megatron. End of story.”
“I cannot take credit for the aesthetics of the brand.” Shockwave sighs at length. “However, my code will not cause any damage to your systems, nor will it override your higher faculties. It is not a virus – technically.”
“Technically.”
“Indeed. Technically.”
“By higher functions, you’re referring to our free will,” drawls Shadow Striker with a roll of the scope. “How considerate. We get to think for ourselves, but we can’t say no, and you’re not being entirely honest.”
“If you wish to continue your mission, you will accept the brand. This is Megatron’s command.”
Nobody looks happy about it.
“Others are already marked. Note my laboratory assistant, Acid Storm. They function without impairment.”
Slipstream gives her fellow Seeker a worried look.
“Megatron, included?” demands Shadow Striker, sneering.
“He was the first. Now, then, Shadow Striker. Who will be the first of your squad?”
Nobody volunteers. Not even their leader.
“Hey, so, it’s like a tattoo with some kick to it, right?”
“That is a grossly oversimplified comparison.” Shockwave sighs again. “If it aids your processor in comprehending what is occurring here, then so be it.”
“I know my way around ink and paint.” Flamewar shrugs casually. “I worked in one of those tattoo studios, for a bit. That slaghole was way grimier than this lab. Place got shut down by health and safety. Problem is, though, you’re creepy, which makes it difficult to trust you.”
“My laboratory is regularly sanitised and thoroughly sterilised. I have already been informed as to my effect on lesser brain modules. I have a powerful intellectual presence, which intimidates.”
“It’s your questionable scruples I’m referring to, big mech. You give off mad scientist vibes.”
“My scruples are not your concern. And I am not mad.”
“That’s just what a mad scientist would say. Ah, well. What’s one more mark with a bit of weird code in my fragged systems? Whatever.” Flamewar takes a step toward the gurney, only for a large servo to clamp down on her pauldron, stilling her. She looks up.
“Wait,” grunts Shadow Striker, warily glaring at Acid Storm.
“Please be reassured, the mark is safe.” The Seeker offers a placid smile. “I am fine.”
Slipstream turns to Shadow Striker with telling unease that the older femme notes keenly.
“Are you, now.”
“Yes.”
Shadow Striker’s burning lens bores into Acid Storm’s incredible composure. “Hmm.” Running various scans and diagnostics.
“When one of you is ready to proceed, please take a seat.” A servo sweeps over at the waiting gurney. “I will be here to assist.”
“Aw, c’mon, boss bot.” Flamewar gazes fondly up at the looming femme, smiling lopsidedly at the protective gesture of her gripping servo. “How bad can it be?”
“I’ll tell you, myself.” Shadow Striker offers a vaguely reassuring squeeze, then releases, stoically lurching forth. “Get this scrap over with.”
“It may be painful,” Acid Storm advises her.
“You will be restrained,” adds Shockwave.
“Sounds like a fun time.” Thus Shadow Striker opts to go before her assigned lackeys, slouching into the seat that tips her at an angle, her bosom spread under the glowing needle and bright lights, rigged to a hanging frame that moves itself above her according to the guidance of its sensors, with assistance from Acid Storm at the connected terminal. “Might wanna paint it in bright colours. Make it look friendlier that way.”
“Noted.” Shockwave allows for a pause. “Begin.”
With a little bit of fiddling about at the interface, Acid Storm presses a button from behind the terminal, avoiding Slipstream’s optics.
Shadow Striker grunts and bends her neck to peer over her ample bosom as her wrists and ankles are summarily bound. She tests the restraints, quirking an optic ridge. “Well, haven’t let anyone strap me down in a while.” She is attempting to cheer up her troops, who watch on with visible anxiety.
Normally one to appreciate lewd humour, Thunderblast now cringes, reaches over, and grabs Demolishor’s servo just to have something to hold as the suspended machinery whines to life.
“She’s gonna be fine,” he murmurs. “She’s tough.”
“Megatron knows what he’s doing.” Yet even Flamewar’s bravado has diminished at the sight of Shadow Striker restrained under a sharp, looming machine. “He’s got plans for us. Good things.”
Acid Storm has avoided Slipstream’s gaze for long enough. They finally look up at her, in an unspoken apology. “Please do not gaze directly at the needle.”
They turn their optics away as there is an onset of piercing light.
Shadow Striker makes a weird, strangled noise, lurching.
The stench has Thunderblast cupping her face place, Demolishor’s olfactory sensor wrinkled.
Slipstream spares a glance and regrets it. She can tell it is painful to go under that glowing needle just by the way Shadow Striker – the terrifying, beautiful, caustic old glitch that she is – jerks upon the gurney and gasps shockingly loudly, trembling within the armoured sheets of her frame.
“Aaargh! Son of a glitch!”
Acid Storm sighs quietly. The sounds of pain have been the most tiresome thing about all this, thus far. Not the deception. Even they had cried out, when they took Megatron’s mark. At the time, Shockwave’s disembodied servo had held onto Acid Storm’s digits until the shell almost cracked with the force of their grip over his own.
Nobody holds Shadow Striker’s servo to comfort her.
“That’s a lot worse than a tattoo,” Flamewar murmurs, her handsomely scuffed, scarred facial rigging very sympathetic, just then.
“Fragger!” Shadow Striker spits with venom. “What in the Pits are you – aaargh! Stop it! Enough already!”
“It is almost finished,” Acid Storm intones placidly as Slipstream winces hard.
“Gaaah! I’m gonna choke somebody!”
Thunderblast buries her face in heavy armour plating and feels Demolishor’s massive arm settle soothingly around her.
The moment the machine withdraws and the shackles release, Shadow Striker throws herself to her pedes, staggers for Acid Storm, and indeed grabs the Seeker by the throat.
“I advise that you do not–”
“Shuddup.”
“Don’t!” Slipstream seizes Shadow Striker’s wrist, but is entirely ignored. “Let them go!”
“Security,” intones Shockwave from all around.
Mindless security drones emerge from their storage pods, focalising on Shadow Striker.
“Sir!”
“Release my laboratory assistant. Immediately. Failure to comply will result in–”
Shadow Striker drops Acid Storm, who massages their neck cables, wincing at the dent in the protective casing.
Slipstream is there to murmur soothingly, inspecting the damage. Thankfully, it is minimal, easily repaired.
Shadow Striker glares about at the encircled security drones. “Fine. Call them off.” She does not have any visible weaponry, beyond her body itself.
“This infraction will be added to your permanent record.” Somehow, Shockwave sounds genuinely angry.
“Go frag yourself.”
“Noted.”
“You expect my guys to undergo that torture?” the old femme snarls at the faceless mech, unseen. “What did you even do to me? It feels like… like…”
Flamewar cringes as Shadow Striker claws at the fresh mark upon her bosom with large, blunt digits, seething through bared dentas, scope rolling wildly. “Boss bot? Hey!”
“Uuuuugh!”
“You’re scaring me, sir,” mumbles Thunderblast. “You don’t look okay! Like, at all!”
Demolishor is rigid and huge, grimacing. “Sir?”
A string of oral lubricant spills from Shadow Striker’s clenched jaw, drooling unflatteringly.
“Do not be alarmed,” Shockwave dictates irritably after allowing her to suffer for some time. “That is the code acclimatising itself to your systems. Do not resist it.”
“It’s gonna be… my fist up your aft… if you don’t,” she pauses for a low groan, “make it stop!”
Slipstream is utterly terrified, hugging Acid Storm, rubbing their throat. “They did this to you?!”
“I didn’t resist it. It didn’t hurt as much, that way.”
Flamewar looks stricken. “Megatron wouldn’t…”
Thunderblast turns and marches for the door, pulling Demolishor’s bulky arm, somehow dragging the hulking mech after her.
“W-wait, we can’t leave our commanding officer!”
“Frag this, sweetie. We’re gone.”
“This is desertion. Do you understand the consequences?”
“Eat my aft.”
“Desertion will result in disassembly,” Shockwave forewarns. “It is standard military procedure.”
Demolishor comes to a grinding halt.
In turn, Thunderblast stops.
“He’s right. We can’t leave.”
“We’re supposed to be better than the Senate,” she murmurs.
“Do you doubt our objectives?”
“Maybe you’ve got the right ideas for a better Cybertron in the end.” Her gaze is downcast. “But your means to that end are disgusting.”
“You only protest now that your appearance is to be altered against your specifications.”
“Call it vanity. I don’t mind pain, but on my terms.”
“I do not believe you joined Megatron in order to make the world a better place.”
“You’re right. I joined for myself.”
“Thusly, I do not infer why a brief inconvenience would prevent you from pursuing your personal ambitions. You have come this far, and he has taken an interest in your progress.”
“…He has?”
“Indeed. You have a specialised and uncommon alt-mode. This makes you valuable. It would be unfortunate to terminate you.”
“Okay. So he’s interested.”
“Affirmative. Do not destroy your potential for the sake of aesthetics.”
“Does he know you’re making these threats?”
“I operate according to his instructions.”
“Wow. He’s… more forceful than I thought.”
Flamewar rubs her aching helm. “I, uh… I need to sit down.” She proceeds to slide slowly onto the floor, seated upon her aft with her legs outstretched, back pressed to the wall, slumped.
Acid Storm gives an almost imperceptible nod, intended for Shockwave’s notice.
The security drones are finally recalled.
Shadow Striker fumbles to lean heavily on something solid, which turns out to be Slipstream’s arm.
“Sir?”
“I’m fine.”
The Seeker winces at the servo that grips her pauldron for support. It may have killed, today.
The mercenary drags the back of her fist over her intake, smearing oral lubricant, attempting to wipe herself off. She grimaces meanly, optic narrowed, scope darting about.
“Who’s next?” asks Acid Strom placidly.
Demolishor sighs. “I’ll go.”
“Please take a seat.”
“Okay.”
There is a rather sudden boom, originating from Wheeljack’s workshop.
Orion grimaces, immediately linking comms. “Wheeljack? Are you harmed?”
“Whoa, now! You heard that?” his voice blares over the line.
“Yes.”
“Well, I’m fine, uh, but the drone’s… not.”
“I am on my way. Did you retrieve the data?”
“About that. No. We may be dealin’ with someone who’s kinda good with tech, like me. I gotta call my ex.”
“Errm. You mean–”
“Yup.”
“Oh. I apologise.”
“Nah. I should be the one sayin’ sorry. I really, really didn’t wanna suspect him, so I didn’t put his name forward.”
“Do not apologise. Perhaps it is someone else?” Orion offers kindly, marching on ample strides down a corridor.
“Whoever worked on this drone, they’re a genius. Not too many of those.”
He takes a turn, arrives upon a door, unseals it with his palm scan and strides into the workshop with a gasp.
Wheeljack’s face plate is blackened, faintly scorched.
“By Primus!”
“Ah, it’s not as bad as it looks?”
“You will be seen to by Ratchet.”
“In a sec.”
“Immediately.”
Wheeljack sighs over the smoking remains of the drone upon his workbench. “I was so, so careful.”
“Here. Give me your arm.”
“I tried to access its onboard storage, and I didn’t even see the trigger. An automated explosion, right in my face. Boom. Kinda cool. Sad for the drone, of course. Poor little guy. Half scared my little helper offline.”
The attending done assistant cowers in the corner, covering its optics with its blunt limbs, simulating horror and terror wordlessly.
“You just take five, okay? Go, uh, take a break over at the recreation room.”
The appalled drone hastily escapes, with its master’s permission.
Orion feels a pang of pity for it. “Wheeljack, why do you programme your drones to feel?”
“I get lonely. The emotional matrix is very simplistic, nothin’ that’d give my drones existential dread or somethin’ like that. That’d be cruel. But… I need company that can react to me when I talk to it. Y’know what I mean?”
“Of course. I will find you a more fitting assistant.”
“That’d be nice of ya.”
“Now, then. I will escort you to Ratchet’s medical bay.” Orion lays a servo on Wheeljack’s pauldron, gently coaxing the mech out of his modest laboratory. “Come, let us walk together.”
“Mm.” A sigh. “Okie-dokie.” Dejected.
The door automatically seals shut.
“Is this pace suitable?”
“Yup.”
“Do not hesitate to tell me to slow down.”
“Any slower and we’ll take all day to get to Ratchet.”
“That matters not.” Orion squeezes Wheeljack’s pauldron fondly. “We will get there, when we get there.”
Briefly, they settle back into silence.
“I really, really hope I’m wrong."
"As do I, my friend."
"He’s one of the few who really understands drones, like I do. Not the mass-produced vacuum cleaners or dishwashers you’re used to, those are practically toys! I’m talkin’ actual drone tech. His drones can recognise a beat, they can dance, isn't that just beautiful? I love it!"
"Indeed. It brings joy."
"These propaganda drones seem simple on the surface, but the security inside? That was somethin’ else. I’m not gonna get a trace on this mess. Aw, man. I screwed it all up, today. Sorry.”
“Hush, Wheeljack. Just focus on this journey we are on, together, for now.”
“Sentinel’s gonna be so mad.”
“With all due respect, Sentinel's distemper has been his general state of being for some time."
“Tell me, good doctor, how was your day?” Starscream passes Knock Out a tall flute of Engex with a sympathetic expression. “You seem upset.”
“Oh, my day was wonderful!” is drawled sarcastically back, with moody pacing back and forth, hips swaying their aggravation. “Thanks for asking!”
“Mmhm.” A gentle little nod, optics following. “Would it help to glitch to me about it?” A delicate sip.
“I fully intend to glitch away!”
“I’m listening.”
“I have had to listen to big, tough mechs and femmes screaming in agony all day today!”
“I see.”
“Oh, I have never been the target of so many death threats in so concentrated a dosage, throughout my entire career!”
“That’s just awful, darling.”
“Thank the Thirteen that Breakdown was there to keep the rabble in line! One of them snuck a weapon past security!”
“Was this security, errm, comprised of my Seekers?”
“No, my dear, or we would be exchanging rather more heated words!”
“Utterly unacceptable, regardless. I will bring that up to Megatron right away.”
“Please, do! He listens to you!”
“And tell me, where is your better half, just now? I was so looking forward to seeing him again.”
“Ohh, he’s taking a little drive, out to collect some supplies I requested. Personal things. Things that cheer me up, make me feel good. Can’t exactly request them in the inventory drop. You know.”
“Ah, of course, discretion must be applied. How sweet. He does take care of you, does he not?”
“He is so good to me. Light of my life.” Knock Out pauses for a big sip of his Engex, before he gracefully flops into his seat, groaning. “Ugh. My back strut? Killing me.”
“Would a little massage help?”
“Darling, that would be wonderful. Thank you.”
Starscream sets his own drink aside, steps behind the other mech’s chair, and begins to rub his pauldrons deeply between the seams.
“Mmmmm…”
“Have Breakdown give you a good buffering before berth, tonight. Always soothes my aches.”
“Now, that is an excellent idea."
“Sir?”
“Come in.”
Slipstream steps into Shadow Striker’s office, standing before her desk.
“What do you want,” comes out low, acidic. A demand, rather than a question.
“To check in, Sir. Are you alright?”
The mercenary hums softly.
The Seeker waits.
“I’m fine. You?”
“I'm not fine.”
"You know you won't get much comfort from an old slag like me, right? Go snuggle up with Flamewar. She likes you."
"She wants to be alone, right now."
"And you think I don't?"
"I just wanted to say a few things, Sir, then I'll leave you be. Please?"
Shadow Striker sighs.
Slipstream does not flee this incredibly uncomfortable social encounter.
"Say it, then."
"Thank you."
The old mercenary looks up as the Seeker lays a palm on the desk.
In turn, Slipstream leans in, hovering her helm before Shadow Striker’s.
"This is different."
“You shouldn’t have attacked Acid Storm, Sir.”
Shadow Striker reads something in Slipstream’s handsome face. Something that is hard and sharp and yet maternal. It is in her husky undertone, too, the unusual heaviness, the implicit threat of retaliation.
“I could report you for doing so.”
For some reason, the mercenary finds it incredibly erotic.
“I should report you.”
"Then do it."
"I can't."
“Go ahead. Undoubtedly, Shockwave’s already on it.”
“His rank is superior to mine. If I corroborate his report, you will be in considerable trouble, Sir."
"But you can't. You just told me."
"And you told me, before, that working under Megatron is just another job, to you.”
“And I told you how I feel about getting to see my payday.”
“Even if I don't report you, Sir. Aren’t you worried Shockwave will have Megatron…” Slipstream ponders her wording, optics flickering between Shadow Striker’s scope and her grimacing dermas. “Release you from your post, Sir?”
"You mean, have me taken apart and recycled?"
"I really don't want that happening to you, Sir."
“It’s too late, now. I acted out. I’ll have to deal with the consequences. Not like I can escape this. It'd ruin any credibility to my name, leaving the biggest job of my career abandoned, and he's already got his digits in. Where would I go?”
"One of the colony worlds."
"And then I'd live the rest of my life in hiding. I think I'd rather take my chances on getting paid, and die."
“I see.” Slipstream grimaces. "I don't want you to die, Sir."
“But that was one of your Seekers. I won’t retaliate against your report. So send it.”
“No hard feelings, Sir?”
Shadow Striker feels her modesty plates grow unbearably tight, hot and throbbing, wet.
"I can't bring myself to endanger you, Sir."
"You're pathetic."
The Seeker sighs quietly, removing her palm from the desk and rising to her full, impressive height. Still a little shorter than the other femme in the tiny office.
“You’ve got so much you wanna tell me. But you don't have the Spark to say it.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Do you feel all… hurt, now? Betrayed, by my actions? Did I disappoint you?”
“You’re being cruel, Sir.”
“I’m not gonna give you a hug and say I’m sorry." The old mercenary scoffs. "But I’ll tell you what I told you before.”
Slipstream's gaze follows Shadow Striker as she rises from her chair, steps around the desk, and draws close enough that their vents intermingle.
“I’ve got nothing against you.”
The Seeker shivers, wings flaring impressively.
The mercenary contemplates those dark, plump dermas with broody desire.
Slipstream nods once, very slowly, and lowers her gaze to Shadow Striker’s grimacing dermas, in kind.
“If I don’t disappear,” a perpetually snarling intake forms softly, “I’ll still treat you the same.”
That undertone elicits a burly shudder.
"I'll work with you just fine. Report me or don't. Doesn't matter. This?" A digit inticates the mark, prodding it.
The Seeker flinches as her fresh brand is roughly poked.
"This just proves how fragged we are. We're in it, now. Really stuck. So. Anything else?”
“No, Sir.”
The mercenary does not move. Does not say another word.
Slipstream now reaches slowly, carefully, to probe the fresh insignia.
Shadow Striker hisses, but stays still. She does not reject those gently probing digits.
“Does it still hurt you, Sir?”
“Like a glitch. You?”
“Yes, Sir. Me, too.”
“Okay. Scrap that. I’m sorry for one thing.”
The Seeker gasps when the mercenary touches her again.
“I’m sorry this happened to us.”
Slipstream winces, wings jerking at her back, as Shadow Striker caresses Megatron’s aching, burning sign in a slow, scraping circle.
“I’m a tired old freak. I’ve had my time, and I’m still the best at what I do. Nobody comes close to me.”
“You’re… incredible, Sir.”
“But you’ve barely had a chance to do anything. You deserve better.”
The femmes investigate their identical badges, eliciting pain.
“I choke out one of your people, and you show up to my office in a huff, wanting to know if I’m okay, before giving me the softest reprimand ever, like you think that spooks me, and then you admit you can't even go through with it, because my wellbeing concerns you.”
“Sir, I… I’ve been told I’m an idiot, and I’m sentimental.”
“You’re a good girl, Slipstream. That’s gonna get you hurt.” Shadow Striker taps the insignia, making the other femme whimper, flinching. “This is just an end, for me. But its a whole new beginning, for you. My advice? Toughen up, and fast. Drop all contact with your friends or whoever's on the outside. Focus on staying alive. Maybe you'll last longer than I expect.”
“I don’t know what’s happening, any more.”
The mercenary sighs, her expression softening.
The Seeker looks incredibly guilty, seeking consolation, comfort, from this awful authority figure.
“I don’t do hugs. Ever.”
“That’s okay, Sir.”
“So that’s not what I’m gonna do to you.”
“What are you going to do, to me, Sir?”
“C’mere.”
Slipstream is trusting and obedient as she allows Shadow Striker to grasp the back of her helm not entirely gently, drawing the Seeker close, forcing her to bow, until her cheek settles just above the mercenary’s headlight, not far from that insignia.
“Not a hug.”
“Not a hug.”
Shadow Striker runs her digits over Slipstream’s bowed neck, after having squeezed Acid Storm’s hard enough to bend it a bit.
"This is so weird, Sir."
"Yeah. You're telling me." The old mercenary inhales deeply within her vents, gazing down at the Seeker. “You’d be doing Acid Storm a disservice, by letting this slide between you and I.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“I’m not gonna suddenly like you more, just because you showed me mercy.”
Slipstream leans on Shadow Striker’s upper chassis, cheek pressed to her firm, sleek warmth, the Seeker enjoying the sensation of the mercenary’s digits brushing the back of her helm, the cords of her neck.
"You've been taking care of other idiots for so long, you've got frag all instincts of self-preservation."
"You’ve been kind to me, so… I can show you this mercy, and not feel too conflicted over it, so long as I tell myself I told you off for what you did.”
“Your loyalties are really getting tested, huh.”
“Mmhm.”
Shadow Striker chuckles. As if she desires comfort from this.
Slipstream briefly closes her optics. As if she feels safe.
"There ya go."
"Mmhm."
"You're purring."
The Seeker's optics flutter open. She flushes. Reconsiders her positon, pressed against the old mercenary, enjoying her caressing digits over the back of the helm, neck.
"You remind me of my old war buddies."
"They're all offline, now."
"Yup."
Slipstream lowers her gaze, contemplating Shadow Striker’s insignia up close. The Seeker dips to kiss Megatron's mark, nestled between rather gorgeous headlights, garnering a low moan of pain and pleasure combined.
The mercenary claws at the back of the bowing femme's neck and helm, lingering between yanking her away and pulling her closer and pushing her down onto her knees.
"My Seekers always led me to believe my kisses make them feel better. I think I just hurt you worse."
"Get outta my office, before I throw you over my desk and frag you senseless."
"Yes, Sir."
"Ever kiss me again and I'll-"
Slipstream rises, depressed and fatigued and in pain and lonely and trapped again in the Pits under a burning Cybertron.
Shadow Striker does not know what to say. She watches the femme go.
Chapter 21: Discipline
Summary:
After attacking Acid Storm, Shadow Striker is doomed - or is she? The assembled Decepticons under her authority say their goodbyes, but Slipstream chooses differently. Upon the surface world the police and civilians clash, law enforcement outnumbered and overwhelmed, unable to restore the old order of the system that had empowered those behind the badge. Bumblebee takes to his role as scout, yet he still sees Decepticons as ordinary people, considering some of them his more distant friends. Starscream sees subordinate Decepticons as disposable pawns, yet he hesitates when one of his Seekers defies him to save the life of a filthy grounder, the very grounder who harmed a fellow Seeker. Chromia tries to convince Windblade to abandon Cybertron and go home, condemned by association when she refuses to leave her second home and the people she has grown to love who live here. Thunderblast offers her own brand of comfort to Flamewar in mourning, but both femmes are interrupted and happier for it.
Notes:
Please enjoy a big gay chapter with some lighter world-building elements operating in the background and loads of depression heaped all over the place.
Possible trigger warnings: discussion of execution as punishment, perverted power dynamics, overall mental unwellness, self-harm, implication of suicidal thoughts.
Chapter Text
Flamewar’s intake trembles with emotion. Her optics are almost too bright to meet. She is handsomely adorable and barely holding herself together, yet she says nothing. Her aching, itchy mark is covered in criss-crossing claw scrapes. She scratches at it again.
“Stop that,” Shadow Striker snaps, glaring down at the shorter femme. “You’ll infect it.”
“Hey, be nice. She’s worried about you! Ease up on her already,” Thunderblast mutters back, running her servo soothingly up and down Flamewar’s helm. “Sweetie, it’s okay. Try to stop picking at it like that, alright? You’ll hurt yourself.”
Slipstream’s fuel pump is having the most troubling palpitations. Her digestive tank feels bottomless. She can hear herself venting in and out slowly, like she was told to do when the urge to panic comes upon her too strong to pretend like it is not there, like it will just pass on its own, unaddressed. She is struggling not to be consumed within herself.
“She’ll come back. She’s just gonna go get told off for being a dumbaft. That’s all. It’s just a meeting. You hate meetings. They’re totes boring! She’s way too important for Megatron to just… y’know. Be done with her. Just like that.”
Flamewar twitches and Thunderblast cringes.
“Demolishor.”
“Yes, Sir. At your service.”
“You’re in charge until I return,” Shadow Striker intones lowly. “Or I’m replaced.”
“Primus’ sake, don’t say that in front of her!”
“Understood, Sir,” he replies stoically, yet his grimace says everything about the thoughts and feelings he is so very private about. “Good luck.”
“Thanks.”
Flamewar shudders all over, claws curled into fists at her sides to stop herself, fangs bared. Her engine gives off an aggressive bark, throaty and loud and startling.
“Stay here. Do your chores. Do not follow me.”
“Be a little more delicate, please!” Thunderblast scowls, stooping into a hug. “Aw, sweetie, she’ll be fine.” The boat cradles the rigid bike with a soft, feminine sigh. “There, there.”
“For what it’s worth, serving with you lot has been…” A begrudging smile. “Strange, but not terrible.” Shadow Striker gives each one of her team an almost fond look, allowing her scope to linger on their familiar faces for what may be the last time. “You’re a decent bunch. Take care of yourselves, and each other.”
“We will continue to do so, Sir!” Demolishor salutes, maintaining perfect soldierly form, a tired old war machine retrofitted to keep on living so he may serve again. “It has been our honour!”
Thunderblast rests her chin atop Flamewar’s helm and hugs her tight.
Slipstream clutches at her chassis, panting.
Shadow Striker’s smile fades. She makes a soft sound, then turns and departs without another word, or even a backwards glance.
“W-wait!”
“Can’t.”
Slipstream finds herself lurching after the older femme. “Sir, I – frag’s sake – wait!”
“Won’t help my case if I’m late to my own execution.”
“Take me with you!”
“You can’t arrest us all,” the mech sneers, slamming a fist to his insignia and refusing to wince at the pain. “This is our world now!”
“Megatron’s gettin’ us what we deserve,” a massive labourer snarls. “And you’re not gettin’ in our way.”
“Yeah! We don’t gotta hide from you!” cries a femme, lifting her servo above her helm. “Rise up!”
Thus begins a by now familiar chant of voices exalted altogether, a flurry of living metal advancing as one unified force that flows through the streets like Energon in a fuel line, sending unmarked neutrals scattering.
“Oh, frag me!” A fresh young police cadet with stars in his optics nervously braces himself against the bigger, grimmer, senior officer Strongarm. “W-what do we do? There’s so many of them!”
“Rise up! Rise up! Rise up!” the Ascenticons, or more disparagingly, Decepticons, shout as one unified voice whilst turfing makeshift missiles of trash that bounce of off armoured frames of blue and white.
“Primus.” Strongarm ducks behind a transparent shield. “I really miss you, Prowl.”
“Take me with you, Sir.”
“Only I was summoned.”
“You’re permitted to take a witness of your own. Let me be your witness, Sir.”
Shadow Striker’s perpetual scowl darkens a bit as she pauses at the threshold between the underground and the overworld. Slowly, she turns her helm, peering back with a whirring, unblinking scope. “I told the other idiots to stay here. To let me go alone.” A nod aimed further down the tunnel. “Why would I take you with me, but leave them behind?”
“Because I’m a Seeker, and Acid Storm is a Seeker, and we answer to the same Captain who wants you dead, Sir. I can tell Shockwave, Megatron and Starscream that you weren’t, um…” Slipstream hesitates, pondering her choice of words. “In your right state of mind, at the time it happened. It’ll mean more, coming from me than any of the others. It’ll mean more, because I’m with you.”
That scope flickers, refocusing.
“You don’t deserve to be decommissioned, Sir. I don’t want that to happen to you.”
“Well, too bad if it does. It’s not your responsibility to look out for me.”
“I can’t help it!”
“This will cost you dearly, someday.”
“It already has!” A servo grips a chassis again, handsome facial rigging wincing. “Please. Let me help you.”
Shadow Striker is suddenly standing right there. She lays a digit to one of the primary fuel lines in Slipstream’s neck, measuring the pulse of the Energon flow.
“Sir?”
“Uneven. You’re not having Spark attack or pump failure, are you. Get this checked out, while you’re young and spry. This sorta scrap kills later on.”
The disgraced Seeker allows for a moment, then fumbles to grasp the old mercenary’s arm, drawing up her servo and nuzzling into its palm.
Shadow Striker pulls a rather twisted facial expression. Even for her.
“It wouldn’t be right if I just let you go alone to maybe die, Sir. Your life matters to me, to us.” Slipstream reflexively averts her optics, face halfway buried in the other femme’s palm. “We care about you.”
“Shuddup.”
“You need to hear it, Sir.”
“Don’t you dare make me feel… things, for you,” the mercenary murmurs as she brushes her thumb tenderly over the Seeker’s nuzzling face plate, “and for those other fools I’ve already left behind me. Don’t make this hard.”
“Don’t leave, Sir.” Slipstream sniffles, muffled by palm. “Take me, too.”
“Look at me.”
She refuses, until she feels a digit hook itself under her chin not entirely gently, tilting her helm back so their gazes finally meet. Soon, her entire jaw is captured in Shadow Striker’s servo. There is a painful squeeze, distorting handsome features.
“I’m not worth it.”
The Seeker shivers as the squeeze is slowly released, but the servo remains, still capturing her jaw.
“I’m convinced that when they cold forged you,” murmurs the old mercenary who may be condemned to die this day, “your Spark was meant for softer things than soldiering. You were born to be some sorta caregiver or something. Probably would’ve flourished, mentoring a little group of freshly forged protoforms emerging for the first time, eager to choose their alt-modes. Fate’s been a real glitch to you.”
Slipstream gazes soulfully up at Shadow Striker.
“You are going to get yourself killed, someday, trying to save someone else.” That same thumb now brushes over her intake, tracing the plump dermas which part far too eagerly in reaction to being touched like this, exhaling hot and fast under the stare of that scope. “You’ll feel really stupid in your last moments when you think back on what I’ve just said and realise I was right all along. Then this whole effort will seem like such a joke.”
The disgraced Seeker sighs when that thumb traces her cheek, less seductive, more affectionate.
The old mercenary is having unwise thoughts. Again.
“These could be… our final moments together, Sir.”
“Yes.”
“Is this really… how you want me to remember you?” It is difficult to speak in the grip of those curled digits. “You think being deeply unpleasant… will make me miss you any less?”
“Silence,” Shadow Striker snarls softly.
“No, Sir,” Slipstream defies her, gentle yet intense.
The old mercenary’s digits suddenly let go, only to scrape their way around the back of the Seeker’s helm, seizing her there.
“Don’t do us any favours, Sir,” Slipstream intones bravely into Shadow Striker’s trademark scowl. “This won’t make it any easier on me. Or them. Or yourself.”
“You’re so fragging handsome right now.”
The Seeker sighs, almost breathing into the mercenary’s snarled intake.
“Stop.”
The distance between them is such a small thing.
“You don’t wanna push me too far. You don’t wanna pull me too close.”
“I’m just here for you, Sir. It’s my duty.”
Shadow Striker finally smirks down at Slipstream, who is a little shorter, yet equally as well-built. “I don’t deserve you.”
“No. You really don’t, sir.”
“Does anybody else?”
“No, Sir. Windblade and Bee could do better than me. I don’t deserve them.”
Shadow Striker cradles the back of Slipstream’s helm in a vice-like grip, closing the distance so that their brows come to rest in silent companionship.
The Seeker trembles now.
The mercenary is silent and still, bolstering.
“It almost happened to me. I was almost decommissioned. Your report to Starscream could’ve got me killed,” Slipstream says softly. “But I’m not angry. I hate what’s happened, yes, but… I’m also a little glad. Or maybe grateful. You took me in when he didn’t want me, and I got the chance to get to know you. You were my saviour, and you damned me.”
The mercenary nods once.
“I’m terrified, Sir. I’m sick, to think you might not see me tomorrow, and I might never hear your grousing over that disgusting Energon, and I’m freaked out by how badly I’ll miss the heat of your scope on me when you think I don’t notice you staring.”
Shadow Striker groans lowly. “I thought I was so subtle, too.”
“You’re weird.”
“I am.” She permits Slipstream’s palms, settling over her pauldrons. “Bet you’re into that.”
“I’m begging you, Sir. Take me. Please.”
The mercenary chuckles.
The Seeker manages a smile.
Shadow Striker still has one servo free. It fumbles for Slipstream’s abdominal plating, then crawls upward and splays out over Megatron’s mark.
“I want you to live, you mean, crooked, tired old glitch.”
“Yeah.”
“It’s not like you deserve to die. I don’t think that’s anybody’s call to make but yours.” The Seeker’s voice is low, husky, dangerous. “Your payday is under threat. Let me help you.”
“Mmm.”
“Besides, Sir, if you die, it affects the whole team. That would devastate unit morale. And… you’re accepted here. They won’t want another commanding officer with you gone. I think Flamewar would be devastated. She really likes you, Sir.”
“I haven’t had anyone give a frag about me like this since the war.”
“You’re really lonely, aren’t you.”
“I wouldn’t call it lonely. I’ve forgotten what interpersonal attachments could feel like, is more accurate.” The mercenary huffs. “All my war buddies are dead.”
“We’re your war buddies now, Sir. We’re Decepticons. We’re stuck in this. Together.”
Shadow Striker suddenly grins. “Using my own words against me.”
Slipstream feels the grip relent itself from her helm, leaving a dull ache and lingering warmth behind.
“How about this. I’ll take you with me, let you speak on my behalf. If I’m not decommissioned, you’ll let me buy you a celebratory drink afterward. Deal?”
“Okay, Sir. Deal.”
“Something strong. High-grade. Not the cheap scrap. You’re a solid femme, you get the good stuff.”
“I’d appreciate that, Sir.”
“C’mon, then. You better not have made me late.”
The femmes emerge from hiding to greet the surface of their burning world.
“It’s a lovely day outside.”
“Yes, Sir. It is.”
Bumblebee did his job. Thanks to his covert scouting efforts, another of Megatron’s disguised clinics is stripped down during the raid. More Decepticons are detained for further questioning. More equipment is seized for subsequent analysis. He has already proved himself a useful and capable asset, this early on in his career. He should feel good about himself. Yet he feels no accomplishment when he looks around and finds his efforts have achieved virtually nothing. It is hard not to be discouraged.
It would appear to the pessimists out there that it is already too late. Decepticons are everywhere and continue to multiply. Megatron broadcasts his untraceable propaganda far and wide across Cybertron and seems completely and utterly unbothered by the High Council’s best efforts at stopping their rise. Social media is awash with memes that are increasingly pro-Decepticon, indicating that many of the people have spoken for themselves despite Sentinel’s dedication toward censorship and Orion’s efforts to use reasonable arguments to placate the masses. Ariel tries to keep the morale up whilst offering her rugged strength toward getting jobs done that need doing, pretending that she is too big and strong and tough to worry about the world she left behind.
Bumblebee does not vilify the Decepticons like others do. He would count some of them among his more peripheral friendship circle. Being quite the distinct and sociable little mech that he is, he loves meeting new people and is always hopeful to make new friends. When he is not operating as a covert scout on a mission, and he is permitted to walk among their number, unmarked and presumably unaffiliated, he will answer their smiles and wave back at them and engage in chatter. Without any sort of insignia to denote to whom he belongs, he is not perceived as the scout. He is just himself. Bumblebee. He has never felt so small. He has way too much to think about.
“Hi.” Nova Storm steps into his path and he practically bumps into her.
“Oh, hey there!”
“You’re one of Slip’s friends, right? I’m sure we’ve met, but I was a little fragged up at the time. Bumblebee, right?”
“Yup. Just Bee if you like. And you’re Nova Storm, yeah?”
“Just Nova. This is Thundercracker, or Thunder. He’s my everything.”
“Hiya.”
Bumblebee marvels at how big and beautiful Seekers are. He cranes his neck to look up at them, smiling down at him.
Thundercracker’s countenance is handsomely shy.
Nova Storm is self-confident, a little flirtatious.
“How’s it going, guys?”
The Seekers exchange a shared grimace.
“Eh, it’s not all bad, but it could be better,” Thundercracker intones with a sigh, rubbing his neck. “The depression hits hard, sometimes. Captain Starscream’s been working the scrap outta us. We miss Slip so bad, and Acid got attacked…”
“Oh!” Bumblebee is visibly appalled. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“They’re okay. Like, fully repaired. Captain Starscream’s gonna do one of those disciplinary things, y’know, the whole works. He’s given us the day off so he can, uh, focus on that and stuff.”
“I would’ve punched the old glitch’s lights out.”
“Yeah, but Acid’s not a fighter, like you. They hate punching stuff.”
“Lucky for her. You dated the glitch for a bit, right? I saw you two at Mac’s a few times.”
Bumblebee blinks. “Uh… Can you be more specific? I’ve dated a lotta people, sorry.”
“Big scary lady with the…” Nova Storm indicates her right optic, realises this is the wrong one, and quickly swaps over to the left optic. “Scope thingy. Scowls all the time.”
“Shadow Striker?” he utters in a very small voice.
“Yeah, that old glitch. She strangled the frag outta Acid. No wonder you dumped her. You did dump her, right? No offence, but she was not your type, like, at all. Nice little guy like you, with your cute face, you can do so much better. She’s mad old.”
“Nova, c’mon, don’t insult his taste in femmes.”
“She, uh… kinda dumped me, actually. Not that we were really a thing, I guess.”
“Well, good. ’Cause if I ever get my servos on her, I’ll snap her neck entirely, like, just pop her helm right off. Sorry, Bee, but it’s personal.”
“She’s… a Decepticon?”
“Yeah, unfortunately. If Captain Starscream gets his way, though, she won’t be for much longer.” Nova Storm is a gorgeous femme, arguably the prettiest among them with her open features and innate sensuality, but her optics are sometimes astonishingly cruel.
Thundercracker cringes at the expression on Bumblebee’s face plate and quickly steps in. “Good news, though! Heh-heh-heh. We, uh… We got a new Seeker! Fancy that, right?”
Bumblebee tries not to agonise over Shadow Striker’s fate, smiling awkwardly up at the much bigger fliers. “Wow. It’s been forever for you guys.”
“Yeah, she’s great! Her name’s Skywarp and she doesn’t say a word.” Nova Storm grins, wings erecting from her back to fully extend and flutter her excitement. “Not to brag or whatever, but I think I’m her favourite. She never pranks me.”
“Of course you’re her favourite, Nova. You’re the best.”
“Aw, Thunder, c’mon! We all know you’re the best.”
“No, no, no. You are.”
“Nuh-uh. You!”
The Seekers purr and preen together.
Bumblebee is about to contemplate an exit strategy when he finally notices the object tucked under Thundercracker’s burly arm. “Is that Cube?”
“Oh, yeah, we were gonna play a couple matches.” Resisting Nova Storm’s kisses, Thundercracker presents the dull, battered old Cube to Bumblebee. It is not shiny or glowy like the official model the professionals use and its AI is even more simplistic. “You play, too?”
“I sure do!” Cube always makes Bumblebee feel so much better. And anyway, he assumes that Shadow Striker is about to get fired, which he figures is probably a good thing for her. Once she is a free agent, he hopes that he may convince her to recruit over to the High Council's side. He is optimistically naive.
“Come join our match!”
“Yeah! I’d love to!”
“Uh, not to be, like… y’know.” Nova Storm is not a delicate femme, but she is trying to be nice. “I mean, you can’t fly, so… Like, no offence, but we fly, see?”
“Oh, right,” Thundercracker intones with a grimace. “Could be tricky, huh.”
“You guys play Cube in the air?!” Bumblebee almost passes out at the prospect of such an exciting thing. “That’s so awesome! Can I watch?!”
“Sure. I mean, we can play on the ground, for once.”
“Yeah, Thrust’s gonna love that.”
“Bah! Let him complain.”
“As usual! C’mon, Bee.”
“Coming! Lead the way!”
“Slipstream,” Starscream utters with almost fragile disbelief, assessing the saluting Seeker with a frown, “what are you doing here? I did not summon your attendance.”
“I am Shadow Striker’s witness, Captain.”
“Oh. Hmm. I see.”
Shockwave does not have a face, and yet he looks shocked. Acid Storm’s absence at his side is as predicted.
Megatron’s optics are burning. “I shall permit it.”
“Ah, yes. Of course. You have come to corroborate Shockwave’s report,” Starscream intones in a beguiling rasp. “Datawork would have sufficed. Very brave of you to do so in person. You truly are the responsible one, Slipstream. I’m proud.”
Cringing, she again opens her intake to speak, only to be interrupted.
“Dearest, surely you have come to seek my protection as well,” her Captain purrs, surging forward and suddenly cupping her face in his palms, smiling far too sweetly. “Look at you. Poor little thing. Was she cruel to you? Was she horrible?”
“Uh, actually, Sir–”
“That brute! If she has ever laid a digit upon you in violence, whilst you were entrusted to her care, I will have her melted down into scrap. Do not be afraid to tell me all she has done to hurt you.”
Shadow Striker twitches, but only huffs.
Again, Slipstream is denied a voice.
“I must confess, surrendering you over to her was not my best decision. I should have known a common mercenary would know no better than to act on her violent impulses! Clearly, I gave her too much credit as a professional.” Starscream gives Shadow Striker a disgusted glare, then returns to fussing over Slipstream. “Tell me, darling. Has she attacked you, as well?”
“No, Sir,” the subordinate Seeker declares. “Shadow Striker has not attacked me.”
“Do not hesitate to speak the truth. I will keep you safe. She cannot harm you now.”
“It is the truth, Captain. I am not coerced to lie to you.”
Starscream’s bright, piercing optics search Slipstream closely.
She meets his gaze with dull fatigue and just a hint of discomfort.
“…Well,” he surmises eventually, slowly withdrawing, “then consider yourself lucky. Clearly, it is just a matter of time before she snaps again and outright kills someone.”
“Sir, I do not believe that I am at risk. I do not believe Shadow Striker would kill a fellow Decepticon unless she had to, or was commanded to.”
“Rather a bold stance, considering she throttled Acid Storm on camera! Oh, Slipstream. You always were far too trusting of authority figures.”
Shadow Striker rolls her scope at Starscream’s utter lack of self-awareness.
“Let us forget the reassignment. You have suffered enough and surely learnt your lesson by now. I will withdraw you from her command and reclaim you at the conclusion of this disciplinary. Understood?”
Slipstream grimaces softly. “Understood, Captain.”
“Very good. We need your maternal instincts now more than ever, you see, as our number has recently grown.”
“We have a new Seeker, Sir?”
“Oh, yes! You will adore Skywarp, she is such a character! Never says a word, always pulling pranks on the others, but mostly Thrust.”
“We are getting sidetracked,” Shockwave intones with distinct irritation.
“Yeah. Can I speak for myself, now?” Shadow Striker’s scowl remains impervious.
“I suppose so.” Starscream glances at Megatron, who nods. “Now then, Shadow Striker. Did you, or did you not, violently assault one of my Seekers, unprovoked, when they were fulfilling their duties?”
“I was plenty provoked,” Shadow Striker replies readily, arms folded. “But I’d call them a victim, just as I am.”
Slipstream rubs her brows, cringing into her servo.
Starscream bares his dentas. “Acid Storm would not provoke violence in anyone. They are the mildest, least confrontational personality I have ever known.”
“I recognise it wasn’t exactly their fault, is what I’m saying. Wrong place, wrong time.”
“Yet you seem… less than contrite.”
“I am not proud of my conduct. But I stopped myself before I could apply lethal force.”
“Only because of security measures.”
“It wasn’t just that.”
“Oh, please. Killing and self-preservation are all you hired guns know.”
“I didn’t wanna upset Slipstream.”
The Seeker jerks, glaring aside at the mercenary.
“You lost out, Scream, when you threw such a good girl to me like trash. Your loss, my gain.”
Slipstream looks caught between flattered and horrified. “Sir, please!”
“If I’m gonna die anyway,” Shadow Striker replies with a shrug, “I might as well just say what I think.”
“Take this seriously!”
“I am serious. It’s been a pleasure to have you around.”
“You really shouldn’t turn this disciplinary into an entertaining diversion.” Starscream sneers. “You do realise I could have you decommissioned for what you have done?”
“Actually, I’m fragging bored stiff. But that’s not your call to make, Scream,” Shadow Striker intones, irritable yet calm. “It’s Megatron’s.”
There is a brief, but tangible hush.
“How dare you!” The Captain is shrill and furious, all of a sudden, his bladed wings fanning outward. “My Seekers are not yours to assault! They are mine! Only I may own their bodies, and use them as I decide, as is my right!”
Slipstream’s helm falls upon her pauldrons. She sighs.
Megatron grimaces softly. “Star, please compose yourself.”
“Yeah, about that. Isn’t my savagery the point?” Shadow Striker sneers at Starscream’s flushed fury. “You thought I’d be a fitting punishment for Slipstream to endure, so who the frag are you to act all high and mighty now?”
He sputters, clutching at his chassis.
“That does not excuse your treatment of my laboratory assistant.” Shockwave’s scowl is a heavy one. Almost as heavy as his low drone.
“You’re absolutely right about that.” Shadow Striker nods once, and sighs, sombre. “Look. I’m not condoning what I did to Acid Storm.”
“I came here for just recompense, and I will not leave without it!” Starscream is in Shadow Striker’s face, shrieking at her close enough that she catches a fleck of oral lubricant to the scope. “I demand an apology!”
“I won’t say sorry to you.”
“You wretch! I should dismantle you myself!”
“As if you could.”
“Enough,” Megatron interjects with his soft-spoken forcefulness, the sort of undertone that could topple a mountain. “This is not how we conduct a meeting. Particularly a disciplinary. This infighting must cease at once.”
“What would possess you to harm one of my own!” Starscream demands with an ache in his rasp, ignoring the interjection. “They are beautiful and innocent! They are angelic!”
“Yet you’d condemn your own to the Pit, with me. You hypocrite.” Shadow Striker neatly pushes Starscream aside, addressing Shockwave. “I wasn’t exactly doing so hot at the time,” she mutters, in a rare display of honest vulnerability. “I was in pain, I was… confused, and kinda freaked out. Okay. Frag me. I admit it.”
Slipstream softens.
“Acid Storm just so happened to be in control of the situation at the time. Literally, at the control panel, operating the machine that was causing me a fragload of pain… and distress. So, I reacted.”
“You were informed that it would be painful.”
“Does that really matter? It was agony. Your code was chewing on my circuits and this stupid insignia was an open wound. My whole team was gonna undergo what your assistant put me through. I was upset, alright? My combat parameters and adrenaline protocols kicked in and I perceived Acid Storm as a threat. I’m a provocative personality, I tend to lash out when I feel… unsafe.”
“You should have composed yourself! You’re supposed to be a professional!”
“Says you. I notice you don’t have a mark anywhere on your pristine shell. Too pretty for it, Scream?”
“You barbaric, dirty little ground-pounder!”
Megatron really hates it when Starscream talks like that, especially after so many apologies and promises to do better than that. “Language.”
“If given the chance to address Acid Storm myself,” Shadow Striker carries on with a grimace, “I will not apologise, because I’m not sorry. I hold my grudges forever. But, that being said, I’m not gonna do them any further harm, so long as they don’t harm me first, or threaten me with plausible harm, or do anything that could harm my team.”
“Acknowledged,” Shockwave intones reluctantly, after a moment of thought. “Your logic is… I will acknowledge it. Limited. Acknowledged.”
“If I may add to that,” Slipstream speaks up, “Shadow Striker is not a nice person.”
“Oh-ho!” The old mercenary almost laughs. “Isn’t that just sweet?”
“Sir, please.” The Seeker is upright, earnest. “I request that you do not decommission her, she doesn’t deserve that at all!”
Megatron quirks an optic ridge when Shadow Striker actually smiles at Slipstream.
Starscream exhales harshly.
“Of course I disapprove of her treatment of Acid Storm. But I was there. I witnessed what happened. And I took the mark, myself. Even I wanted to…” Slipstream sighs. “I wanted to slam my helm into the wall. The code, it was fire in my brain module. My mark has not stopped aching since I got it.”
“You are a gentle temperament,” Megatron intones. “I am sorry that you have suffered so.”
“I’m not the only one who’s suffering.”
“Indeed. I shall address this.”
“How could you?” Starscream demands, quivering. “Acid Storm must be avenged, we must have justice!”
“Acid Storm isn’t here, Captain. They wouldn’t support the motion to have Shadow Striker decommissioned and you know that.”
Starscream is loathe to recognise the sincerity Slipstream is known for.
“I serve Shadow Striker without resentment, even if she is meant to punish me. I respect her. The team respects her. Decommissioning her would be wrong.”
Megatron nods.
Starscream seems like he is about to explode. “Are you defective, Slipstream?”
“I am unfortunately very lucid, Captain. I acknowledge the dissonance, but I stand by Shadow Striker.”
“Are you doing this to spite me?!”
“No,” Slipstream answers softly, “of course not. I love you.”
He averts his gaze, seething, momentarily silent.
“With all that outta the way.” Shadow Striker looks to Megatron. “Am I gonna die today?”
“No,” he concludes readily. “I think not.”
“Awesome.”
“Perhaps I should have taken measures to better prepare my troops for receiving the Deceptibrand. After all, I took it, first. I knew what to expect.”
“That’s seriously what we’re calling it, now?”
“Soundwave’s suggestion. I think it’s rather catchy.”
“I demand restitution!”
“Retake Slipstream and consider that enough, Star.”
Slipstream perks. Hopeful.
Starscream, however, will not look at her, now.
“Captain, I’m ready to come home.”
“And I’m not ready to receive you.”
She flinches.
“Do not be cruel, Star. She has done nothing wrong.”
“Oh, but I think she should remain with Shadow Striker and those other degenerates underground. Slipstream seems rather comfortable in their company, partaking in the dank and the dark.”
“Captain, please, I’m ready to go home!”
Shadow Striker shakes her helm. “You’re being a fragging fool, Scream.”
“Don’t leave me!”
“I’ve got a helmache.”
“Take me with you!”
“We are done here.” Starscream has already sashayed out, without waiting for dismissal. “Ugh! I must see Knock Out. He’ll know what to do.”
“Wait! Please! Captain!”
Megatron gazes down at Slipstream with rugged pity.
“I miss you.”
“I will talk to him.”
She hugs herself.
“In the meantime.” Megatron looks to Shadow Striker next. “Do not make me regret this. Mind how you treat your fellow Decepticons. Take care of her.”
“Understood,” Shadow Striker replies grimly, looking intently at Slipstream.
“Good. Dismissed.”
The old femme turns to depart, then pauses at the door. “Come along, you.” Gruff, but not unkind. “I owe you that drink, remember?”
The Seeker sighs and follows, obedient. “Yes, Sir.”
“Hey. Don’t feel too bad.”
“Yeah. At least I can’t feel any worse.”
“Exactly. You just screwed yourself over on my account, and I’m never gonna be worth the sacrifice, but Scream’s a stuck-up little glitch anyway and he can go frag himself. He doesn’t deserve you, either.”
Slipstream sniffles, then grunts when Shadow Striker grasps her by the pauldron, steering her along.
“Here, I gotcha.”
“I am so fragged, Sir.”
The mercenary smirks at the Seeker.
“It’s not funny!”
“I’m not laughing.”
“You’re not helping either, Sir.”
Shadow Striker squeezes the pauldron in her grip.
Slipstream is thus steered along.
“Look at all the Decepticons.”
“Yes, Sir, there are so many of us.”
Cybertron is full of frames bearing Megatron’s mark. It would seem more than half of the population has surrendered their will to his own by now. Far too many for the police to ever hope to arrest, far too many for the elite guard to ever hope to intimidate.
Slipstream is counted among the innumerable multitude. She paws at her Deceptibrand self-consciously, already miserable.
Shadow Striker swaggers alongside, smiling strangely.
For a while, nobody says anything.
“I think you want to tell me something, Sir.”
“Nothing important.”
Maccadam’s awaits them.
“Just wanna say thank you.”
“Okay. You’re welcome.”
“No, I’m not. Don’t be so polite.”
“Well, well, well.” Soundwave tips his cup over at the bar. “You’re still alive, you cantankerous old glitch.”
“I sure am.” Shadow Striker grins at him. “Was hoping you’d be waiting for me here.”
“Of course.”
Slipstream does not like the mech, truthfully, but she would never say so. And besides, being steered by the older femme via her grip to the pauldron makes escape rather difficult.
“And you have your little Seeker with you. I’m sure Megatron’s glorious second-in-command really appreciated that.”
“She testified for me, in fact. Scream was delighted.”
“So, she spoke up against Shockwave, and her own Captain? That’s rich.”
“Good girl, this one.”
Slipstream feels Shadow Striker squeeze her pauldron again, which does not help much.
“He’s an idiot.”
“Indeed, on that we can agree.” A flourish, a stylish snap of the digits, a casual point. “Slipstream, was it?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Not Sir. Soundwave.”
“Good to, um, be formally introduced. Soundwave.”
“Cute. Slipstream.”
“Be nice to her,” Shadow Striker mutters at quite possibly her only friend in the world. “I mean it.”
“I cannot do nice.”
“Well, try. For me.”
Soundwave purrs with soft, melodic laughter. “Fine, fine. Here, Slipstream, sit.”
Shadow Striker all but pushes Slipstream atop an open bar stool, ruffling her helm. “Lemme get you that drink.”
“Yes, please. Thank you.”
“Oh, she’s so sweet.”
Slipstream is actually very grateful for the Engex. The distinct burn of high-grade on the way down gives her something else to agonise over, beside how bitterly she has ruined her life, trying to do the right thing for someone who does not deserve the compassion.
Shadow Striker and Soundwave chat surprisingly amicably together. Their mutual fondness is abrasive, but genuine, freely expressed. They are actually very close. They are good friends.
Slipstream keeps her helm down and drinks, saying as little as possible. Her wings are lowered and her shoulders are slumped and her elbows are propped up on the counter, making her look broody and handsomely pathetic.
Maccadam tries to engage her in a gentle chatter, bless his Spark. But his propensity to make predictions that prove true cannot quite seem to reassure her faithlessness now.
She believes only one thing – she is doomed and the world is ending soon, at least, her world is ending soon. She has drained three cups when he gently recommends that she stop there.
“How about something a little less strong?”
She shakes her helm, rubbing her face.
“Perhaps a detox solution?” He smiles a paternal smile, adopting a soft-spoken voice. “I promise you, mine doesn’t taste bad.”
“M’fine. Thanks.”
“Alright, Captain.” A playful salute.
A scoff. “I’m not a Captain any more.”
“Oh, but you will be Captain again. You, and that enigmatic Skywarp. You haven’t met her yet, but trust me, she’ll grow on you. She grows on everyone, eventually.”
“How can you know all this stuff?”
“All it takes is time. Hang in there.”
Shadow Striker laughs harshly at something Soundwave coos into her audial. They have both had a few drinks themselves.
Slipstream lapses into tipsy imaginings as to what Skywarp could be like. Almost flinches when a palm brushes over her spinal seam.
“You wanna dance?”
Slipstream turns to stare stupidly at Shadow Striker.
“You’re not too far gone to understand me, are you?” the mercenary mutters with a handsome smirk. “C’mon, big femme like yourself can’t be a lightweight.” She does that thing again where she might have just winked. A little drunk herself.
“Um. No. Sorry.” The Seeker’s face plate feels hot. “I don’t dance.”
“So you’ve said. Just checking.”
“I still do not dance, at all.”
“That’s just fine,” croons Soundwave, already shuffling through his personal playlist for something suitably Decepticon. After all, he figures they practically own this planet by now, including the old oil house. “Then watch us.”
“Uh. Okay.”
Maccadam silently pushes over a little bowl of Energon goodies. “Here, I believe these are your favourite.”
“Thanks.” Slipstream helps herself to one and sucks on it. She sucks harder at the way her foggy optics perceive Shadow Striker in motion with Soundwave. “…Wow…”
“Yes, they are quite impressive.”
“They look so free.”
Inevitably, almost everyone wants to dance with the handsome Decepticons who simply do not care what the cops or the elite guard or the panicking rich people think, effortlessly dominating a flurry of bodies that come together to revolve around them. Most of these bodies bear Megatron’s mark. But there are also unmarked neutrals among them. Perhaps even a few who would prefer Orion’s way. He has not yet visibly branded his own resistance, but he shall have to.
Slipstream reaches for another Energon goodie.
It almost seems as if Shadow Striker has a sort of platonic romance with Soundwave. He lays his servo on her hip and she loops an arm about his neck and their helms brush together, and yet the twinkle in her optic does not resemble lust, and the way he effortlessly makes her giggle does not seem lecherously intended.
Slipstream’s chiselled cheek bulges a bit as she swirls the Energon goodie about with her nimble glossa, watching the dancers with wide, befuddled optics. She misses her friends. Mostly Bumblebee and Windblade. Unfortunately still very much in love with them.
Shadow Striker brushes her smirking intake against Soundwave’s cheek as he draws her against himself, to the envy of hopeful mechs and femmes moving snugly around them.
Slipstream wishes really hard that she could be the sort to get up and dance.
When Shadow Striker eventually returns, her dark, glossy frame is slick with perspired coolant and she is panting raggedly from her intake. Very satisfied and moderately drunk, she collapses at the bar, slouching beside the rather foggy yet responsible Slipstream.
“Feeling any better, Sir?” enquires the Seeker mildly whilst sucking on an Energon goodie.
“Much, thanks.”
“Ready to go back?”
“Yeah,” the old mercenary groans. “Guess so.”
Soundwave is still dancing, still dominating all these other bodies gravitating around his own, still in control of the music they devote themselves to.
“I think he’s good for you, Sir.”
Shadow Striker grunts under the soft roar of her automated cooling fans, then offers Slipstream a servo all of a sudden.
The Seeker accepts it and is pulled to her pedes.
“Mind if we lean on each other a bit? Brain module’s swimming in Engex.”
“Might have to. That stuff was a little too high-grade for me, Sir. Here, I’ve got you.”
The mercenary thus braces herself against a pauldron, smearing coolant and panting into a flushed cheek. “Good girl.”
Slipstream shudders. "Bye, Mac." Tosses a polite, stiff nod at Soundwave in passing whilst helping Shadow Striker walk with dignity, in turn being helped. "Uh, take care."
The mech dances and salutes the femmes at the same time, without breaking rhythm. “See you, ladies.” His dulcet croon, his playful movements, all give form to a smirk.
“Chromia, please. I don’t want to argue about this again. Cybertron is my home, too. I’m committed to the struggle. I’m staying to help. I’ll fight if I have to.”
“This should not be your war. You would be within your right to return to Caminus with me. Your first home. Please, Windblade, do as I ask of you just this once.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t.”
“Have I not always tried to protect you?”
“Of course! I’ve never, ever doubted you.”
“Then know that I often doubt myself.”
The flier’s delicate servos are captured in the bike’s larger, stronger digits. Their optics are lost altogether, a limitless connection of their throbbing Sparks.
“I have failed you before.”
“You’ve never failed me. I wish you’d stop saying stuff like that.”
“I need you to be safe. I must know you are safe.”
“Your shield means more to me than all that’s beautiful. But you know I can protect myself.”
Chromia’s handsome facial rigging is softened with grief and anxiety. “I just need you safe, with me.”
Windblade leans in and brushes their intakes gently together. “I love you.” And then pushes hard against those dermas she knows so well, it is virtually instinct. “But I’m staying.” The kiss numbs nothing. “You can go home.”
“I already tried that. The time apart only hurt me. I felt so displaced.”
“It hurt me, too. But I don’t begrudge you for taking care of yourself. You’re precious.”
“My home… is wherever you are.”
“There you are.”
Flamewar is curled up small and sharp and shapely in the tight recess of an old storage locker, silent, staring.
“I’ve been looking everywhere for you! You didn’t answer me when I called,” Thunderblast says with distinct irritation, but her optics are soft. She slowly kneels, running her digits along cold, still fire. “Hey. Come on out the closet.” Playful.
The bike sniffs, drags a palm over her optics, and finally crawls into the boat’s arms.
Thunderblast deposits a little kiss atop Flamewar’s helm, rising with her carefully, coaxing her along.
“It was this,” the bike croaks, speaking for the first time in hours, “or the armoury, where the weapons are.”
The boat cringes prettily. “Sweetie…”
“This is why I don’t do friends, or family. Long ago I told myself, hey, Flames, that ended really badly the last time, so don’t get attached to people ever again, ’cause people come and go and they leave all the hurt behind.”
“You can’t be all alone all the time. You need to let people in. It’s okay to get hurt, just be smart about the risks you take.”
Flamewar lifts her gaze up at the statuesque stunner that is Thunderblast.
“I’m a bad glitch, and even I care about others. Sometimes. Like, selectively. Guarding your Spark is what you’ve just got to do sometimes, sweetie, but that doesn’t excuse closing yourself off. You’ll end up lonely and miserable and bitter.”
“Like boss bot.”
“Yeah, pretty much.”
“I wanna care about you guys. I wanna feel safe, and secure, and… like I’m a part of a team again.”
The boat cups the bike’s darling face.
“Shadow Striker’s as fragged up as I am, so I got attached fast, I guess. I don’t wanna lose her.”
“Sweetie, whatever happens to her, you’ve still got the rest of us.”
Flamewar tries to smile. She really does. “You guys like me, right?”
“Sure, girlfriend! I think you’re super strange, but charming. We have fun.”
“You won’t all just disappear and leave me alone to die. Right.”
“Something truly tragic happened to you.”
“Yeah, a little bit.”
Thunderblast hums, then kisses the shorter femme’s forehelm.
“You smell nice.”
“Mmhm.”
“Don’t you have work to do?”
Flamewar practically squeals.
Thunderblast giggles, rising to her full height. “Hey, you’re back.”
“Surprise.” Shadow Striker is flushed, slouching, an arm draped over Slipstream, who smiles tiredly. “You’re stuck with me. Lucky you.”
Flamewar throws herself at Shadow Striker, embracing her about the torso with a roar of the engine.
The mercenary scowls down at the bike, permitting the hug for about five seconds without protest. “Geddoff.” There’s a smile, in the midst of all that scowling.
Flamewar releases and steps back, grinning upwards.
Shadow Striker grunts when Thunderblast kisses her intake.
“Mm. Glad you’re not dead, handsome. Also, are you drunk? You seem drunk.”
“A little bit.”
“Go lie down.”
“I give the orders around here.”
“Slipstream, take the boss over to the recharge bay and put her to berth. In fact, go take a nap yourself.”
“Yes, Sir. Right away.”
“Ugh. Femmes. Frag me. I’m too old for this scrap.”
Thunderblast ruffles Flamewar’s helm.
Demolishor is standing guard, but he will be happy when they tell him their commanding officer yet lives.
Slipstream thus brings Shadow Striker over to the recharge slabs and, with much grumbling, has the older femme sprawl out on her aching spinal strut with a groan.
“Primus. This is barely better than my chair.”
“You really should be careful. Your posture matters, Sir.”
“You know, you slouch a lot, so don’t talk to me about fagging posture.”
The Seeker smiles down at the mercenary. It is very affectionate.
“And don’t look at me like that. I’ve been through way too much touchy-feely emotional scrap today.”
“You could’ve died.”
“Well, I didn’t, largely thanks to you.” Shadow Striker’s scope follows as Slipstream settles on the neighbouring recharge slab. “Maybe it’s the high-grade talking, but…”
“…But?”
The old mercenary never finishes that softly spoken thought, lapsing off into grumbling, moody recharge.
Wings retracted, the uncomfortable and depressed Seeker sighs and somehow manages not to sob herself quietly to sleep this time.
Flamewar sneaks in at some point and curls up in the crook of Slipstream’s arm, tucked snugly against the boxy curves of her bulky side, because Shadow Striker is taking up the other berth and probably does not do cuddles, but Slipstream definitely does do cuddles, and Flamewar is kinda into that. The snoring remains wonderfully unobtrusive, a low throaty purr of contentment.
Chapter 22: Messenger
Summary:
Windblade reaches for Slipstream, who wakes to the end of a bittersweet dream with an armful of Flamewar. In berth they make a pact of undying friendship and exchange confessions of memory loss with aching thoughts wrapped up in kisses. Operating invisibly under a light-bending cloak, an agent of chaos infiltrates the Council chambers during a pointless meeting and sneaks into Ariel's office to plant a drone bearing a message from an old friend and lover she would wish to save, but the agent discovers a strange and disturbing hobby involving the study of organic alien life. In gratitude, Shadow Striker offers to personally train Slipstream one-on-one in the art of advanced close combat, but this somehow leads up to a request for a hug from the 'good girl' and this can only go beautifully bad for both of them. As the meeting drags on, Sentinel demands a duel with Megatron to decide the fate of their world, only to be frustrated by the expressions of doubt on the faces of old friends and lovers. Returning to the office and organics waiting within, Ariel discovers the drone and its message. Windblade tries to offer comfort and Ariel distracts herself with stories about youth. Shadow Striker and Slipstream shower, together.
Notes:
Apologies for the late update. It finally happened! Due to a technical error, the documents I’d prepared for this chapter could not be properly recovered and I had to start all over again. Please enjoy the fruits of my suffering. I bring you gay tidings and plot progression. Thanks for reading!
Chapter Text
“I love you.”
Silence, outwardly, save for the snoring.
Windblade’s voice resonates warm and soft in Slipstream’s mind. A telepathic message of support and reassurance not necessitating a verbal reply, only an emotional response the Cityspeaker can sense and hold onto at her end. It gently seeps into a dream and rouses the Seeker awake.
No one else can hear this blessing.
Slipstream thus emerges from her recharge with a smile. In reply, she conveys affection and delight at the wakeup call. She can only speak with impressions of what she thinks and feels, if not using her words. It does not entirely replace a mutual conversation, but it is a compromise. Her love is not an actual mind-reader, after all, and a sane femme cannot take too many risks being caught seemingly speaking aloud to no one else.
Windblade gets the message. Her smile is invisible, but not intangible. “Thinking of you, always.” And then she is gone, gently departing from an open door.
“Don’t go,” comes out moments too late to stop her exit.
“Huh?” grunts a gorgeous scattering of loose, shapely limbs emblazoned with fire, drool seeping from a hanging maw, engine giving off a drowsy sputter.
“Nothing.” Slipstream rolls over and fumbles blindly across the recharge slab for another warm body to drag close against her own. To her comfort, she finds whom she seeks, conveniently close by and eager for her touch. Almost like she is back at the airbase, roused beside a fellow Seeker, except Seekers are a lot bigger than this other body she has found. “Just a dream.”
Flamewar sighs as a burly arm ensnares her and effortlessly pulls her up against a broad, firm bosom. “Aw, yeah,” comes out dozily, on the verge of proper awareness. “Gimme that.”
Slipstream giggles softly, nuzzling into hot neck cables. So it is not all bad. She has someone to stave off this touch starvation, and her soulmate still thinks about her, always.
“I could get used to this.”
“Mmhm.”
Their synced alarm has not yet rung. They have a little time left to enjoy themselves, and each other.
“Gimme a kiss, Slippy?”
“Okay.”
The bike’s engine purrs huskily as a luscious intake presses into her throat, depositing a lingering kiss upon a primary fuel line.
“Good?”
“Great.” Flamewar has no reservations, no shame at all. She backs her aft up and wriggles her spinal strut against Slipstream’s armour plating, enjoying the sensation of having someone big and solid and warm to rub up to. “So, so great.”
Another kiss, meeting with a pauldon. The kibble is not too obstructive.
A feline stretch, a yawn, claws splayed, fangs bared, purrs intensifying.
The Seeker imagines a little turbofox and gives the bike a fond scratch behind the audial, then ponders if that was a very weird thing to think whilst fussing over a fellow femme. Of course, all of this is already quite odd.
“This is it. This is the life.” Flamewar does not seem to mind one bit. She practically pushes back into Slipstream’s wiggling digits. “Let’s never leave this berth. Let’s just stay like this forever.”
“Shadow Striker will be mad at us for shirking our duties, if we do.”
“Then she can just come snuggle on in with us. Bet boss bot won’t stay mad for long, in berth with two gorgeous ladies. Not in the space of forever.”
“Not enough room. She and I are rather large.”
“We’ll make it work. You guys can just pile on top of me.”
“We’d crush you.”
“I’d love that.”
“You’re so strange.”
“Yup!”
Slipstream shivers as Flamewar’s wicked claws trace her forearm lightly enough to be entirely pleasant, without even scratching the paint a little bit.
“What a way to die.”
“I don’t want to crush you. I don’t want you to die. I like you better intact and alive. She’d say the same thing, but not as nicely as I just did.”
“I’d die happy, dude. Don’t even worry about it.”
“Please don’t die.”
The bike turns to peer back at the Seeker.
Slipstream’s optics are open wide now, and glimmering.
“You are the cutest thing ever. How do you do that?”
A slow blink. “Do what?”
“Be adorable, duh!”
“I don’t know, I just exist like this.”
“Okay, if we’re gonna be like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like this.” With a soft grunt of exertion Flamewar rolls over, thus the femmes are met face-to-face. “Listen here, Slippy. You big, beautiful hunk of flier, you. It’s gonna get weirder. But hear me out.”
The Seeker reaches for the bike’s cheek, brushing a large, blunt thumb over the scuffed, scarred membrane. “I’m listening.”
“You’re not allowed to die.”
“I’m not?”
“No, never.”
“I can’t promise–”
“Shush,” Flamewar says through fangs, laying a claw over Slipstream’s intake, before dragging the bladed tip slowly down, tugging softly on the plush, inky lower derma. “Lie to me if you gotta, or just say nothing at all. You’re immortal, with me. Goddit?”
The Seeker hesitantly nods, obedient.
“Attagirl.” The bike sighs, proceeding to draw shapes over a crystalline cockpit with all of her impressive claws. “Primus. You’ve won my aft over. I’ve grown seriously attached to you, way too quick. I’ve grown attached to the whole gang. Can’t be healthy for any of us. But you… I really, really like you, Slippy.”
“I like you a lot, too.”
“I warned you, this will get weird. This already was weird, and it’ll only get weirder. I don’t even know what normal is, so my metric is off. But I think I need you. It’s a lot, I know, I know. I totes get that. Please don’t freak out. I’m a lot. Just conveniently packaged. So, yeah. Whatever, I guess. Anyway.”
Slipstream rests their forehelms together.
“You can send me away anytime and I’ll be really upset but like I geddit if this is too much for–”
“This is fine.”
“That’s the sort of thing you say when you’re on fire and in denial about it.” Flamewar huffs, then sighs. “You and the others are all mine now. We’re a team. I may be a loner, but that’s because of trauma I usually don’t wanna inflict on anybody else. When I get put in a team, I commit hardcore to the social thing, okay.”
The Seeker plays with the bike’s fang, which is adorably projecting as she pouts.
“A lot of my past is missing, but… I had people. They left me, somehow, dead or just abandoned my aft, but the needles could never take those faces away. I love… I loved my people.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Nah, it’s too late for that.”
“Missing? Needles?”
“Gimme another kiss, please?”
It is applied to the bridge of the olfactory sensor.
“That’s making up for lost time. All the kisses I’ve denied myself ’cause I hate the world and I’m dysfunctional, all the kisses I can’t remember ’cause my brain module’s been fried.”
“I like giving kisses,” Slipstream reassures Flamewar softly, kindly. “I’ll keep doing it if you want me to. I’m told they help, at least sometimes.”
The bike suddenly buries her face in the Seeker’s breastplate. Makes a sort of feeble mewling sound, with a little sputter of the engine at the end.
“Flamewar…”
“Frag’s sake, Slippy, you cannot be this nice!”
“Um.”
“It’s ridiculous. You’re ridiculous. Let’s be friends.”
Slipstream feels so immensely tenderly for this distorted, darling little femme in her embrace. “We can be friends.”
“Okay. We’re friends now.” The words are muffled by bulky, chiselled living metal. And then there is a hoarse, ragged sob. “Ignore me.”A string of muffled curses. “I’m fine.”
“Ohh, please don’t cry. You’ll make me cry, too.”
Flamewar is inconsolable all of a sudden.
The Seeker bends and patters the bike’s helm with kisses, as promised, falling softly like rain.
“My brain module hurts when I try to remember. When I try too hard. It’ll pass.”
The kisses are not fixing this.
Flamewar is held tightly enough that her vents are struggling a little bit. She relishes it, scrabbling for purchase with her claws, unfortunately leaving ugly streaks of superficial damage behind, moaning as she throws a leg over Slipstream’s hip, hugging the Seeker below from betwixt the bike’s shapely dark thighs.
The femmes could not be more closely intertwined, without joining together into a new unified being. Interfacing would be the most intimate equivalent they could manage.
Slipstream trembles as she kisses the top of Flamewar’s helm more deeply, now, as if to leech off of her troubled mind, simply suck the hurtful thoughts out of her and swallow them whole. Winces as claws sink shallowly into the gaps between armour, where a matured protoform dwells, unwillingly trapped in its shell.
Their alarms chime simultaneously, to be irritably dismissed.
“Frag’s sake,” the Seeker mutters. “Not now.”
The bike pulls away a little bit, sniffling. “Sorry. I ruined the cuddle.”
“You didn’t.”
“Now we gotta get up and I’m all gross and stuff.”
“You’re not.”
“I suck major ball-bearings for breakfast.”
“Hey. Look at me.”
Bright, wild optics rise, shimmering with radiance that the sun would envy. “Mmyeah?”
“Mmyeah,” Slipstream murmurs into a kiss to Flamewar’s cheek, stooping a little to even out the difference. “You’ve got nothing to feel bad about.”
“I’ve got plenty to feel bad about.”
“Not when we’re cuddling. This is a space for good vibes and kisses.”
The bike smiles, fanged and wonky. “You say the silliest things with such sincerity.”
The Seeker smiles back, dark and plump. “I’ve had loads of practice.”
“Taking care of your guys back home, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“You’d be great with protoforms. Mentor material. Got those maternal instincts on overdrive.”
“So I’ve been told. Definitely wouldn’t have chosen to be a soldier, had I any choice back then.”
“Femmes love that. Shows you care, shows you can commit to caring. How are you not Conjunxed?”
“I’m afraid of femmes.”
“Oh. Right. You totes are.”
“And I don’t get out much.”
“You’re not afraid of me. We’re trapped together, so neither of us is getting out much. Progress!”
“Mm. I guess you’re right.”
“Hey, we should get Conjunxed. Wanna be my Conjunx?”
Slipstream flushes, giggling shyly as she lightly slaps a pauldron. “Oh, stahp.”
“I’m serious.” Flamewar wiggles her optic ridges, slinging her arms about a reinforced neck. “Why not? It’d be fun.”
“Am I even your type?”
“You just might be, Slippy.”
“You’re the one being ridiculous, now.”
“Pfft. C’mon, you’re a total dreamboat. Well. Thunderblast’s my dreamboat. Not sure if we’d work out if we got Conjunxed, though.”
“Dreamboat? Aw! That’s adorable!”
“Okay, okay, we’re getting sidetracked. Work, remember?”
“Right. We should get up.”
“One more kiss, first?”
Slipstream presses her intake soundly to Flamewar’s cheek and feels her grin spread.
“We’ll chat more about getting Conjunxed after work.”
“Oh, you.”
Cloaking technology is prohibited from public access and strictly regulated among the sanctioned few, with the more advanced models achieving almost mythical status as the choice wares of reputable private mercenaries, licenced bounty hunters and elite assassins. Therefore it is only justified that the expensive optical enhancements necessary to decrypt cloaking tech have not become standardised among law enforcement and security forces – it would be an unnecessary burden on the budget.
A bored elite guard does not react at all to the servo waved before his deadpan expression.
Nightra thinks this is kinda badaft. She pulls a silly face at him and giggles silently when she garners no response. She remembers then that she has a job to do and sneaks on by, still silently giggling.
He stuffs his pinkie digit into his audial and wriggles it around in there, yawning.
She has been granted temporary access to a cloaking device, with the firm warning from her handler that attempting to keep it would be a very unwise move on her part. She is still sorely tempted. She is also being paid a lot, which assuages most of the guilt she feels for lying to Strongarm and fellow elite guard buddies. Sentinel himself can get fragged, however, since he is a scrap boss anyway. No loyalty lost there.
Those dumb meetings can last for hours. Perfect opportunity.
Virtually invisible, giving off no Spark, Energon, or heat signatures on the cameras, Nightra gets by without a scratch. She knows the layout of the High Council chambers, having been forced to patrol mindlessly throughout these halls and the outer grounds since she got posted here. It does not take her long to find Ariel’s office. A security hack disguised as an access key gets the door open. Nightra is not prepared for what she finds inside.
Organics. Alive and dead.
She is fascinated and appalled at the same time. She cannot resist taking a meander about, peering at this personal collection of everything alien.
This Ariel lady is a freak, for real. She plays the part of rugged beauty and brawn, a humble dockworker who was struck long ago by wanderlust and aged into an experienced explorer most comfortable aboard spaceships, proclaiming that she can drink her weight in harsh low-grade since having her fuel tank modified so as to synthesise almost anything into what her large frame needs to survive. Based on all these datapads boasting her intricate notes and diagrams, however, she is a lot smarter and more studious than she lets on, a researcher lacking in much formal education but boundlessly curious. She has got everything a mad scientist femme with an organic obsession could want in her office.
Aliens in little crystalline terrariums laced with a false inner atmospheres of differing gas compositions and fed on automatically dispensed nutrient solutions, their squishy, scaly, furry bodies bathing under heat sinks or slithering in liquid pools or seemingly rooted in place, and there is something frantically running in a little wheel fixed to one spot with nowhere to go. Chitinous aliens dissected and pinned open on little plaques with their innards on full display, bodily parts preserved in jars and decapitated heads mounted above the desk with expressions that imply they are silently screaming, fortunately all quite dead.
Nightra whistles, shrugs off a chill, and remembers the job. The job is simple. Plant the messenger drone. Do not get caught. Leave without a trace. Get paid. Do not tell a soul. Not even Strongarm. Especially not Strongarm. Also, return the cloaking device afterward. Do not be stupid and try run off with it. Good enough performance may warrant future employment prospects at increasingly appealing pay-grades. Simple enough.
An adorable little organic wiggles its enstrils and gazes stupidly at the sneaky femme with its shiny upturned optics, claws scraping at the bars of its cage for attention.
A metallic digit cautiously extends to poke the soft alien lifeform, gently enough not to do it any harm.
The creature seems to enjoy being poked, rubbing itself lovingly against the phantom touch. Cloaking technology does not obscure Nightra from its senses, as its optics are made of that strange gelatinous goo or whatever. It has a name, as indicated by a little note attached to the base of the cage, evidently in Ariel’s messy scrawling script.
“Captain Snuffles,” Nightra utters ever so softly. “Pfft. Dumbaft name. But at least you hold rank, huh?”
The organic chirps back, enjoying more gentle pokes to its pliant hide, trying to push through the bars of the cage.
“Aw.” She giggles quietly. “You’re so gross.”
“What, not even a drunken brawl?”
“No, Sir. Just combat simulations and some sparring with the other Seekers, and I’ve got the necessary programming and weaponry integration as is standard.”
“Oh, deary me. Okay.”
“I’m hardly defenceless, Sir.”
“Right, right. You know all the basics and you’ve had some practice. Never mind your combat programming is outdated, and those simulations are restrictive and just a poor substitute for battle. You’re also woefully inexperienced, never having fought a real fight before. All of this and your gentler personality combined make you rather ill-suited to this squad of degenerate killing machines I’m trying to lead.”
“Yes, Sir,” Slipstream grinds out through her best customer service smile, “though I try not to be a burden.” Her deep undertone is rich with perfect sarcasm, yet ever so polite. It is a feat.
“Scream condemned you to an ugly death, sending you my way. And yet you say he loves you. I think he loved the idea of you, until you defied him.”
“He does love me. He just loves himself more.”
“Uh-huh. He fragged you over, sweet Spark. Did it once, and then he did it again. Don’t trust him so quick next time. If there ever is a next time.”
“Thank you for saying all of that, Sir. It’s very reassuring of how depressed I ought to feel, and do feel, given my awful circumstances. I do worry I’m being melodramatic about all this certain death and abandonment stuff.”
“Then why do I keep you around, you’re wondering.” Shadow Striker chuckles, arms folded over her ample bosom. “You’re a liability in the field, compared to the rest of the team. I could just shoot you now and be done with it. I’d make it quick. Better than abandonment, right.”
“Because I’m too cute for you to kill, Sir,” drawls the disgraced Seeker. “And you like keeping me around, so you won’t abandon me, not even if that’d be the easier thing to do.”
“Good answer,” purrs the old mercenary. “You’re right about that.”
The femmes regard one another in silence for several moments.
“Also, I imagine you pity my chances of surviving out there, a solitary Seeker stuck with some other squad, were you to insist on having me reassigned again. After all, I’m forsaken from rejoining my fellow Seekers. You might even feel a little responsible for that, seeing as my ongoing punishment is largely due to my having stood up for you, which so thoroughly fragged my future, in the hope it would help save yours.” Slipstream is incredibly handsome, especially when she allows her distemper to show, albeit in a very gentle way. “Sir.”
Shadow Striker’s smirk turns even more crooked. Her scope flickers keenly, neighbouring optic narrowing with amusement and, despite herself, actual affection. For once, it is obvious – she winks.
“I’ve never been a fighter, Sir. Just a soldier.”
“Do you want to survive?” the mercenary asks.
“What sort of question is that?” answers the Seeker.
“You know exactly what I’m getting at.”
“I’d need a life worth living, Sir.” Slipstream rubs her burly arm, sighing, softening. “If getting through all this alive at the end means returning home to my friends, and getting visitation rights at the very least so I can sometimes see my Seeker kin, Sir, then yeah, I do want to survive.”
“So, you don’t have a certain death wish.” Shadow Striker’s voice echoes in the chamber, a relatively open and empty area currently disused, evidently chosen specifically for this encounter. “Because you’ve got people worth fighting for. Hardly unique, but precious. Focus on them when times get hard and you want to take yourself offline.”
“I don’t want to fight. My friends don’t want me to fight. My Seekers know no better than what they’re told, except for Acid Storm, and they’re just too impassive to try and reject their fate like I did.”
“Wanting to fight or not wanting to fight is irrelevant.”
“Harsh.”
“It’s the truth. You could just try fleeing Cybertron for the colonies, but then you’d better flee with your friends and family, because desertion is death and those who assist you are to be executed too. You could just die, but then you’d lose everyone and everything, and I think you love far too fiercely to surrender to that. So you’ve just got to accept it. Fighting to survive is your only hope, but you’re hardly equipped to survive.”
“I wish you’d reconsider your stance of hugs. I could really use one, right now.”
“Come here.”
The Seeker limps over to the mercenary.
“I’ve got to give you some credit,” Shadow Striker mutters, grasping the back of Slipstream’s helm and forcing her to bow face-first into that ample bosom. “You are cute enough that I actually care about you.”
“Mmhmph,” is the Seeker’s dejected response, muffled between two gorgeous headlights.
The mercenary sighs, resting her chin atop that lowered helm, massaging slow, soothing circles into broad pauldrons with both thumbs. “Not a hug,” comes out low and soft and warm. Actually warm.
Slipstream fumbles for something sturdy to grasp onto, finding Shadow Striker’s enviably slender waistline rather fits these large, clumsy servos quite nicely.
“I can help you.”
The Seeker purrs as a palm sweeps over the back of her bent neck, cupping the backside of her helm, then sweeping back down to repeat the comforting flow.
“We’ll work on your close-quarters combat proficiency. Make the best of what you’ve got, and teach you more advanced manoeuvrers, give you a little edge.” The mercenary eases back just enough to peer down at the younger femme cradled against her bosom. “I can’t work miracles, but if you pay attention and put my teachings into practice, I can help you fight like you wanna win, and improve your chances of survival like you wanna live. Primus willing, you’ll see your friends and family again, at the end.”
Slipstream pries her face plate out of Shadow Striker’s bosom and gazes up at her, still stooped below her sharp chin. “You’d do that for me?”
“Yeah, don’t make a big deal outta it, though.”
“Sir, I…”
The mercenary grimaces. And yet it is soft, fond. “Least I can do, after what you’ve done for me.”
“You don’t owe me anything.”
“Just let me do this for you. Alright.”
The Seeker smiles. It is admiring, grateful. “Thank you, Sir.”
“You’re welcome.” Shadow Striker nods once, then rolls her scope when Slipstream falls face-first back into the older femme’s ample breastplate. “You can’t stay down there forever, you know. Though I can’t blame you. My tits are fantastic. My backache confirms that for me every day.”
“Mmhm.”
“But I can’t exactly teach you with your face smashed between my headlights. Well. Actually, I could teach you a few fun things, sure, but that’s not the topic of today’s lesson. Perhaps another time.”
The Seeker nods, in turn nuzzling the mercenary’s smooth panels, mindful to avoid the Deceptibrand.
“C’mon. Geddoff.”
Slipstream removes her face plate from Shadow Striker’s bust, the Seeker rising to her full height with a flush and a shy grin. “Sorry, Sir.”
“You probably should let go of my waist, too,” the mercenary purrs. “You’ll need your servos free.”
“Oh, right, yeah.” Slipstream takes her servos off of Shadow Striker’s slender waistline, grin turning a little wonky, flush intensifying. “Excuse me.”
“Next time, buy me a drink first, before you go for the grab, huh.”
“I’ll remember to do so, Sir. High-grade only.”
“Throw in a cy-gar as a bonus, and I’ll let you sit on my lap while I smoke it.”
Slipstream giggles.
Shadow Striker curses herself for liking the sound of that.
“Aw, Sir, I’m way too big to be sitting on laps.”
“I’m just as big as you are. I love sitting on laps, and being sat on.”
“Well, I’ve got a really, uh… firm aft, Sir.”
“Looks like it, though I haven’t had a feel of it… yet?”
“I dunno, Sir. I sit heavily. Might leave a dent.”
“I’m triple-reinforced, and I’m reliably informed that I have a very comfy lap, so don’t be shy.”
“Oh, then I guess I’ll just, um… be sure to include some high-grade and cy-gars to the next requisition form. Sir.”
“Good girl.”
A shudder.
A smirk.
“I like it when you call me that, Sir. I like it a lot.”
“I know you do. You just about wet yourself every time I bust that out for you. It’s so easy to wind you up and I enjoy it, too.”
“Is that weird?”
“It’s fraternisation, but you haven’t submitted a report, and I won’t contest it if you do.”
“I won’t. Even if I should. I don’t want it to stop.”
“Then I’ll keep doing it. Besides, it’s just a little praise kink.”
“Praise kink?”
“Yeah. Makes a lotta sense, really, after enduring a lifetime of thankless servitude and unrewarded hard work under the tyranny of that obnoxious little glitch. No wonder being told you’re such a good girl makes you hard.”
The gears are turning in the Seeker’s helm as she shivers all over, rippling with pleasure.
“You just want a little appreciation from someone with power over you,” the mercenary explains further, with astonishing gentleness. “You want an authority figure to treat you nicely, for a change. The irony? I’m somehow nicer to you, for the most part, than Scream ever was. Did I get that right?”
“Primus. That makes so much sense.”
Shadow Striker reaches over, running a digit affectionately under Slipstream’s chin. “Don’t freak out over it, okay? There’s nothing wrong with you.”
“I have a praise kink.”
“Glad I could help you figure that out. I also suspect you like domineering femmes. Ladies who will command you, especially in berth.”
“Windblade can be quite dominant.”
“She’s strong. Smart. Flies circles around you, clearly.”
“She’s incredible, Sir. I do like it when she takes the lead, she’s always so sweet about it. I just wanna let her control me, sometimes.”
“Pin you down, get on top of you, tell you what to do…”
“Ohh, yeah…”
“Nice. But we are getting terribly sidetracked.”
“Huh? Oh! Yes! Of course, Sir. I’m ready to start the first lesson.”
“Good girl. Then let us begin.”
“I repeat myself! If you would all just have a little confidence in me, I could end this madness with a decisive blow and spare us all this planning and deliberation and wasted time!”
“Speaking of wasted time…”
“Ariel, please.” Sentinel gives his ex a withering look. “That is not a productive contribution.”
She plays with a stylus, comically delicate in her rugged servos, returning that look. To the mercy of everyone, she opts not to argue further. For now.
“Let me publically challenge Megatron to a duel! I am fully capable of defeating him, and I am sufficiently motivated not to lose!”
“It is not that we lack faith in you, Sentinel. Again.”
“Most respectfully, Alpha Trion, I disagree.”
The ancient seems to age a little more from within the comfort of his chair, sighing through his distinguished beard at another failed platitude.
“I can see the way my fellow High Councillors are looking at me right now, have been looking at me throughout this meeting, and I know what your expressions mean! You expect me to lose! I am gravely offended! Do you not notice my hammer?”
“Please, Sentinel. Hear me. The risk is too great.”
“See! That is what I am referring to! Ye of little faith!”
“The cost of defeat would be too high,” Orion intones, rubbing his brows. He has a helmache. “I do not wish to see you wounded in battle. And losing to Megatron would bear consequences that would extend beyond your own well-being. It would make us all look barbaric and foolish. The people would lose faith in us. Faith that is tenuous, at best.”
“He is the barbarian, and his supporters are the fools! I won’t lose! Let me at him!”
“We know,” Ariel mutters under her vents, another of her rare contributions.
Normally very poised to the point of bordering on aloof, and always supremely patient in the company of friends and allies, Windblade stopped sitting like a lady and actively paying attention to this whole ordeal a while ago. She is supremely sick of the back-and-forth by now.
“I have a speech planned and everything!”
She is not a High Councillor herself, but she is not excluded from these meetings as she is marked as a Cityspeaker, marks below her optics that most civilians would not recognise as anything more meaningful than a statement of Camien fashion or culture. Unfortunately for her, Sentinel recognised the marks. He insists on her attendance. After all, having an actual Cityspeaker as an ally will be a huge boost to his career. She is surely meant to feel honoured. She is bored stiff.
“You demean me in front of our honoured Cityspeaker! Windblade, please accept my humble apologies on their behalf.”
“You’re forgiven. Carry on.”
“So gracious. Others present here could learn a thing or two about decorum!”
Windblade rests her helm in her palm and sighs quietly where she sags in her seat. Primus, she would much rather be actively helping, rather than sitting here like décor. In the air, tracking Decepticon activity, or working alongside friends on the ground. Even stacking Energon storage units with the collective Rack'n'Ruin for company would be more productive, and enjoyable, than witnessing Sentinel’s cycles of offence for hours, unappeased as he is by Alpha Trion’s gentle platitudes, Orion’s reasonable arguments, and Ariel’s occasional snarky comment.
Ariel leans in a little closer. “Hey.” She keeps her voice down. “Wanna go grab a drink with me, later? My treat.”
Windblade nods tiredly, with a rueful smile. She has a weakness for big, strong femmes, admittedly, as Chromia and Slipstream would be able to attest to if asked.
“Please don’t tell me it’s illogical, Sir, or that it’s unproductive or an inconvenient time of the day to be doing this to myself. I don’t want to hear it. I don’t care if my sensation of personhood fails to ascribe to your estimation of efficiency. I need this, now.”
Shockwave gazes at Acid Storm.
“And I don’t apologise if making the changes I need to live a little, might take a little time out of my productivity, as you have so carefully scheduled my movements by the very moments in which I exist as yours to command,” the Seeker intones with their back turned, as if hiding from the mech’s singular optic. “Because this is who I am, and I cannot function otherwise than to be myself.”
He watches the wings, halfway downturned, emotive.
“Please, Sir. I try so hard not to get in the way. I’ll make up for it when I’m done.”
“Understood,” he says very softly.
There is a shaky exhale from the vents, from an otherwise very calm, composed being. “Thank you, Sir.”
“Do you… require assistance?”
“No.” Finally, they turn their helm just a little in his direction. “But I would appreciate your help.”
“I may require some guidance.”
“I’ll talk you through it, Sir.”
“Hi, Captain Snuffles,” Ariel says in a very silly voice upon her return. “Did you miss me? I missed you!” None would ever believe her capable of such a display. “Ohh, yes I did!” She produces shrill smoochy noises with her puckered intake.
The pet organic alien lifeform chirps with delight and eagerly rubs itself against her encroaching digits, trying to phase through the bars of its cage in its eagerness to crawl into her palm as it has been trained to do.
“No, no, no, don’t bite. Are you hungy? I think you’re hungy.”
Captain Snuffles must be unleashed. It cries for freedom – to have the runaround of the office and play about its indulgent master who was gone forever and only just got back at forever’s end. But food will briefly appease it.
“Okay, okay. Gimme a second.” She has yet to notice the inert messenger drone that was innocuously left upon her cluttered desk. “Why don’t I put things back where they’re fraggin’ s’posed to go…” She steps just a little too close to its proximity sensors and, with her back turned, fails to notice a little light flicker on to indicate confirmation of her signature and thus the drone’s automatic activation. It will respond to no one else. “Ah, found it.” She plucks up a little canister of nutritious paste.
Captain Snuffles seems to chirp a question as a huge, unfamiliar, partially transparent mech flickers into being and is suddenly stood behind its master like some sort of spectre, his mighty shape unimpeded by furniture.
“Running a little low on chow, huh. I’ll–”
“Hello, Ariel.”
She reacts thoughtlessly, driven by adrenaline protocols that are a little sensitive to being startled from behind due to circuit memory of working the docks, where a snapped cable from a poorly rigged load could lash out from the tension of release, unseen, and cleave a solid frame in twain. Her instinct to guard her rear is further reinforced after experiences of being stalked and pounced upon by organic predators padding silently from paces at her back, seeking the scent of her inner Energon, which is akin to fuel for many organic lifeforms. She drops the canister and turns smoothly in place in an instant, throwing an instinctual punch that passes harmlessly through Megatron’s smiling face plate.
“I assume I have alarmed you, and you have attempted to dispatch me. Rightfully so, though I’m afraid that won’t affect me in this state,” his voice resonates calmly, like rolling thunder. “I am a mere projection, you see.”
“Fragger!”
“I apologise. Take a moment to collect yourself.”
Her fuel pump feels like it leapt into the cords of her throat, just now. She gulps, calms herself down, and stiffly withdraws her fist.
“You have questions. I have answers and a burning desire to speak with you again. Sentinel has made things difficult, Orion has made things painful, and Alpha Trion has made things complicated, prohibiting my ability to get close to you again. Only you remain the beloved variable in this conflict, old friend.”
“This isn’t the way friends do things, Megs.”
“I have missed you.” Megatron’s hologram smiles fondly. However, his projected gaze is indirect, vague, unseeing, hollow. “I mean only to send a pre-recorded message, in the hope that you will pardon this intrusion and recognise my better intentions.” Pre-recorded. This mockery of a mech is not even genuinely interactive. He just knows her that well, and he can seem so real. “Sentinel will speak of the evil in what I have just done. Orion will fret. Alpha Trion will be most disappointed. But you… I believe in you.”
“You cheeky son of a–”
“I am many unsavoury things. But I am first and foremost your best friend.”
“Don’t pretend to interrupt me, you spooky old glitch.”
“It was I who counselled you when you confessed your unhappiness. I, who told you to follow your wanderlust to the very stars and beyond. I, who arranged the crew, the vessel, the vacancy through my own manipulation and influence, when the wicked foreman kept you bound to an unfair contract. I, who set you free and saw you go. Orion wept, Sentinel withdraw, and I smiled.”
Ariel is swallowed by the urge to give Megatron a crushing hug, even if this is just a convincing illusion and not at all the way she wanted their reunion to go.
“Give me the benefit of your doubt, and come to these coordinates at the appointed time, alone. Trust in me, old friend, for you know that I love you, no matter the poison that has been spoken in my name.”
“I love you too,” she mutters, laying a palm over his bosom, sinking into the place where his projected image lacks a Spark.
“Please, Ariel.”
“Bolt-head. Always did struggle to tell you no.”
“Eeeeew! You both reek!” Thunderblast had gone in for a pounce and a kiss, but now stumbles backward with an upturned olfactory sensor and a scowl of offence. “What are you two doing here in that state? Get in the showers and wash off before taking Energon with us! This sort of condition is not suited for the table! Where are your manners!”
“Primus,” Shadow Striker mutters, dripping perspired coolant. “We wiped off before we got here.”
“That is not a substitute for a shower! Look, you’re creating your own puddle!”
“Thought you liked getting wet.”
“Sir. Not when I’m having my disgusting Energon. Go wash off. Now.”
“Look, we’re tired. We just wanna sit down for–”
“Clean up first!”
“Is this a window into life as your Conjunx? Femmes are supposed to love the stink of an engine running hot. It’s macho stuff.”
“Not at the table!”
“I do,” Flamewar speaks up in the background. “I’ll sniff ya at the table!”
Even Demolishor looks grossed out.
“Little freak,” mutters Thunderblast.
“Hey, what can I say?” Flamewar slouches rudely on the bench. “I’m a dirty girl.”
Thunderblast sets her palms on her voluptuous hips and narrows her golden optics. She looks like she might get very shrill if she is not appeased, and quickly.
Slipstream exhaustedly slinks off, dragging her pedes, groaning her defeat.
Shadow Striker sighs and slouches after her. “Fine, fine.”
“Humph! Honestly. Soldiers. Smelly, silly things.”
“Excuse me, I may not be smart, but I maintain my cleanliness standards,” Demolishor says with a frown. “I take offence to that.”
“Sorry, big guy. To think, I almost kissed them both! Did you see all that coolant, just dripping off their frames?”
“It’s so hot.”
“Flamewar, you’re disgusting, and I mean that fondly. I like my Energon clean.”
“What about that time you took inner Energon out some guy’s tender bits?”
“That was special.”
“Hey, you okay?”
Ariel blinks back her own distraction, refocusing on Windblade with a chuckle. “Sorry, drifted off in thought for a minute.”
The Cityspeaker frowns softly up at the older, larger femme.
“I’m anticipating a very difficult conversation with the guys when I get back to HQ.”
“It’s about Megatron?”
“It’s about Megatron.”
“He was close to you, before.”
“We all were close, before. Back when we were young, and Sentinel used to laugh for real, and Orion used to dance like nobody was watching even in a crowd, and Megatron patiently humoured my dumbaft dreams and gave the best hugs ever. I was hot, back then.”
Windblade is tempted to reassure Ariel that she is still hot, but ends up fixated on something else. “Wait. Orion Pax, dancing?”
“Oh, yeah, he had some moves.”
“You’re joking.”
“He’s all old and serious now.” Ariel winks, her tattoo catching the light as she folds her powerful arm upon the counter, leaning heavily forward. “He used to be young and full of it, like Bee, only taller. Got us thrown out a club once for bad behaviour.”
Windblade giggles, cupping a dainty servo to her ruby intake.
“Ah, my Orion. He used to party hardcore. That stopped when Alpha Trion got him into academics.”
“If I may ask, how did you and Sentinel…?”
“He slipped while disembarking. I was assigned to help unload the cargo. Dropped the crate I was carrying to swoop in and catch him. We locked optics and that was it.”
“Wow, that’s kinda cinematic.”
“He was a totally different guy, back then. Wonderful mech. Sweet and sentimental to my strapping crudities. I thought I was the luckiest femme on Cybertron.”
“Aw.”
“But the upper crust got the better of him, made him resentful of us lower class worker types, and I guess my leaving was enough to sever his friendship with the rest of the gang.”
“Did you… have their blessings, when you left?”
“Everyone’s blessings but Sentinel’s. To be fair, hopping on a spaceship and leaving for millions of years with barely any correspondence is a really, really scrappy way of beaking up.” Ariel gently elbows Windblade. “Don’t do what I did.”
“Noted. Did you try to talk to him? Sorry if I’m being hugely invasive right now.”
“I did. But I was never good with compromise, and he was never good at humbling himself.”
“I’m sorry it ended like that. But you got to live your dream, so I hope that brings you much joy.”
“Thank you. It does.”
Shadow Striker and Slipstream stand together under the downpour of lukewarm recycled oil, sagging on their pedes, exhausted, saying nothing.
A servo blindly reaches for a more cleansing solvent.
It collides with another servo, also reaching for the solvent.
The mercenary regards the Seeker. “You did well today,” comes out grumpy, reluctant. “Our first lesson was productive. Got me feeling a little optimistic.”
“Helps that you’re an effective teacher, Sir. I just wanted to please you.”
“You really don’t process the suggestiveness of some of the stuff that comes out of that hunky intake of yours, do you?”
“Nope.” Slipstream’s optics are dimmed with fatigue. “You gave me quite the workout today, Sir.”
“Okay. That was suggestive on purpose.”
“Please do the thing.”
“Bold enough to ask for it, huh. I like that.”
“Do it. I earned it.”
“You’re a good girl.”
“Mmyeah. I am a good girl.”
“Uh-huh. Gimme that.” Shadow Striker snatches up the solvent with a huff and douses herself. It agitates when wet, with a wonderfully fresh scent. “Wanna scrub my back plates?” she mutters.
“Sure, whatever, Sir.”
“Try not to get too excited.”
Big, strong servos proceed to massage foam over dark, glossy curves from behind, careful not to leave scratches or paint transfers.
“Lower. Little to the left. Little more. Stop. There. Oh, Primus. Right there. Harder. Harder, dammit.”
“Alright, alright.”
“Good girl. Uuugh. Keep doing that. That hurts me, just right.”
The Seeker rolls her optics, unseen from behind. “You really need to take better care of your spinal strut, Sir.”
“Stop slouching all the time and we’ll talk posture,” the mercenary snaps back. “What is it with you Seekers and not standing up straight? Maybe I’m not as tall as you think I am. You just gotta straighten yourself out, get a new perspective on life.”
“Nothing about me is straight, Sir, I’m just wired this way. And I slouch because I’m top-heavy. Please use the recharge slabs for sleeping and not that awful chair of yours, Sir.”
“I enjoy my cycles in solitude. Away from the rest of you… people.”
“Respectfully, Sir, you’re a little too old and important around here to risk putting out your back because of pride.”
“Privacy, actually.”
“Don’t be so shy.”
“Oh, please.” Shadow Striker proceeds to lean wantonly back into Slipstream’s massaging digits, deepening their motions. “I am not shy.” Sighing, bittersweet ecstasy. “Ow. Ow. Ow. I think you ought to consider a career change. This path suits you. Ohh, you fragger, don’t stop. Do me like that.”
“You’re so weird, Sir.”
“Which one of us isn’t somehow strange?”
“Hmm.” The Seeker probes a tender spot. “I can feel a lot of tension under your plates. Especially here.”
“I got tension in places you would not believe,” purrs the mercenary with a raspy sigh. “Looking after you lot is very tedious.”
“You just say that because you like us so much and that makes you nervous.”
“You should probably say nothing for a while, lest you get in trouble.”
Freed of the need of uttering any more words, what follows instead is husky, melodic humming of no song in particular, low and relaxed under the soothing flow of cascading oil.
With the provoked relaxation of the neck cables, Shadow Striker’s helm falls back against a bolstering frame stood close behind. Her scope rolls in its socket, optic fluttering shut. The mean, grizzled old femme lets out a betraying whimper as something sore is pinched in a way she enjoys rather too much.
With tight, throbbing modesty panels to show for it, Slipstream cannot resist a smirk of her own satisfaction as her chin comes to rest gently on her commanding officer’s pauldron, servos diligently and attentively rubbing into the sleek, dark lower back plates, just above the swell of a fantastic aft. “Nice.”
“Shush, you.”
“Mmhm.”
Chapter 23: Girlboss
Summary:
Ariel arranges an intervention and Sentinel forbids it, fearing Megatron will tempt her to the other side. Flamewar hurts herself by habit and Shadow Striker is a surly old nurse as an enquiry into a mysterious past leads to an interrogation over missing memory data, the surviving mental image of needles dug into the brain module implying a specialist tampered with the young femme's history - but why, can she be trusted, will she be abandoned? Orion finds Ariel in her office and consoles her, so she kisses him. With lingering thoughts of Flamewar, Shadow Striker makes a move on Slipstream and regrets it immediately. Sentinel confesses his own inadequacies to Alpha Trion who seems entirely unsurprised. Thunderblast insists she never was a pirate, yet admits to Slipstream that Flamewar might like her 'dreamboat' better if she ascribes to the mythology, because maybe the reality of a person is just not exciting enough. In turn, Slipstream accepts Thunderblast's assessment that the Seeker's self-esteem is ruined and recognises how it impacts relationships with femmes, leading to a lonely love life. Thunderblast climbs into Slipstream's berth. Shadow Striker finds Flamewar at her workbench and apologises.
Notes:
I’m sorry it’s late, stuff’s going on. This chapter turned out exceedingly gay, you guys, even compared to everything that has come before it. I hope that makes up for the wait. Thanks for reading, enjoy!
Possible trigger warnings: self-harm, depression, memory modification/erasure.
Chapter Text
“I’m going.”
“Alone and unarmed?! I forbid it!”
“He won’t hurt me.”
“Perhaps not with his fists or flail! But his weaponised words, the machinations of his mind? He targeted you with a plot in play and I will not allow you to fall into his grasp!”
“Let me hear him out, maybe talk him down. I have to try. It’s a chance to get through to him.”
“Within that arena, you will lose to him!” Sentinel’s chin quivers with emotion as he sneers. “No, when he persuades you that he is right, and we are wrong, I suspect you will surrender your will to his own and turn on us, like you did back then!”
Some of the light leaves Ariel’s optics. She does not hear whatever Orion and Alpha Trion have to say to that. She just knows that they intervene.
Windblade hates these pointless meetings. They waste precious time, time in which Decepticons gain ground and Megatron acquires resources to empower himself.
“I speak out of a place of concern, and out of duty! I cannot coddle her and excuse that maniac, after what he just did to her! An invasion of her privacy, and all it entails otherwise! I will not, I refuse! Not after I failed in my obligation to keep these chambers secure! Don’t you understand? We are not safe! That was the message he sent – a threat, veiled as a friendly invitation!”
Windblade lays a servo over Ariel’s and squeezes, garnering no reaction.
“Perhaps it is a trap! That is a risk we must take! We have the coordinates, and I intend to send a strike team to take him down quickly and extract him in stasis cuffs!”
Windblade squeezes again.
Finally, Ariel acknowledges her, feebly squeezing back.
“Why are you grinning like that?”
“’Cause you’re touching my tits, duh!”
Shadow Striker heaves a great sigh, stooped forward and assessing claw marks with her digits, scope focused on the damage scattered around a Deceptibrand which seems almost impervious, burned deep into the shell with laser precision and pain. It glows mournfully.
“Ow. Speaking of. Easy with the tits, boss bot.” Flamewar goes on grinning, even as she winces when probed. “Buy me dinner first if you’re gonna get rough.”
“Fair enough. They are very nice tits. I’d take you some place fancy, for a night with these all to myself.”
“Thanks! You can have ’em for three nights in a row, if you get me some greasy wheel-nuts. Don’t gotta be fancy.”
“Come now, you deserve better than that.”
“Boss bot, do I look fancy, to you?”
“You don’t have to look it, to appreciate it.”
“That, right there, is a good answer.”
A scowl. “And you’re ruining these gorgeous tits of yours with all this self-destruction.”
The grin fades.
“It’s a damn shame,” comes out softly, grouchily sincere, “seeing you hurt yourself like this.”
“…Sir, I…”
“A damn shame.”
“The Deceptibrand feels bad, boss bot. Really bad.”
“You can’t dig it out.”
“I can’t help it! I just do it, Sir, without thinking about what I’m doing.”
“That compulsion isn’t helping you.”
“I’m damaged goods, boss bot, okay!”
The old mercenary sits back.
The bike huffs, folding her arms over her breastplate, looking aside.
“I’m damaged, too.”
Flamewar sighs, sliding a pede over the floor to gently brush it against Shadow Striker’s ankle joint, an affectionate gesture that could be deemed extremely flirtatious, yet it comes off as awkward.
“I know that sometimes we resort to one pain, to redirect ourselves from feeling another, different sort of pain.” The mercenary reaches over for the medkit already opened upon her desk, its contents neatly labelled and laid out. She retrieves a jar and pries its cap off, breaking the seal with a hiss. “But in the grander scheme, pain is pain.”
The bike wrinkles her olfactory sensor. “Ugh, that scrap stinks.”
“It’s sealant.”
“I know what it is, and it’s nasty. You’re not putting that on me.”
“It’ll help.”
“It burns.”
“It heals.”
“I’ll bite you.”
“Flamewar.”
“I’m not joking, boss bot.”
“Be nice.”
“My self-repair protocols will handle this just fine! Don’t bother. I’ve been through worse scrapes.”
“This is not a sterile environment.”
“I’ve been homeless. That wasn’t a very sterile experience.”
Shadow Striker softens, gazing down at the smaller femme.
“I can survive this. I’ve survived worse.”
“Flamewar.” The name is spoken in a distinctly different tone, this time. “Please.”
The bike frowns adorably at the floor.
“You are my responsibility, as I am your boss, and you are on my team.”
“You could just cut the scrap and say you care about me.”
The mercenary lays her servo over that darling helm, caressing it fondly.
Flamewar relishes the affection. She purrs, pushing into Shadow Striker’s palm, nuzzling against her digits.
“I’m trying, here.”
“I know, boss bot.”
“You’re already suffering inflammation. I’m not a licenced medic, but inflammation often precedes infection.” The mercenary does not bow to meet the bike’s height, as many taller frames would. “An infection right above your Spark chamber is no joke.”
“No, it’s not.”
“I’m treating your wounds, like it or not.”
“Ugh.”
“Flamewar.”
“Fine! Fine. Yes, Sir.”
“Now, then.” Shadow Striker offers a parting pat on the helm, then smears the oily sealant upon those large, strong digits, expression softly stoic. “Are you going to make this difficult, or can I begin treating your wounds?”
“I’ll behave. Mostly. Might bite you anyway.”
“Attagirl. Try not to squirm.”
“Yeah, yeah.” The bike rolls her bright, wild optics aside, huffing, bosom pushed out, arms dangling on either side of her chair. “Just be gentle. Okay?”
“I’ll try.”
“Thanks.”
The mercenary begins to apply the pungent sealant over the gauges. It hurts.
“Do you think that’s why the Deceptibrands feel so bad, boss bot? Because they’re so close to our Sparks?”
“Possibly. Though, I’d say it was the fragging high-intensity laser beam scorching our shells that did it.”
“Do you think Shockwave’s code… might’ve tainted us?”
“Megatron’s got the mark. Wouldn’t put it past Shockwave, but I doubt the big mech would permit it. Goes against his whole deal.”
“Yeah. He wants to make the world fair. Tear it all down. Equalise what’s left.”
“You really believe in him.”
“Not, like, religiously. But he’s a hero. He says things I think and feel. Puts words to my lived experience. Sees the little guy.”
Shadow Striker is very gentle, to her credit, even if being gentle is not in her nature.
Flamewar does her best to sit still, wincing and occasionally passing an anguished hiss through fangs.
“Your lived experience. Tell me about that.”
“Sure. What d’you wanna know about me?”
“Everything. But I’ll limit my reach.”
“Wow. Okay.”
“You’re very mysterious.”
“Heh. You like that, boss bot? A femme you can’t read?”
“I do enjoy a good mystery.”
“You think about me a lot, then, huh.”
“I do. Your personnel file is woefully inadequate. You don’t talk about yourself, all that much.”
“You wanna get to know me. That’s so nice of you.”
“I’d like to. Would you answer some questions?”
“I’ll try.”
“Where do you come from?”
“One of the poor districts.”
“Beyond that.”
“Don’t remember.”
“Okay. Who did you work for, before we met, and what did your work entail?”
“I helped out at a tattoo parlour. Got shut down by health and safety. That was a while ago. Just sorta been… doing whatever, since then. Odd jobs here and there. Mostly unemployed. Generally causing trouble. Delinquent. Fun at parties. Epic in berth.”
“Beyond that.”
“Don’t remember.”
The mercenary has drawn very close, in order to massage sealant deeper into the bike’s wounds.
Flamewar gazes into that scope, unafraid.
“Assassin,” Shadow Striker surmises. “You’re a hired killer with some pedigree. It explains your unusual construction, with those rather dangerous bodily mods of yours including a built-in cloak, and it would suit your signature weapon. I suspect you’ve done work for powerful people, who helped erase your past. Your shady lack of any backstory would be best suited for that line of work.”
“I dunno. Maybe.”
“Gimme something.”
“Boss bot,” the bike intones very patiently, “I already told you, I don’t remember.”
“So you said.” The mercenary pauses. “And I say, it’s a load of scrap.”
Flamewar shakes her helm slowly. “No, Sir.” Her undertone remains very patient. “It’s not.”
Shadow Striker scowls.
“I don’t remember much of anything. I can’t tell you who I am, where I come from, what I did to end up like this. I dunno if I even deserve it. But it’s been hard. It’s been hurt. You said pain is pain. All I have…”
A scope whirrs, tracking movement.
The bike runs her claws over the mercenary’s cheek. “My name. My weaponry, both in body and bow. The programming to do unspeakable things to people, knowledge to kill and maim and infiltrate and destabilise and sabotage. A profound feeling of loss and a fear of abandonment. Needles. A lotta love to give, and hatred. Hurt, pain. I like long drives on winding roads and I think pirates are awesome.”
Shadow Striker’s scowl is broken down the middle..
“So, yeah. You could be right.” Flamewar shrugs, removing her clawed servo from the older femme’s cheek. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
The mercenary exhales softly from her vents. “I see.”
The bike blinks and for a moment twin suns die, before they are reborn again.
“Needles.”
“Yeah.” Flamewar wiggles her claws. “On his digits.”
“A mnemosurgeon.” Shadow Striker looks grim. “You’ve been tampered with.”
“Butchered, more like. I just dunno why. Did I pay the guy to crack me open, poke around in there, hoping to scrub my bain module clean? Did someone set me up, so I’d lose my old life, my old personhood? He did a scrap job of it, too, boss bot. The mech with the needles. It’s all in bits, see?” The bike taps herself in the helm. “Scrambled in static. Hurts to try and remember.”
“Sounds like he put a block on those memory files he couldn’t erase, or alter. Probably core files. Which means he didn’t aim to destroy you. Not completely.”
“So, maybe some of the old stuff’s still left?”
“You might never know. I’ll look into it, get you to a specialist. I can’t promise results, but I’ll do what I can.”
“Yeah. Figures. Thank you, boss bot.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” says Shadow Striker.
“You know a thing or two about mnemosurgery, seems like,” notes Flamewar.
“I’ve considered it, myself.”
“Maybe reconsider it.”
The mercenary gazes at the bike.
“Please don’t feel sorry for me.”
Shadow Striker’s grimace turns twisted as she leans in and bumps her forehelm lightly against Flamewar’s own.
“And please don’t distrust me.”
The mercenary winces deeply, then withdraws.
“I’m part of a team again.” The bike sniffles. “I want you to want me back.”
Shadow Striker rises to her full height, looming over Flamewar.
“I’ll be useful to you,” the bike intones as she stares at the mercenary’s reinforced pedes. “I’ll protect the others. I’ll do my chores. I’ll–”
“Flamewar. Stop.”
“I can’t. I’m so scared.”
Shadow Striker rubs around her optic, seething, scope rolling in its socket.
“You’ll keep me, boss bot. Won’t you?”
She sits on the edge of her desk with a heavy groan.
“Won’t you.”
“Flamewar, sweet Spark, listen to me, okay.”
“Okay.”
“I don’t think I can help you like that. I don’t think anyone on this team can help you. Not like that.”
“But–”
“I don’t think any of this Decepticon business can help you in the way you need to be helped.”
“Boss bot, I just–”
“You need a safe, secure, loving home, Flamewar. You need safe, secure, loving people. This? Us? The Decepticons? Not what you need. Not in the lightest.”
For a while, nothing more is said.
“I had people, once. I could have people, again.”
“Flamewar.”
“You and the guys. We’re a team. I struggle to make friends, I’m a loner because I’m so difficult. We’re Decepticons, Sir, and we’re the good guys, united under a common cause. This is… a sanctuary. A second chance, for me, and something I can actually do with my time, with my life. Even if the accommodations suck aft.” The bike rises from her seat and quietly approaches the mercenary. “How can this not help me?” Scuffed claws alight upon dark, gleaming metal. “I’ve got nothing else.”
Shadow Striker maintains a strict no hugs policy. And yet she has to throttle the urge to scoop Flamewar up and hold her tight.
“You gonna send me away?”
“No.”
“Then, you’re keeping me?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you, boss bot.”
The mercenary grunts as the bike moves to embrace her regardless.
“Thank you.”
Shadow Striker relents very easily. She loops her big, strong arms around shapely little Flamewar and draws her in, nuzzling atop her helm.
“You’re so good to me.”
“Actually, I’m awful.”
“But I like you.”
“You have terrible taste.”
“You like me back.”
“You’re alright, actually.”
The bike smiles into the mercenary’s neck.
“My audials are still ringing.” Windblade shakes her helm, in turn rubbing her face into Bumblebee’s bosom. “Ugh. I feel nauseous.”
“I’m sorry, bestie.” He holds her, stroking her.
“I really, really dislike that mech.”
“Yeah. He’s a jerk.”
“He’s under a lotta pressure,” Hot Rod offers kindly, with some reluctance. “Doesn’t make it okay, just… puts it into perspective, maybe.”
“Yeah, I guess. Like, what if the infiltrator really is one of the elite guard, with knowledge of all the inner chambers and stuff? Could strike again, at any time.”
“Brrr!” Even Arcee grimaces. “It’s hard not to get anxious over that.”
“Do not give in to despair, my friends,” intones Grimlock, setting a tray of hot drinks down and distributing the cups accordingly. “We must remain stalwart and face every obstacle together, with good cheer, no matter the odds. That is how heroes are made. We will overcome. Have faith.”
“That sounds great, Grim, but easier said than done.”
“I just feel so sorry for her.” Windblade’s words are muffled by Bumblebee. “If he spoke to me like that, I would’ve punched him.”
“Right in the chin. Wa-pow!”
Although laying a servo upon Windblade in comfort, Chromia’s optics are on the viewing port, looking out onto a burning Cybertron.
“You okay, Sir?”
“Obviously.” Shadow Striker lowers the canister of refreshing coolant, meant to replace what they perspire from sheer exertion. She squints at Slipstream. “Why?”
“You seem otherwise occupied, Sir.”
“I’m perfectly focused. You saying this lesson is scrap, and my teaching is scrap?”
“No, Sir, not at all.”
“Good. I almost got offended, just now.”
“You’re being especially grumpy. Sir.”
“You’re cute. But you’re getting bold.”
The Seeker sets her palms on her hips, tilting her helm and quirking an optic ridge.
“Do not look at me like a disappointed mentor.” The mercenary jabs a digit under the other femme’s chin, making her take a respectful step back. “I was a disappointment to my actual mentor, I don’t like the reminder.”
Slipstream sighs, raising her palms peaceably. “Sorry, Sir.”
“That’s better. Respect me or frag off.”
“I’m just concerned for you, that’s all.”
“Do not go on and on about how you care about me or whatever,” Shadow Striker interjects with a huff, shoving over the canister so the other femme can take a drink, too. “I don’t want to hear that right now.”
“Sir,” the Seeker tries again, in a very patient, gentle undertone, “what’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” the mercenary snaps, turning away. “It’s nothing,” she repeats, more quietly and dismally.
Slipstream frowns handsomely, holding the canister of replacement coolant to her bosom, gaze downcast.
Shadow Striker hates that she feels bad about being glitchy right now. She used to do it without remorse, to anyone. Her sigh is loud, and long. “I apologise. I didn’t mean to snap at you.”
“It’s fine, Sir.”
“No, no. It’s not. You’re just… being nice to me. For whatever reason.”
The Seeker bravely steps into the mercenary’s personal space, her field radiating harshly.
Shadow Striker feels a servo alight upon her pauldron, effortlessly turning her around to face her unwilling foe, possibly becoming a tentative friend.
“I apologise too, Sir. I don’t mean to pry, or to be insensitive to whatever you’re thinking or feeling. I respect your need for privacy.”
“It’s fine.”
“No, Sir, it’s not fine.” Slipstream smiles in that damnably handsome way of hers. Her dermas are far too kissable to be fair play. Her optics are sad and soft. Her gaze conveys affection and concern. “If you do want to talk about it, though–”
“I don’t wanna talk about it, okay.”
“Okay, Sir.”
“Just pretend I’m fine.”
“I can try to do that, Sir.”
“Thanks,” the mercenary mutters almost shyly, now, peering closely at the Seeker. “I appreciate that. Really. I do.”
Slipstream finally permits herself to consume coolant. The cords in her thickset, reinforced neck bob alluringly in tandem with the swallowing mechanisms buried deep within.
Shadow Striker wants to lean in and suck on a primary fuel line. Tug on it between her dentas. Pinch it until the inner Energon flow is stifled enough to make the gorgeous, kindly idiot feel euphoric.
The Seeker sighs, passing back the canister.
The mercenary accepts it, brushing their digits together briefly as the exchange is made.
All the while, Flamewar is thought about.
There is a knock.
“It’s unlocked.”
The door slides away.
“I asked to be left alone for a while.”
“Forgive me, old friend. I am being selfish.”
“Nobody’s perfect.”
“Indeed. Imperfections are what give life its meaning.”
Ariel is tending to one of her organic samples. She measures out a solution of something Orion does not recognise and deposits it into a feeding tube, connected to a crystalline terrarium containing a squirming mass.
“I just wanted to…” He does not step over the threshold. He sighs at the door. “I love you. I wanted to say that.”
“Love you too, old mech.”
“And…” He smiles sadly at her. “Call me if you need something. Anything.”
“Since you’re here anyway,” the imposing femme grumbles in her brusque, but ultimately charming way, “I could do with a hug.”
“I would be most grateful.”
“Come in.”
He does, careful not to approach her too closely from behind. He waits for her to stop what she is doing to turn and face him.
When she does so, she pulls him against herself and kisses him. It is familiar, but distant. They have not embraced like this in millions of years.
He hums into her. She is one of the few to know him in this way. He lays his palms over her lower spinal strut and savours the sensation of her digits upon his hips.
“Sorry,” she grunts once their intakes have parted. “Got carried away, there.”
“I do not mind it, old friend. It is… comforting.” He is a little flushed, handsomely soft. “May I?”
“Always the gentlemech.”
“It was not my intent to–”
“Hush. It’s okay.” She regards him fondly. “’Course you can kiss me some more.”
“Turn around.”
Rubbing lukewarm recycled oil over bulky upper arms and broad pauldrons, Slipstream’s husky, aimless humming stops. “Huh?”
“Turn your fine aft around, I said.”
“Oh. Okay?” She obeys, trustingly baring her dark, firm back strut to Shadow Striker. “Like this?”
“Good girl.”
The Seeker shudders, rippling throughout her armoured sheets.
The mercenary grabs the solvent and douses it over her own servos, before sloppily casting the solvent aside and lathering her palms together.
Slipstream gasps the moment Shadow Striker touches her.
“Tell me if I’m hurting you.”
“Ohhh!”
The mercenary massages the Seeker’s spinal strut.
Slipstream groans painfully, an erotic sound.
Shadow Striker leans in heavily as her servos work the solvent. “You like that?”
“Yes! Hahh! Harder!”
The mercenary smirks, applying more force, relishing in the noises her ministrations provoke from a usually more reserved femme.
The Seeker slaps her own palms onto the metallic tiles, bracing herself. Her wings flutter, rigid and erect. She drops her helm on her slumped neck.
“Does my good girl feel as good as you deserve?” Shadow Striker purrs, with an audible sneer of her own lecherous intentions. “Make those noises for me, Slipstream.”
She does, with wanton abandon. It feels so good. She hardly ever gets to feel good.
“You’re so tense. So many hotspots for stress. I could practically map constellations out of you. Poor thing. Tell me what you need. Is it here?”
“Down! Little to the left!”
“Here?”
“More left!”
“Ah, here?”
“Yeah, ohh, yeah!”
The mercenary props her chin atop the Seeker’s pauldron from behind, grinning, massaging avidly.
Slipstream’s delightful overstimulation almost is enough to distract from Flamewar. Almost.
Shadow Striker’s grin fades. Her ministrations slow, soften, stop.
Quietening down, Slipstream turns with some impatience. “Sir?”
“Sorry.” Shadow Striker grunts, shaking her helm, chin still propped atop that pauldron. “I’m a little fragged up right now.”
“Do you still want me to pretend you’re fine, Sir?” asks the Seeker very kindly, somehow.
The mercenary chuckles at that, wrapping her soapy arms around the other femme’s tapering lower torso. Again, the zero tolerance for hugs is proved a fraud, of late. “You’re a good girl. A genuinely good girl. I’m glad to have you, really, I am.”
Slipstream reaches back to caress Shadow Striker’s cheek with oil-slick digits.
“I like you a lot. And that’s not gonna do you any good, either.”
As it will not do Flamewar all that much good.
“You’re too good for me, for this place.”
“You’re rather stuck with me, Sir.”
“Unfortunately for you. It’s to my benefit, not yours.”
“I could’ve been decommissioned.”
“Me, too.”
Slipstream manages to turn around whilst remaining in Shadow Striker’s arms, facing her, brushing their forehelms in spite of their difference in height.
“Don’t.”
“Sir?”
“We’re having another moment. I know what you’re thinking. Don’t do it.”
The Seeker flushes, caught so blatantly fantasising over a kiss with her grouchy, gorgeous, and not entirely gruelling commanding officer.
“Just don’t.” The mercenary sighs softly in the downpour of lukewarm recycled oil. “Even if it would feel… awesome.”
“Okay, Sir. I’ll refrain.”
“Good girl.”
“That really does not help.”
“No. It definitely doesn’t.”
Slipstream resorts to burying her face in Shadow Striker’s neck to stifle the temptation, smothering it in cables.
The old mercenary runs her palms slowly up and down the disgraced Seeker’s spinal seam.
“Mmmph.”
“I know, sweet Spark. I know.” And Shadow Striker comes to a decision about a different femme entirely, sighing into Slipstream’s helm. “I know.”
“Forgive me.” Sentinel looks up, optics brimming. “You called upon me, in your great wisdom, and I have failed us all.”
Alpha Trion’s smile is kind, patient. Like he knows more than he lets on.
Flamewar pushes her final ration of the day over to Demolishor.
“You sure?”
“Yeah, got no appetite.”
“Okay, thanks!”
“Cool.”
Only Shadow Striker seems concerned about the cause of that.
“So, Slipstream.” Thunderblast is applying polish to the tips of her digits. “We’re recharge buddies again.”
“Oh. Yes.” The Seeker smiles shyly at the boat. They like each other just fine, even with this fear of femmes. Recharge cycles spent together have actually been quite pleasant. “Will you tell me another one of your exciting adventures?”
“Wait. You guys talk pirate stuff without me?!”
Thunderblast gives Flamewar a look, then smiles back at Slipstream, winking.
“But that was our thing! Out on the mercury! It was special!”
“Sorry, sweetie, I’ve got commitment issues.”
“Wow! Okay! Whatever, then!”
“I’ve told tales at the table. Why’s it any different, sweetie?”
“Because it’s for an audience, not one-on-one interpersonal pirate talk time. That was ours, not theirs, too.”
“Aw. I love our trips out on the mercury. But seriously, drop the pirate fetish. It’s weird.”
Flamewar folds her arms and refuses to acknowledge that with a reply.
Seated beside her, Slipstream shuffles a little closer and slips an arm around the smaller femme, giving her a fond squeeze, amused but sympathetic.
“I’ll forgive you if you do the pirate voice for me, Thunderblast.”
“No. Also, that’s a myth.”
“What?!”
“Pirates don’t actually talk like that.”
Demolishor sighs into his extra ration, exchanging a tired look with Shadow Striker.
Slipstream strokes Flamewar’s back plates as she appears utterly appalled by the news.
Thunderblast blows air onto her glossy digits to hasten the drying process of the polish, totally unbothered.
“Well, how do you know?” Flamewar huffs, narrowing her optics. “If you’re not a pirate, and you've never been a pirate, you must’ve met a real pirate, to know what pirates sound like when they talk.”
“Don’t crush her,” Slipstream intones. “Please just go with it.”
Thunderblast rolls her optics.
“Yeah, gotcha there, huh."
"You sure did, sweetie."
"Thought so.”
“Whoa.” Clobber’s optic widens. “You’re a Decepticon, now?”
“Looks like it,” Dead End drawls, peering down at his fresh Deceptibrand.
“But why?”
“I see the way things are going. They’re the future of Cybertron, and so on. Besides, they’re better than that joke of a High Council, since the Senate’s gone. Doubt the neutrals will last long.”
“That sounds kinda spooky,” Lockdown intones. “Decepticons being our future. I liked them better when they were called Ascenticons. Sounded more optimistic.”
“That’s the point.”
“Huh?”
“Ugh. The Decepticons aren’t the bad guys, you know. In fact, they largely represent labourers like yourselves. Why don’t the both of you join?”
“Uh…”
A heavy sigh. “Bolt-heads. Clearly, we need to talk.”
“Ahh! I was crazy, back then.” And so another thrilling tale draws to a close, punctuated with a musical giggle. “Good times.”
“Wow. That was… violent.”
“It was fun!”
Wings retracted, Slipstream rolls onto her side and gazes across the cramped recharge bay at her recharge buddy laid out beautifully upon the neighbouring slab. “Be honest with me, please.”
“Mm?”
“Were you actually a pirate?”
“Oh, Primus, not you too.”
“I mean… it sounds like you were. You did pirate things, ran a pirate crew, your ex had a hook like a pirate would.”
“All stereotypes! I refuse that moniker.”
“So, functionally, you were a pirate.”
Thunderblast rolls onto her side, now, glaring gorgeously.
The Seeker gestures. “Well?”
“I suppose,” mutters the boat.
“Then why don’t you indulge her? She adores you for it.”
“Because she insists on calling me a pirate.”
“It’s harmless.”
“How about I call you a cargo plane, huh?”
“I don’t carry cargo. You could call me a fighter jet, and that’d functionally be the same thing as a Seeker. I am, functionally, a fighter jet. I’m just called a Seeker.”
"Pirates are tacky!”
“Okay, okay. Sorry. Didn’t think it bothered you that much.”
Thunderblast sighs. “Look, I would chop off my right servo for Flamewar, and it’s my favourite servo. I dig her a lot, okay.”
“Would you get a hook as a replacement?”
“Shuddup, sweetie. Mommy’s talking.”
Slipstream flushes, but obeys. She kinda liked that.
“I’m not meaning to be… mean.”
A nod.
“But seriously, I don’t want my epic backstory to be delegated to myth. I’m real. I’m amazingly real.”
Another nod.
“And she won’t drop the fragging pirate thing. She’s fixated on it. I want her to like me for, well, me. Not just that part of my past.” The boat flops onto her back strut and throws an arm over her optics dramatically, sighing.
“Can I make an observation?” asks the Seeker softly, politely.
“Mommy will allow it.”
Slipstream is briefly stalled by that, but she recalls what she was about to say, with some effort. “Um, I think perhaps you need to sit down with her and have a proper conversation about boundaries.”
“Yeah. That sounds sensible.”
“Instead of teasing her, or indulging her, or getting mad at her, just tell her how you feel.”
“And if she ends up liking me less?”
“I highly doubt that’ll happen.” Slipstream grins handsomely, now. “She called you her dreamboat.”
Thunderblast lowers her arm, lifts her helm, and peers over. “She did?”
“Yeah, she said you’re her dreamboat.”
“Aw! I love that!”
“But maybe you should be less of a dream, and more yourself.”
“Excuse you! I am a total dream!”
“I meant – ugh. Never mind.”
“But I get what you’re saying.” The boat winks. “Thanks, sweetie.”
The Seeker chuckles. “You’re welcome.”
“Say, you girls are close.”
“Yeah. I’d say so.”
A shrewd smirk. “You two got something going on, or…?”
A flush, a wonky smile. “Oh, well, yes, but–”
Thunderblast claps her servos together. “Knew it!”
“It’s not like that.”
“Huh?”
Slipstream scratches her neck. She is very tired, but she enjoys their chats before recharge.
“Well, what’s it like, then?”
“She’s not ashamed if I tell you, so, um… We cuddle.”
“Cuddle?”
“Yeah, cuddle.”
“Oh. That’s it?”
“Sometimes there’s kissing involved.”
“Oooh!”
“But nothing, uh, hot and heavy.”
“Wait. You’re telling me, you’ve got that gorgeous femme in your arms, and you’re not making out with her?”
“Sorry. Not really.”
“Girl. What the frag.”
“I just needed someone to hold me and be held by me.”
The boat softens. “Aw. You lonely, sweetie?”
The Seeker nods shyly. “Mmhm. And touch-starved.”
“Why didn’t you tell me? All this time, I could’ve helped.”
“Because you are absolutely terrifying, and I mean that with zero offence intended toward you, because it’s a me-thing and not a you-thing.”
“Ah. Gotcha.”
Slipstream rubs her flushed cheek, sighing. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m like this.”
“You’re shy and you don’t have much of a self-esteem,” Thunderblast surmises breezily, but not cruelly. “You don’t feel worthy of a femme’s affection.”
“I… Oh.”
“It’s interesting, really. Do you think less of her, than you think of me?”
“What? No!” The Seeker sits up now, scowling handsomely. “I was scared of her, too!”
“Mm. You were scared of her.”
“It changed. Somehow.”
“If you cuddle her, now, then you must feel safe with her, for whatever reason.”
“She doesn’t make me feel bad about myself. I was super vulnerable and desperate for someone just to be close to me. I was scared, even when I asked her to cuddle me.” Slipstream gnaws on her own lower derma. “I wouldn’t have blamed her for laughing at me, or telling me I’m weak. Everybody here thinks I’m a sappy dumbaft and she acknowledges it, but… in a way that’s affectionate. She likes me as I am.”
Thunderblast is smiling softly, now.
“She’s my friend. I don’t make friends easily, and I’m not a good friend to bother keeping. She’s just so accepting of myself.”
“I’d like her to be accepting of myself, too.”
“Please talk to her. You’ll still be her dreamboat. I promise.”
“Okay, sweetie. I will.”
“Thank you.”
“Oh, and Slipstream?”
“Yes, Thunderblast?”
The boat gazes at the Seeker. “We can cuddle, too, if you’ll let me close enough to hold you, or be held by you.”
Slipsteam stiffens all over, optics wide with excitement and terror alike.
Thunderblast sits up, throwing her long, shapely legs over the edge of the berth, perching with her palms in her lap.
“Uh.”
“I’ll be gentle.”
“Errm.”
“I won’t make any moves you don’t feel comfortable with.”
“Thank you. I just…”
“These nasty recharge slabs are cold and lonely. Maybe we can fix that, together.”
The Seeker feels her Spark throbbing in her throat. Primus, that sounds really nice.
The boat’s gaze is inviting, like a portent of doom sung over a storm, seducing one to drown just to sink into her embrace.
“Okay,” Slipstream croaks, before timidly shuffling her rather large self over to make room upon the modest slab.
Thunderblast is suddenly occupying the same berth, her delicate servos braced upon the crystalline cockpit, pushing.
The Seeker allows herself to be gently eased into a recline, pinned onto her back plates.
The boat slides into place beside, resting her helm upon a pauldron with a sigh. “Comfy?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Relax. You’re safe. I’m safe.”
Slipstream is utterly astonished that any of this is happening. She stares up at the ceiling and feels a curvaceous frame nestling in her boxy nooks and crannies like mercury seeping into vents.
“You’re so warm.”
“I’m overheating.”
Thunderblast giggles softly, drawing aimless shapes over chiselled abdominal plating.
“But… I like this.”
“Me, too.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re so welcome, sweetie.”
A large servo accepts slender digits, interweaving.
“Sleep well.”
“You, too.” The Seeker doubts she will be able to recharge, but she finds herself smiling.
The boat goes heavy and slack when she finally shuts down, entering into a peaceful rest mode without any effort.
“Hey, boss bot.”
Since being noticed, lingering awkwardly in the entrance is no longer a plausible option. Shadow Striker steps into the armoury, clearing her vents gruffly. “Hi. Uh. Got a minute?”
Flamewar looks up from the ridiculously huge shotgun laid out across her workbench, surrounded by a scattered assortment of metallic files of various grains, stained textile rags, pressurised spray-cans and some charge packs in need of recharging. “Sure. ’Sup?”
“I might not know who you were, and what you did, and whoever you were affiliated with, and why you had your memories tampered with,” the mercenary intones all in one go, evidently having thought about what she might say, or try to say, standing upright and rigid before the workbench. “But I want you here. On my team. I don’t perceive you as a liability, or a risk. Actually, you’ve proved your usefulness, and beyond that… I…”
“You like me,” the bike supplies mildly. “You like me enough to keep me.”
Shadow Striker grimaces. Nods stiffly.
Flamewar smiles with her optics, twinkling, but tries to keep a neutral, relaxed expression.
“That’s all I wanted to convey. So, focus on doing your part and don’t worry about the rest. You’re a Decepticon. You’re one of us.”
“One of yours.”
The mercenary flushes. Snaps her helm aside, as if to make it less obvious, because she can feel how hot her face plate is as that flush of Energon bleeds under the membrane, so close to the surface. “Don’t be so… Y’know.”
“Romantic? I’m a hopeless romantic. I fall fast and hard.”
“Primus’ ball-bearings.”
“Anyway!” The bike takes pity. “So, I had an idea about modding this shotty.”
Relieved to talk guns instead of feelings, Shadow Striker perks. “Yeah? Whatcha thinking?”
Flamewar caresses the shotgun fondly. “How about I cram an extra charge pack, under the barrel?”
“An extra charge pack.” The mercenary quirks a bladed ridge above her scope. “On a shotgun.”
“Yeah, this shotgun. My shotgun.”
“It’s… a shotgun.”
“Uh, yeah?”
“What would be the purpose of another charge pack?”
“Extend the range on this baddie, of course. Duh.” The bike giggles. “What, you think it’s a bad idea or something?”
“No. It’s interesting. Shotguns operate best short to mid-range. Besides, it’d be a tight fit, it’d make the weapon heavier than it already is, and it’d compromise on accuracy.”
“Okay, those are valid concerns, but it’s a shotty, boss bot. Who cares about accuracy in a shotty? It’s all about spread!”
“Which will widen with range and reduce the damage output. You must know that. Shotguns aren’t rifles. You should try my rifle. It’s a beaut.”
“I can compensate with some modifications to the barrel. And in case you forgot, boss bot, I’ve been maintaining that rifle for you, Sir, and it’s gorgeous. But not my style. I love my shotty. I’m a shotty sorta girl.”
“Oh, come on, branch out, try something new. It’s healthy for you.”
“Well, why don’t you give my shotty a blast sometime?”
“Hrrm. It’s a magnificent piece, but cumbersome. Especially compared to your bow. Now that is a work of art.”
“You wanna try my compound bow so bad, don’t you, boss bot?”
“Yes. Please. I’ve never actually used one before and it’s cool as frag.”
“Heh. Okay, okay. On one condition.”
“Name it.”
“I’ll install the charge pack and have you test my shotty for me, tell me what you think. Then you’ll have a chance with my bow.”
“Alright, but here’s a counteroffer. All of that still happens, but you will also agree to go to target practice with me and try my rifle. I’ve been meaning to have it recalibrated anyway, but my circuit memory’s too deep-set, so I’m biased. I need an outside opinion. Deal?”
“Deal.” Flamewar snaps her clawed digits with a wink, producing a clicking noise out the corner of her smirk. “It’s a date.”
Shadow Striker scoffs, shakes her helm, turns and saunters on out with a smile and a little extra swing to her hip joints.
Chapter 24: Painful
Summary:
Deliberating what to do about the growing Decepticon movement, Sentinel still refuses to let Ariel talk to Megatron, until Windblade offers herself and her sword as Ariel's bodyguard. Thus granted permission, Megatron welcomes Ariel at the Decepticon compound, but the animosity between the attending Starscream and Windblade threatens to to derail the reunion disguised as a meeting, and so they are sent away. While old friends reconnect and plead, Windblade confronts Starscream in the air and hurtful things are said, leading him to reveal more vulnerabilities within himself until she feels sorry for him as much as she resents him. Coming to a temporary truce of a sort, he goes on to confess that he truly does love his Seekers, in his own way, lamenting his inability to ever truly bond with them over drinks back at Maccadam's place. Windblade states her intention to claim Slipstream, Starscream refuses to give the union his blessing, and it all devolves from there. Soundwave befriends a stray cybercat.
Notes:
This is a dark, dense chapter, the largest one yet. I’m writing something that will, at times, be gruesome and disturbing, even if only through implication. As always, please read responsibly.
Possible trigger warnings: unhealthy power dynamics and relationships, reference to suicide or self-destruction, genital injury (not sexual - I do not intend to depict any rape within this story, but certain events may carry nonconsensual implications or undertones).
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“We can’t risk spooking him, Sentinel. Let me talk to him.”
“Ariel, I said no! I will seize him myself!”
“Megatron will be expecting a strike team. He cannot be captured so easily. Prowl and I have already tried it, to disastrous results.”
“You cannot possibly be siding with her, Orion, not on this matter! Alpha Trion? What say you? Please speak sense, these two clearly cannot!”
“What concerns me is retaliation. I do not wish to incur the greater extent of his wrath upon Cybertron. He would view another attempt at his arrest, as another betrayal by someone close to him. It would drive him further away, retreating further within himself and his struggle. Then, he may truly be lost to us.”
“If you have all outvoted my strike team, then I declare there will be no meeting with him at all! Ariel cannot go to Megatron alone, I refuse it!”
“I’ll go, too.”
Every helm turns, optics befalling Windblade as she rises from her seat, stoic and gorgeous.
“Cityspeaker?”
“I’ll go with Ariel and personally ensure her safety.”
“Just you?”
“Just me.”
Sentinel delicately clears his vents. “Honoured Cityspeaker, please do not take offence, for none is intended when I say this, but…”
“I can handle myself. Part of my legacy is a lifetime of intensive combat preparation, in order to defend myself. I’ll protect her.”
“Are you truly enough on your own to–?”
“Yes.”
Orion looks extremely impressed.
“That way Ariel can probe Megatron for information and negotiate better terms with the Decepticons, maybe come to a peaceful resolution to all of this,” Windblade intones with a sigh. “Even if she can’t talk him down completely. Nobody has to get hurt.”
Sentinel is still unhappy about it. He is still prepared to argue.
“Thank you,” Ariel speaks up in his place, her servo beneath Orion’s, nodding at Alpha Trion. “I’m cool with that.”
There is a murmur of assent, save for one, who grumbles, outvoted yet again.
Windblade nods once, smiling ever so subtly at Ariel, who smiles tiredly back.
“This is all your fault,” Nova Storm sullenly reports, scrubbing at a spot on the wall that will not disappear from the metallic surface despite her impressive brute force leaving scratches behind. “Why I let you convince me to do dumb scrap, I just dunno.”
The answer is obvious, Skywarp’s silent smile seems to say, poised with a little vacuum drone busy at its mindless task, assisting it by shifting furniture out of its path and picking up any items that ideally ought not to be sucked up.
One Seeker femme glares at the other, a look imbued with all the animosity of siblings sharing a singular punishment because of one another’s bad conduct. “Oh, yeah?”
Because we have fun, is communicated in an utterly charming, unapologetic wink.
“Sure. But you can’t keep getting me in trouble. It’s going on my record and pretty soon Megatron’s gonna think I’m, like, a delinquent or something. And then what, huh? I just turn into Captain Starscream’s personal cleaner bot, full-time? I’m a fighter! Not a domestic femme at all.”
Skywarp shrugs, then quickly scoops up a chair and sets it aside before the vacuum drone can bump into it.
“Primus knows how he lets his office get this bad, to begin with.” Nova Storm contemplates the scrubbing brush in her servo. “This is mad boring, and ineffective.”
The silent Seeker abandons the vacuum drone to stealthily approach her fellow femme from behind, drawing in closely as if to inspect her work.
“Out, damned spot…” Nova Storm does not realise that Skywarp is right behind her, muttering darkly and scrubbing again at that mark on the wall. “Out, I say!” All irritation melts away as arms entwine from behind, initially startling, then very soothing. “Aw, c’mon, Warp, I’m not really mad at you. We’re cool.”
A mute nod, nuzzling cheeks together.
“It’s my dumbaft that keeps agreeing to your pranks, anyway.”
Another nod, more vigorous and affectionate.
The Seeker giggles, leaning back into another femme’s embrace. “I love you.”
Skywarp kisses Nova Storm’s cheek in reply.
“We’re such a disaster duo, huh?”
There is the sound of something chunky being sucked up, followed by panicked bleeps and strangulated air.
“Frag! The drone!”
The Seekers separate and hurry over to assist the vacuum drone, Nova Storm pinning the panicked unit between her strong servos whilst Skywarp reaches inside and pries out a discarded foil wrapper that had been swallowed, evidence of takeout Starscream must have snuck into his office and enjoyed some time ago without mentioning to any of his subordinates or properly disposing of the evidence. The vacuum drone once again sucks unimpeded, its panicked bleeps ceasing.
“Stupid thing,” Nova Storm mutters whilst letting it go free, merrily hovering along the metallic floor. “It’s more a hindrance than a help.” She gives Skywarp a look. “Please don’t let it kill itself. Things suck enough around here, already.”
The silent Seeker grimaces, salutes, and leaves her fellow femme with a giggle whilst exaggeratedly marching on over to assist the vacuum drone, a horribly outdated model Starscream got very cheaply that lacks any sophistication to its sensors and cannot accurately map out most objects, but can at least follow along walls and avoid bumping into people, usually. It does the job.
“No mucking about, Warp, okay!”
Skywarp shakes her helm soberly, as if she would never dream of such a thing.
Nova Storm sighs fondly, retrieves her scrubbing brush, and returns to her seemingly futile, endless labour. “I wonder what Slip and Acid are up to, right now.” The prior hurts to think about, but surely the latter is inventing all sorts of cool scrap with that creep Shockwave. “I can’t wait for you to meet those two, they’re…” The scrubbing motions hasten, harden. “Well. I’m a little fragged up over what Captain Starscream said about Slip, but I know she’ll love you to bits. And Acid is so smart, sometimes I really wanna ask a question but they’re not here to humour me, and then I feel so empty.”
Skywarp gazes at Nova Storm without mischief, only melancholy, a shared sadness over absent Seekers their newest has never even met, knowing them only by what has been imparted. Cold constructs are rather unfortunate, like that.
“Ariel!” Megatron bellows with unabashed delight, throwing open his arms and striding over, his rugged face plate split with the sheer scale of his smile. “Welcome home!”
She wants to be angry at him for sending an agent to her office who invaded her sanctuary where her precious organics are kept, for scaring Sentinel into a hurtful fury, for breaking Orion’s spark inconsolably, for ageing Alpha Trion by a few million years more with the stress alone, for the horrors that happened within the Grand Imperium. But when Ariel steps into Megatron’s embrace and answers it with her own, she buries her face in his chassis and weeps out of joy, more than anything else.
“It has been a lifetime, old friend.”
“Ohh, Megs, I missed you.”
“Ah.” Starscream keeps his distance. “You’re here, too. Hello, I suppose.”
“Hi. Yeah, I am,” Windblade answers sternly. “Hope you’re okay with that.”
“I’m delighted.”
“Charmed.”
Megatron rumbles as he lifts Ariel, a very tall, large femme, easily off of the floor and twirls with her pinned to his bosom, secured within his gunmetal arms.
She laughs like a femme millions of years younger, swung around in a playful, spontaneous circle.
Starscream looks pensive.
Windblade sighs, shaking her helm.
“Okay, okay! Put me down!”
Megatron gently sets Ariel upon her pedes, stooping a bit and kissing her cheek, tasting the optical lubricant upon her membrane. “Old friend, you have sprung a leak. Here,” he says softly, before cupping her handsome face plate in his mighty servos to brush her tears away, gazing down at her with adoration and intimacy.
She looks up at him, down at his Deceptibrand, and up again, expression torn.
“I wish the circumstances were sweeter, old friend.”
“Me, too, Megs.”
“You will relay your adventures to me, won’t you? I wish to know where you have been, all you have seen.”
“It’s too much to tell. We gotta talk about other stuff, today.”
“I was hoping that this reunion would be reserved for getting to know each other all over again. It has been so long since we last spoke. Can business not wait?”
“You’ve fragged up, Megs. Big time.”
Megatron inhales deeply through his battered old vents, shuddering.
Ariel lays a palm over his Deceptibrand.
The pain of her touch provokes a masculine wince.
“Orion, Sentinel, Alpha Trion, they all told me their part in all this. Now, I wanna hear it from you, and I wanna work it out together. No scrap. Just us, taking. Okay.”
“Hard to believe you intend to carry this out in good faith,” Starscream speaks up snidely from the sidelines. “Considering part of the arrangement was so clearly ignored, on your part. You’ve brought a friend.”
Windblade scoffs.
“Indeed. I do not intend to be be impolite,” Megatron intones in his soft, rumbling undertone, gazing just past Ariel’s pauldron at the other femme stood protectively behind her. “However, I do recall asking that you would come unattended, old friend, as a show of trust.”
“That was the plan,” Ariel says, sighing. “I’m doing my best here, Megs.”
“I know you intend to, old friend, though I see you have acquired a bodyguard. Sentinel’s insistence, I assume.”
“I volunteered, actually,” Windblade boldly and sternly interrupts.
“I doubt he would have permitted this visitation without some oversight, voluntary or not.” Megatron lets out a slow exhale from his battered old vents. “I’m sure he is greatly relieved. Very brave of you, coming here uninvited, of your own volition. I will allow it.”
A gorgeous frown deepens, sharpens. “You and your Decepticons don’t scare me.”
“You have a warrior’s Spark, and to corroborate this, my sensors detect the hilt of a sword.”
“Stormfall. Surprised you didn’t search me for a weapon at the gate.”
“I doubt you’ll have any need to use it.”
“That’s incredibly arrogant of you to assume.”
“Windblade,” Ariel says softly, not quite a reprimand, more of a precaution.
“So that is your name.” Megatron’s audials are evidently quite keen. He smiles softly, ruggedly. “You introduced your sword to me, but not yourself, Windblade. I find that most intriguing.”
“Oh, she is a bit of a big deal where she comes from,” Starscream interjects with a lazy drawl, his heel struts click-clacking arrestingly as he sashays casually back and forth, hip joints swaying, optics hooded and dimmed dangerously. “Seems it has led her to believe she is quite the badaft, as well.”
“I am quite the badaft, actually. I don’t just think it. I know it, Starscream.”
“You two have met, Star?”
“Mmyes. Windblade is a Cityspeaker, a native from Caminus.”
“I see the Titan’s markings. Almost mythical, indeed.”
“She’d come here on some business or whatever. As a mech of my esteem and station, I opted to welcome her to our world, show her around a little. Sadly, she fell in with the wrong crowd, but I’d like to think I made a friend that day and quite the memorable first impression.”
“We’re not friends.” Windblade’s arms are folded over her bosom and her gorgeous expression is fittingly fierce. Her blue optics narrow as she glares upon Megatron, before swivelling over to glare even more viciously upon Starscream, still sauntering along the periphery of his side of the room and smiling smugly back at her. “You made an awful first impression, that much I do remember.”
“Oh, you’re referring to that little incident involving your yellow friend?”
“His name is Bumblebee. You hurt him.”
Ariel clenches her fists, jaw flexing until it creaks. She looks like she might snap Starscream in half, whilst Windblade seems ready to decapitate him.
Megatron senses things are not going to progress smoothly like this and thus intervenes. “Perhaps it would be best to clear the room, as it were.”
“Windblade, that’s your cue to go.” Starscream seems to take some sick pleasure out of riling her up, fluttering his lowered optic shutters coquettishly at her from across the room, wandering back and forth behind Megatron like an agitated pet of some sort. That gorgeously smug face plate, that shapely swaying aft, the subtle bounce of those wings with each sauntering strep, all of it serving to antagonise her. “Go on, then. Shoo.”
The Cityspeaker resorts to petulantly poking out her glossa at the Captain, which makes him giggle.
Megatron clears his great vents. “Actually, Star, perhaps you should escort Windblade personally.”
“What?” That smug expression vanishes. “But my love, I am here to ensure your safety!”
“Do not fear for me, dearest. Ariel means me no harm. Besides, I imagine it would be best that you and Windblade should get reacquainted outside, so as not to distract Ariel and I. We do not have nearly enough time.”
Starscream frowns, evidently unhappy with the notion of being coaxed out like a nuisance.
“No,” growls Windblade sternly. “I’m not leaving her alone with you.”
Invited to take a seat at the table opposite Megatron, Ariel reaches back, subtly tapping Windblade on the hip. “I’ll be fine. Trust me, okay.”
Windblade huffs, but relents. “Okay. Call me. The moment you need me, the moment you feel unsafe, I’ll be here. Use the secured line. Promise me that.”
“I will. I know. I promise.”
The femmes exchange a fond glance.
“My protector.” Ariel says it with an awkward shyness that indicates she is quite unused to being deemed vulnerable and in need of protection. “Thank you.”
Windblade flushes, flaring out impressively, wings unsheathed. She grunts and nods once. “Of course.” She manages to look very tough.
“I would prefer being with you, here,” Starscream coos, pausing to squeeze Megatron’s pauldrons. “Please?”
“Star, I shall speak with Ariel about very delicate matters.”
“Nothing between us is kept secret. I am suited to hear everything.”
“Indeed. I shall fill you in on the essentials, after we are done here. In the meantime, I do not want any interruptions.”
“But–”
“Please, Star. Kindly escort the honoured Cityspeaker some place elsewhere, but stay within range. I will notify you as soon as I have concluded. Do this for me.”
“Ugh. Fine. As you wish, my love.”
“Thank you, dearest.”
Starscream sighs dramatically, but accepts a little kiss on the cheek in reconciliation.
“I love you,” Megatron murmurs.
“As I love you,” is his lover’s raspy reply. “I will return to you soon.”
“Soon.”
Ariel smiles tiredly and even Windblade softens her expression.
“Join me for a little chat outside, won’t you, Cityspeaker,” Starscream says wearily, swooping past the table and offering Windblade his arm in passing. “I insist. Non-negotiable, I’m afraid.”
“I will do Ariel no harm,” Megatron says solemnly when Windblade gives him a suspicious glare, touching upon his own breast to emphasise the sincerity of this point. “I swear it on my life. Tear me down if I should lie about this.”
“I’ll remember that.” Windblade lays a servo on Ariel’s pauldron, squeezing once, before ignoring Starscream’s proffered arm entirely and reluctantly stepping through the automated doors with him following close behind her.
“Well. That’s that, then.”
“Yup.”
They step out into a beautiful day.
“So!”
“So?”
“How many?”
“How many what?”
“Don’t be coy.” Starscream smiles at the clouds. “How many elite guard did Sentinel send in secret, stationed beyond these walls, somewhere, hopeful to subdue and capture my mech? Or did you bring snipers with you? Are you hoping for an assassination, and not an arrest?”
“You talk too much.”
“Megatron insists on playing nice with your idiot High Council. But we have optics all around. If we find any of Sentinel’s elite guard, or perhaps a certain yellow scout…”
Windblade is quietly seething, stoically fuming.
“We will retaliate.” Starscream barely gets those words out before he is shoved into the perimeter wall and pinned there by the fist clamped to his throat, hoisting him off his pedes.
“You ever threaten Bee again and I’ll end you with my bare servos.”
“Ah-ah-ah!” Flustered, yet cunning, the Captain wags a digit before the Cityspeaker. “Wouldn’t wish to derail their little peace talk, now, would you?” With his throat being constricted, his raspy voice comes out especially strained. “There’s a lot at stake, be sensible!”
Windblade snarls, yet hesitates.
“Set me down, or else. I mean it!”
She reluctantly lets go and steps away.
Starscream is thus dropped neatly onto his pedes, rubbing his neck cables and grimacing prettily. “Ugh. Brute.”
“Why are you so horrible? What did anyone ever do to make you act like this?”
“None of your concern, my dear. All you need to know is that we Decepticons are winning, and as such, we’re ready for anything.” The Captain sneers down at the Cityspeaker. “You should be grateful.”
“Oh, yeah? How so?”
“Megatron intends to talk Ariel into joining our team. She seems very significant to the cohesion of the whole. Without her, perhaps Orion Pax and the rest will be sufficiently demoralised into surrendering to us. That would be a peaceful resolution, mmyes?”
“Not gonna happen,” Windblade finally mutters, glaring warily at a couple of Decepticon guards on patrol, who carry weapons and stern expressions even as they chat between themselves about last night’s Cube game. “So much for trust.”
“One cannot be too prepared for an ambush. And everything else besides.”
Windblade growls when Starscream pats her lightly upon the back plates.
“Fly with me.”
“I’d rather stay on the ground, close to Ariel.”
“Our place is within the sky, not upon the dirt like a common grounder.”
“You are astonishingly prejudiced for a guy with a grounder for a boyfriend.”
The Captain pauses for a cringe. “I am… working on myself. Old habits and hard deaths, as they say. Why, I’ve made a friend in the most charming fellow. He’s a grounder. A doctor. Very beautiful mech, I do enjoy his companionship. Lovely spouse too, also a grounder.”
“Terrestrial alt-modes.” The Cityspeaker huffs. “Or terrestrials. I think that’s more polite.”
“Anyway! We won’t go far. Besides, if Megatron meant Ariel any harm, he would have harmed her by now. Haven’t you been paying attention?”
“He has harmed her. But those wounds are on the inside and she’s hiding the damage.”
“Nevertheless, he is sincere about preserving her life. It’s the other Decepticons you ought to concern yourself with. We have no love for High Councillors, or their… lackeys.”
“I’m nobody’s lackey.”
“Good! You really don’t want to be seen out and about with her, or any of the others. You’ll find yourself held guilty by association. Some friendly advice. As a Camien, what happens here on Cybertron really doesn’t concern you anyway, so why get involved? Leave Ariel and the rest to the Decepticons and go home.”
“Cybertron is my home too. I love enough Cybertronians that their well-being is my business. And Ariel can take care of herself.” Windblade says this without actually knowing if Ariel knows how to properly fight, as opposed to merely throwing powerful yet clumsy and obviously choreographed punches that a warrior with some skill can predict and avoid.
“Do you not believe that the Decepticons have the best interests of the masses at Spark?”
“With you at the top, I highly doubt it.”
“How rude.”
“It’s a fair comment.” The Cityspeaker rubs her brows, sighing. “You care about nobody but yourself, Starscream. You’re dangerous because of it. Megatron might want to do the right thing, the wrong way, but you’re definitely not out to save anyone from the system.”
“That, my dear, is simply untrue. Well. I am dangerous, yes, and I don’t care about the ground-bound masses. But I do care about more than just my suave self. I care about my Megatron, can you not tell? And I am setting my people free. Seekers shall soon fill the air, as is our rightful place, above it all. It will be my legacy. I, the Captain who restored an entire guild to its former glory.”
There is so much Windblade could say to that. “You two make an odd couple,” she settles on.
“I know we seem drastically different, upon the surface. But our Sparks collide, our minds caress. Sometimes the connection between us is so intensely intimate, we almost become one.” Starscream sighs, running a palm over his own flushed cheek. “He is wonderful. Big, and strong, and intelligent, and charming, and truly an incredible lover. I am a lucky mech. He makes me very happy.”
“Congratulations.” And the Cityspeaker says it with sincerity. Somehow. “That’s… good. Good for you, I mean. I wish you both well, uh, in terms of your relationship.”
“Thank you. Now, then. Follow me.” The Captain takes a running leap into his alt-mode, arcing into the clouds, cutting cleanly through. “Do not dawdle!”
“You’re not my boss!” Windblade yells after him, then huffs. “Afthole.”
Starscream performs a few playful and skilled aerial maneuvers, just to tease her.
The Cityspeaker remains grounded for some moments, then sighs and ascends, transforming to soar in the Captain’s warm, shimmering slipstream. Unlike his whimsical flight pattern, she makes a direct line for him, catching up quickly.
He slows himself and settles somewhat once he is at an altitude he seems to find suitable.
She soars beside him, wing tips a polite distance apart. Her raw speed is less than his, but she has far greater control and can even hover in place due to her turbines, whereas he must keep moving in order to stay airborne. She receives a request over her internal comm link and accepts it.
“How is your little grounder boyfriend doing, anyway?” comes out conversational and clear within her helm, unimpeded by the sounds of moving air and burning thrusters. “Did he get over me? Not too traumatised, I hope.”
“Bumblebee is doing great, thanks.”
“Wonderful. Very good. I do find your affection for him a little perplexing, I must admit.”
“Don’t even start.”
“A little pathetic.”
“Shuddup.”
“I’ve asked myself, why bother with a guy like that, when you could elevate your standards a little, or a lot? You have such potential.”
“Starscream, lay off disparaging my best friend, or I’ll make you stop.”
“Come now, Windblade, we have not spoken in far too long. I do like you, you know. In spite of your awful taste in companionship, and your less than charming personality.”
“I know who my friends are, and they complete me. They’re good people. I reserve my charms for them.”
“How cute. The Cityspeaker does have a soft spot in the Spark, after all.”
“Yeah. I’m not totally hardcore.”
“And here I thought you were too aloof, too cool and collected, too superior. Femmes like you seem to thrive in solitary confinement. Isn’t the need for seclusion and secrecy a part of your teachings? You’re intended to dedicate yourself to your Titan, are you not? Yet here you are, ignoring your real responsibilities. Don’t you answer to some Mistress of Flame, or whoever?”
“You barely know me. If you did, you’d know why Cybertron and its people are so important to me. I’m staying and fighting if I have to.”
“I could fix that. The Decepticons will fix that.”
“Doubt it.”
“Do not be so grouchy. Come, come. Let’s be friends.”
“You wouldn’t understand friendship if it slapped you across the face, like I just might.”
“You think I am incapable of making friends? I told you, I know a doctor, we enjoy a chat over high-grade from time to time.”
“You surround yourself in subservience. You treat people like they’re beneath you, to elevate yourself. One friend doesn’t change your terrible attitude.”
Starscream is silent for some time after that.
Windblade internally relishes it, and yet she does feel that perhaps she was a little cruel, just now. And then she meditates a little more on Bumblebee and Slipstream and feels a burning desire to be a lot more cruel.
“I would invite you to join my Seekers, you know.”
“Join?”
“Yes. I’ve thought about it. Having a Cityspeaker under my command would be–”
“No.”
“There are benefits to joining us.”
“Doesn’t seem like it.”
“For one thing, you’d be on the winning team.”
“I am not converting into a Decepticon.”
“We are not a cult. Primus’ light, Cityspeaker, don’t disparage us so.”
“You don’t even have Megatron’s symbol anywhere on you.”
Starscream grunts non-committally. “I like the way I look. The purple would clash with the rest of my paint-job.”
“Right, right. Did any of the other Decepticons get to refuse?”
“That’s none of your business, really.”
“As for being a Seeker, I thought you had to be forged that way. Didn’t think it was a club one could just join.”
“It’s very exclusive. However, you can fly. I can make special exceptions. I’m Captain. I do whatever I like with my Seekers.”
“Yeah,” Windblade spits with venom, “so I’ve heard.”
“And whatever is that supposed to mean? Have my Seekers come to you with complaints, because I am finally giving them actual work to do? Lazy creatures. Always wanting to play.”
“I don’t appreciate the way you treat your people. They deserve better than you.”
“Are they not well-fed, well-maintained?”
“She’s miserable because of you.”
“She? Who’s ‘she’?”
Windblade veers dangerously close, almost swerving into a collision.
“Primus,” Starscream squawks, neatly avoiding having his wing clipped, “watch where you’re going! You’ll destabilise us both, you idiot!”
“We’re landing. Now.”
“But I like the sky!”
“Now!”
“Okay! Fine, fine. Stop flying like a drunkard!”
They descend upon a flat, gleaming rooftop, dropping neatly into their root modes, landing crouched before rising simultaneously and turning to face each other.
“Well?” the Captain demands, servos upon his hips. “What did I do or say to earn your wrath, exactly?”
“Other than act like an insufferable afthole all the time? Other than help Megatron slaughter the Senate and break Orion’s Spark, in turn putting the rest of the High Council in this mess? Other than abuse Bee, my best friend?”
“I’d like you to be more specific, yes.”
Windblade storms into Starscream.
“Easy, now.” He stands tall, but he does flinch, even whilst glaring haughtily down the handsome bridge of his olfactory sensor at the furious femme, glaring icily up at him, stopping close enough for a kiss. “Let’s keep this calm.”
“You punished her.”
“My dear, you must be more specific.”
“Don’t act like you don’t know who you’ve wronged.”
“I know very many people, most of whom displease me, and sometimes I must dole out punishment. Why, I had to punish two of my Seekers just the other day, namely Skywarp and Nova Storm. Skywarp’s our newest, oh, she’s a delight, always pulling the most adorable little pranks. She likes to rope in Nova Storm, who is very strong and confident, quite impressionable, being more brawn and beauty than brain module. Normally I’d just have a laugh and let it go, but this time, well, I was the target of their combined efforts. Seekers do not prank their Captain, you understand. Both of them get to share clean-up duties together for the next however many days I decide. They’ll somehow get their fun out of it, I’m sure.”
Windblade has grown increasingly incensed throughout Starscream’s monologue.
“That look you’re giving me. If looks could kill, as they say, I’d be quite offline by now.”
“You threw her away. And now, you won’t even acknowledge her.”
The Captain grits his dentas as the Cityspeaker shoves him, forcing him a step back, closer toward the edge of the rooftop. “Now, now! Don’t get violent! Use your words!
“You threw her away the moment she displeased you!
“Oh, do you mean–?”
“Slipstream!”
“Wait. You know her?”
“Yes!”
“Since when?”
“We’ve been friends for – Primus, she’s your Seeker! You made her Captain! How can you not know this? How disconnected are you?!”
“No need to yell at me.”
“I could do far, far worse than merely raise my voice, Starscream!”
“I’m a very busy, very important mech, Windblade. I keep out of my Seekers’ private affairs, so long as they remain obedient to me. Are you particularly important to her, for whatever reason I should consider worthy enough to garner my attention?”
Windblade makes a raw sound of primal frustration, motioning as if to throttle Starscream, although she refrains from physically carrying out the pantomimed urge. “Aaargh! You are such a jerk!”
“Blah-blah-blah, so I’ve been informed many, many times before. Get some fresh material.”
“If you actually cared about her, about any of them, you’d get to know something substantial about your Seekers’ personal lives! She has friends, and I’m one of them!”
“Slipstream has friends?”
“They all have friends! They’re people too!”
“Wow. I thought she was too… I mean, not to be nasty, because she’s a lovely femme, really, when she’s not stabbing me in the back, I mean, but she struggles with social settings. Mm. Terribly awkward around other femmes in particular. Her, befriending you? With how forceful you are? Hard to believe.”
“Stabbed you in the – no!” The Cityspeaker rubs her forehelm. “No, no no.”
“Yes!” snaps the Captain, suddenly shrill. “Yes, yes, yes! She betrayed me!”
“She didn’t betray you! She protected me!”
“Protected you? How so?”
“She stood up for her friends when you put her in a position that forced her to lie to me! I was there for her, even then, and I saw how much it hurt to make her choose me, over you!”
Silence, for several searing seconds.
“…Starscream?”
His optics are wide, wounded.
Windblade feels actually quite bad for him. “Listen, it’s… I know how that sounded, just now, but she… I…”
“Ah. I get it.” He narrows his gorgeous optics. “That explains her bizarre little turn, these past few months. You happened.”
The Cityspeaker stiffens.
“You ruined her.”
Bristles.
“A femme. Primus’ light.” The Captain laughs to himself, then suddenly stops laughing. “She found herself a femme. She actually did it. When last did she allow herself? And of all the femmes she could have stumbled over, she found you.”
“Yeah, she did.” Windblade tries to make herself look bigger against Starscream, glaring up at him despite her best efforts. “And I’m proud to be that femme.”
“She has been… seduced.”
The Cityspeaker scowls. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“You have been a bad influence,” replies the Captain, huffing. “You have swept her away, whispered sweet nothings into her audials, made false promises she is simply too trusting to doubt, coaxed her against me, against her Seeker kin.”
“She just wants to be happy. I can give her that. None of this Seeker stuff fulfilled her the way she aches to be fulfilled.”
“You imagine your spike will be the cure, mm?”
Windblade motions as if to strike Starscream across the cheek, but ultimately does not.
“You mean to take her back with you to Caminus, don’t you! So you can show her off like some exotic pet, chain her to the berth or whatever it is you’re into. Eugh.”
“I… am this close… Starscream.” Presented digits indicate a tiny empty space between their pads. “Thiiis close, right now.”
“Hit me. I dare you.”
“You really want me to? You really wanna push me that far?”
“No. But it’d give me the excuse to retaliate in kind, which would not help your High Council. It wouldn’t help Ariel, currently alone with Megatron.”
“Why, you little–”
“Careful.”
“Yeah. Okay. Fine. I’mma take a few steps back and breathe. Gimme a second.”
“You do that.”
Windblade marches across the rooftop, panting from her vents. She stays at the far end for some moments, furious, before marching on back to Starscream, who looks rather bored.
“Finished throwing a tantrum?”
“That was not a tantrum. You do not want to see me throw an actual tantrum. This is a confrontation that I’ve wanted to have with you for months now, but there’s all this extra scrap piled on top and I’m struggling.”
“It’s surreal, to think it really has been that long since she started acting strangely. I never would have suspected a femme to be the cause of her unrest. Yet here you are, confronting me, finally.”
“Yeah. I’ve felt every second of her suffering since.”
“Good.”
“How can you be so callous? So cruel?”
“I must be. It’s for her own sake. She’ll recognise that it time.”
“Nonsense. You’re doing this to please yourself.”
“Think that if it comforts you. You’ll never have her, you know.”
“Shuddup. Just shut your fragging intake.”
“She’s mine to keep or give away. And I say, no, you shall not take her from me.”
“You threw her away!”
“She is still mine by birthright!”
Windblade roars without words, but does not attack.
“I am her Captain!” Starscream bellows back. “I could collect her right now and she would happily return to my side! She begged me to take her back, but not yet! She must become contrite!”
“You monster!”
“She must miss me and our Seeker kin enough that she never, ever again is persuaded against me! I now know that so long as you are in this picture, I cannot trust her! You have ruined her life, not I!”
“It is not a crime! I have loved her!”
“As have I!”
The Cityspeaker snarls, as if in pain. She is a soft-spoken, patient femme, affectionate toward her own, even playful at times. But she is losing herself a little to her own propensity for vengeful, righteous anger against injustice and those who commit vile acts. Her anger is not the most easily incurred, but it is among the most terrible of burdens. She does not forgive lightly. “Your love is toxic and hurts!”
“How dare you?! You manipulated her into conveying sensitive intelligence to Orion Pax! That explains Shadow Striker’s report,” the Captain goes on with a sneer. “You’re the reason I had to get rid of her, lest my other impressionable Seekers be persuaded to side against me as well. You were there that night, and that is clearly no coincidence, for it is you who ruined everything! My Slipstream can barely tolerate Nova Storm’s flirtations, I can only imagine what you could do to such a soft, sweet fool, if you have – as you so claim – loved her!”
“It’s not a claim,” Windblade intones lowly, dangerously. “It’s the truth. And there’s nothing wrong with it.”
“You’ll devour her whole, and then what happens to her!”
“I’m going to save her from you.”
“From me?! You bewitched her! How could you? Her innocence, you have tainted it with your own feminine wiles! She isn’t some pretty toy for you to amuse yourself with, Windblade!”
“Oh, please, speak for yourself! I did no such thing. She chose me, because she loves me back.”
“She loves me, too!” Starscream well and truly snaps, losing all decorum in this moment. “I, who was forged alongside her, on the very same day! She chose you, some… girlfriend, over me?! How can that possibly be fair and just!”
“We haven’t put that label on what we have. We didn’t get much of a chance to, thanks to you, wrenching us apart.”
“I hope it hurts you!”
“It does!”
“She chose you, whoever and whatever you are to her, over me?! Over her family?! The Seekers do not understand, they miss her! It’s all your doing!”
“She’d choose me again.”
Starscream twitches.
Windblade waits.
“All that happened to tear my kin apart… was your fault!” Coming from a place of genuine hurt and vulnerability, the Captain is no longer smugly suave, but shrieking as per his namesake. “How could you?!” He lungers, normally swift and skilled, but blinded by his emotions.
The Cityspeaker moves with it, dipping below his arm and capturing him by the twist joint, pushing painfully back.
He instinctively buckles his arm to alleviate the bend, yelping, his wrist now twisted against his spinal seam.
Braced behind him, she drives against his ankle joint next and sweeps his pede out from under him, then folds him under her own weight.
He is forced onto one knee, with one arm folded most uncomfortably behind his back, a pede splayed awkwardly aside and unable to gain traction.
“I’m not some weakling you can intimidate, Starscream.”
“H-how could you?” he echoes again, hiccuping. “She’s mine. Yet she chose you.”
“I’ve tried to be good to her, for a change. That’s all it took. Helps that I’m prettier than you.”
“But I have such s-strong feelings for h-her.”
Windblade’s fury subsides and she smiles softly, gazing upon Starscream from behind him, contemplating the gleaming blades of his fanning wings.
“How did you steal her away f-f-from me? Is it just because you are a femme, giving her the attention I c-cannot?”
“It’s a bit of that, but it’s more complicated. It took a little time, a little effort. I’ve listened to her, tried not to give too much unsolicited advice, acclimatised her to my touch little by little, served as an anchor whenever Bee would encourage her to socialise with the other friends and she got a little overwhelmed in too much company. Eventually, her fear of me finally began to subside. The fear isn’t totally gone. She was still afraid when she let me kiss her. She kissed me back, and I knew she was still scared. Someday soon, though, I’ll show her what it feels like not to be frightened of a femme any more. I think it will be so good, for her, to feel truly and totally safe in my arms.”
Starscream meditates on all of that, then clears his intake, calms himself down, and turns awkwardly to glare back at Windblade. “You are exceedingly full of yourself.”
“Heh. Maybe.”
“You may release me, now.”
“Done throwing a tantrum?”
“Ugh.”
The Cityspeaker lets go.
The Captain rises, rubbing his wrist, rolling his pauldron, wiggling his pede to check his ankle.
“She always spoke so fondly of you.”
“Yes, well, I’m a delight and as her Captain she ought to praise my name.”
“She took care of her Seekers. But nobody really took much care of her. You failed in the more delicate aspects of your duty.”
“I kept her safe. I provided for her. I gave her menial tasks to occupy her time with, a title to make her feel somewhat significant, somehow. I’ve been good to her.”
“You’ve reduced your love for her into a job, enforced in a hierarchy rather than a family. It’s made you entitled over her, and the rest of your Seekers.”
“Do not lecture me on love,” Starscream hisses, deeply resentful. “You have no right. We are a military unit, there must be some rigidity and professionalism.”
“Then why do you despise me, for giving her something more?”
“…Go frag yourself.”
“Listen, I know I’m not perfect, either. I’m not even the best she could have, if she could just see her own worth. But she wanted me. She wants me, still. And she can have me.” Windblade looks over the edge of the rooftop, down at the busy streets below. “I’ll be hers, soon as I can save her from all of this. And then, she’ll be mine. And then, I’ll do whatever I can to make her happy, in all the ways you can’t.”
The Captain swallows thickly.
The Cityspeaker finally looks up at him, her expression soft but serious. “I’ll be good to her, Starscream, I promise you that.”
“She is… my favourite, you know. Even after all she has done to hurt me, she remains my favourite Seeker. This is not easy for me.”
“Like it or not, I’m taking her, if she lets me. I don’t plan to give up my home on Cybertron, and I don’t intend to separate her from the rest of her Seekers either, so you won’t really lose her, unless you force it. It’d be best for everyone involved if you’d just give her to me. I’ll find her eventually, anyway, and no Decepticons will stop me.”
Starscream sniffles, retrieves a silken textile from his kit and delicately dabs at his face plate.
Windblade stops talking and just watches him be so blatantly vulnerable before her, pondering if she ought to offer some sort of comfort. Would a hug be weird? Yes, definitely weird.
“Tell me, Cityspeaker.”
“Ask me, Captain.”
“Are you in love with her, or is this obsession of yours lustful?”
“Bit of both.”
“And so, it is Slipstream I pity most.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I can already sense a calamity coming, when your passion for her, her fear of you, will be the undoing.”
“That’s your opinion. You don’t know her like I do.”
“Ha! I’ve known her my entire life! To the Pits, with you both,” Starscream concludes finally, returning the expensive textile to his kit. “Idiots.”
“I’m disappointed.” Windblade deflates, shaking her helm with a sigh. “And here I thought I might finally get through to you, that I could convince you to do the right thing. But you just can’t help yourself.”
“At the end of it all, you turned her against me and now she’s gone and it’s all your fault that it hurts me so. You’ve doomed her and I hate you for it.”
“You forced her to make that choice,” murmurs the Cityspeaker with great sadness.
“I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.”
“She wept for you. She beat herself up so badly. She didn’t want this. None of this is her fault. And it’s hardly mine.”
“Liar! Seductress!”
“You’re just… lapsing right back into it, aren’t you! Soon as the light meets your optics, it goes out again, replaced with darkness!”
“Bah! Utter nonsense.”
“You don’t even realise how awful you are, to your own Seekers!”
“I will restore my Seekers!”
“You’ll make soldiers out of them! Mass-produced to kill and die! You just expect obedience and loyalty because you’re their Captain, but you do nothing to earn their devotion, or validate your station among the greater community. You’re a bully and a fraud, Starscream.”
“Silence, Windblade! Or I may yet wrench out your glossa and silence you myself!”
“Give it a try. But you need to know, you’re denying her a shot at happiness, after she’s been depressed for so damn long. Selfishness incarnate.”
Starscream bristles in his fury, growing very stiff and upright, before something inside of him suddenly snaps. Then he sags upon his pedes, wings dropping at his back, bowing his helm upon his neck.
Windblade is ready for a fight, yet she feels a surge of pity for him, all over again.
“My Seekers love me.”
“Of course they do.”
“They are mine. Jetfire entrusted their care, to me, before he left us. It was such an honour to be chosen and appointed, by such a strong, beautiful mech. He held me close and told me he was proud.”
“Then he must’ve seen the good in you, back then. Maybe that good is still in there. You have the power to help them, Starscream. You can still make this better. I know there’s more you could do to promote a little healing, a little reconciliation.”
“I do miss her, you know. I have lain awake at night, tempted to call for her. Primus knows the others would benefit from her maternal responsibility. I can command them, but… I cannot console them.”
The Cityspeaker awkwardly relents her righteous rage for at least the moment, laying a servo tentatively upon the Captain’s pauldron. “So call her, and bring her back, then let me have her.”
“No.”
“Let her be with me.”
“Never.”
“I’m not a threat to your family, or your station. I just want her.”
“You are a threat. You bring discord and fragmentation and ruin.”
“Then we just need to talk about boundaries.”
“You represent disorder.”
“I’m not giving up on her. Not for you or for the Seekers or for anyone, or anything.”
“Stubborn wretch.”
“Yup. When I set my mind to something, or someone, I’m almost unstoppable.”
“I hope my senses are deceiving me. I hope she never earns your ire.”
“I’d never hurt her.”
“I gave her the opportunity to return to me, already,” Starscream says very softly, very sadly. “And you know what she did? She chose someone else, again. But not you, oh no, she somehow chose worse.”
Windblade offers a light little pat on that pauldron, meditating on these words, feeling her digestive tank churn uncomfortably.
“She defied me, denied me, destroyed me… twice. Another femme. She forsook me for another fragging femme! Isn’t that just so funny, so humiliating? And it gets better, for the worse. She chose…” A choked laugh. “Shadow Striker.”
The Cityspeaker exhales from her vents.
“That awful femme has seduced my idiot Seeker, too.” The Captain scowls, shaking his helm. “How? How?! Were I a femme, would I truly have Slipstream’s devotion as mine?”
“I’m sure it’s not like that.”
“Perhaps it is.” Sensing an opportunity to rise again above someone else, Starscream straightens himself smoothly, smug once more. “Perhaps you’re not as unique as you’d imagined. I suspect Shadow Striker will play with her prey, and Slipstream stands no chance.”
“I’m not going to get jealous, if that’s what you’re hoping for,” says Windblade with something sharp in the velvet of her gentle undertone. “I don’t keep her to myself. I never intended to. I have my lovers. If she finds comfort in another, then I–”
“Comfort?! This is Shadow Striker we’re talking about! Do you actually know who that is?” The Captain scoffs, throwing up his servos. “Big, mean, scary, crude, absolutely wretched company, that surly old femme, your typical gun-for-hire type, a mercenary with a scope for an optic, strangled Acid Storm, another of my Seekers! And Slipstream defended her!”
“I’ve met her, yes.” Windblade rubs her neck. “Bee took a real shine to her. I’m sorry to hear about Acid Storm. That's truly awful.”
“Surely, you do not desire to imagine Slipstream, almost harmless as she is, finding comfort in that savage old glitch Shadow Striker, of all people! She’ll chew her up and spit her out! Imagine what happened to Acid Storm, happening to her!”
The Cityspeaker does imagine it. Large, dark servos, crushing the Seeker’s handsome throat.
“Ah-ha! I see the horror as it dawns upon you! It is yours!”
“You’re the one forcing them together.”
Starscream recoils, cringing.
“Whatever Shadow Striker does to Slipstream, is your doing, too.” Windblade folds her arms. “And believe me, if she lays a single digit on her, I’ll be the one to avenge and destroy. You’re too weak to do what’s right.”
“It is her punishment! It must be done!”
“She didn’t mean to hurt you. You must know that.”
“I do know you drove her to it! I’m going to ensure your life becomes very difficult from here on out, Cityspeaker. Mark my words! After your little confession of guilt, you can forget applying to join my Seekers, or the Decepticons as a whole. We are decidedly at odds, now. This is personal.”
“Fine by me, Captain.”
Starscream steps back, huffing. “This is all too much! I want a drink.”
“I’m assuming you don’t carry a little cask of poison on you.” Windblade pretends she is not genuinely terrified for Slipstream’s safety. “So I’ll join you.”
With a resentful glare that is entirely mutual, the fliers take off.
“What do you think?” Clobber is busy with the Decepticon propaganda, comparing it to the High Council propaganda, frowning.
“The Decepticons might be kinda scary, but they do look more like us,” Lockdown replies thoughtfully, cuddled up against her side. “Like Dead End said. Hard-working people, living hard lives. If you just call them Ascenticons, they don’t seem so bad.”
“They’re mad for a reason. We’re sometimes mad, too. Aren’t we?”
“I mean, maybe? I do wish I got paid enough to, like, live. Especially since the job’s so dangerous.”
“Think we should give this a go?”
“I will, if you will.”
A single optic swivels over. “Together.”
A scarred smile spreads. “Yeah.”
“How’d you two meet?”
Windblade sets her cup down, peering at Starscream seated elegantly opposite.
“It’s a fair question.” He quirks a sharp optic ridge. “I’m vaguely curious.”
“She never mentioned me to you?”
“Not even once.”
The Cityspeaker reminds herself not to take that to Spark.
“But don’t feel too bad.”
“Trust me, I don’t.” She tells herself this, as much as she tells him.
“That strange femme. She’s never told me much of anything to do with her personal life, in all our years together.”
“Maybe that’s because you don’t come across as all that interested.”
“But enough about me.” The Captain drums his digits over the counter. “I asked you a question.”
“I met her right over there, at the bar.”
“Really? Hardly a romantic start.”
“If you’d actually give it a try, you’ll realise Mac’s is a fun hangout. And great spot to cruise for femmes.” Windblade has the gall to wink.
“I’ll take your word for it,” Starscream mutters back, sneering at the various fixtures. “This place is a little too modest for my high tastes. Anyway, do go on with the story.”
“Not much to tell. She looked down, so I bought her a drink and we got to talking. Flirted a bit. Bee found us together and grabbed us a booth. We just… clicked, I guess. With a little effort. She was a bit afraid of me back then, like I said. She still is. But we worked on that, together. We'll keep working on it.”
“It bothers Nova Storm a bit. The fear thing.”
“I’m surprised you can make such a private observation,” Windblade mutters, perhaps a bit glitchily. “Seems a little intimate, for you.”
“Despite what you might think about me as a person, and as their Captain,” Starscream says softly, astonishingly softly, “I am not entirely detached from their inner workings. Their lives are mine. I do care about them. Truly, I do.”
“You’re just really bad at showing it.”
“Still, I am not without any feelings.”
“Then maybe you should learn healthy ways to express them,” suggests the Cityspeaker diplomatically.
“I am not going to partake in their idiotic cuddle piles and ridiculous Cube games,” drawls the Captain.
“You could start by talking nicely to them. Getting to know them better, without making it about yourself.”
“I am fascinating. My Seekers, however, have the dullest conversations imaginable.”
“Have you even tried to engage with them?”
“I… suppose I could do more. I have no interest in going out with them, though. Ugh. They can be so unruly and it’s hardly fun if I’ve got to keep them in line. I used to just fob that responsibility off to Slipstream, even before I granted her the temporary entitlement as acting Captain in my stead.”
Windblade leans forward, propping up her elbows and gazing at Starscream.
“And now, my Slipstream is no longer present to take care of them, in the ways that do not come naturally to me.” The Captain sighs. “Megatron has advised that I should relent, forgive her, and take her back. You'd be glad of it, too. And I am tempted. But no, I cannot do that. Not yet. If ever.”
"Wouldn't having her home make things whole again?"
"But it is not the same! It cannot be. It hurts me so, to recall the betrayal. Because of you.”
“It’s not treachery. It’s love.”
“So she said. You would say that, too. It’s your fault this happened. You must justify yourself.”
The Cityspeaker rolls her optics, resting her chin atop her joined servos.
“And believe it or not, there are others’ feelings to consider, beyond my own.”
“Wow. You don’t say.”
“My Seekers are confused, hurt, and frustrated. Skywarp does not seem bothered, but of course she isn’t, she’s never met Slipstream personally. A data transfer of the idea of someone, does not replace the very person. No better than recalling recycled memories, extracted from the collective consciousness. But Thrust has been even more bitter than usual, Thundercracker is so very depressed, and Nova Storm… I’m surprised, actually, but I think she misses Slipstream the most. Their tensions aside, they were very affectionate. Acid Storm is gone and kept busy, but Shockwave informs me they are flourishing under his tutelage, for which I am glad. Our numbers shall soon grow exponentially. Skywarp is just the start.”
“Does Slipstream have a favourite Seeker?” Windblade asks with something soft in her optics, despite looking at Starscream.
“Acid Storm,” Starscream replies readily. “They always talked. Spent many recharge cycles alone, together. Slipstream was there to offer medical attention and cautionary reprimands whenever one of Acid Storm’s experiments went disastrously awry.”
The Cityspeaker nods gently.
The Captain chuckles at a memory.
“I’d like to get to know all your Seekers better. Including this Skywarp you speak of.”
“I do not intend to let you anywhere near them. I shall arrange it so you never see her again, either.”
Windblade's optics flare up.
Starscream feels a chill.
"I see."
"Good, I'm glad I've made myself clear."
People are too tired or otherwise preoccupied to care, coming over to Maccadam's place for a drink and maybe a good time. They barely notice this exchange, even though Starscream’s face plate has been in the news alongside Megatron’s, and Windblade is a very attractive femme with very arresting features whose unaffiliated frame and capacity for surprising stealth render her allegiance generally unknown, presumed neutral, although she looks exotic.
“I’d suggest you focus your attention on keeping that useless High Council in check, and leave Slipstream to Shadow Striker,” the Captain drawls, unable to resist that cutting jab at the Cityspeaker's expense.
Windblade seizes Starscream by his servo.
He gawks. “Um, excuse me!”
The Cityspeaker finds the Captain’s thumb joint, firmly squeezing into the sensitive gap with her slender digits.
He gasps at the astonishing agony as tender wires are crushed against metallic edges that would normally not be harmful. He tries to yank back his arm, which only makes it hurt worse as she pins him to the table with a stabbing downwards motion. He yelps, swallowed by the general commotion.
“Tell me where Slipstream is being kept. Now.”
“But Ariel’s negotiations with Megatron–”
“Can carry on, once I’ve torn your comm link out.”
“You animal! Release me this instant!”
“I’ve tried to show you compassion, I’ve asked you to set her free, and you were warned, yet you goad me. After all the pain you’ve caused, this is nothing to me.”
To a passing glance, it would seem like Windblade is merely holding Starscream’s servo, murmuring softly to him with a most intense look about herself as he nervously fidgets in his seat, grimacing.
Maccadam, however, bears the greater witness. He hurries to conclude business with a regular who is drunkenly sobbing over the bar about his beloved Conjunx wanting an annulment of their life-bond, even if it is futile. Fate is frequently cruel along the way to earning one’s happy ending.
“Where. Is. She.”
“I’ll strike you!”
“You already tried that once, today.”
Starscream claws at Windblade’s slender digits, and so she simply disables his other servo just as swiftly and precisely, doubling his discomfort.
“Answer me.”
“What the frag do they teach you Cityspeakers over on Caminus, anyway! Torture techniques! Gaah! Let me go, you beast!”
“Where are you hiding her from me, Starscream?”
“That is privileged information! You force me, Windblade!”
With a distracted pat of consolation to the miserable drunkard’s bent back plates, Maccadam squeezes out from behind the bar moments too late.
Windblade’s vision fills with static as she registers the heeled kick under the counter, delivered straight to her codpiece. The pain is unimaginable. She wants to eject the contents of her digestive tank straight back into her cup. She sits reeling, deaf and blind.
Starscream is promptly released, cupping his servos to his bosom with a hiss. “Behave like a brute, be treated accordingly!”
“What is my one rule?” demands Maccadam, looming over their booth.
“Oh, I was just leaving.” The Captain rises gracefully, downing his drink.
The Cityspeaker imagines she is about to go into a brief rest mode whilst her sensory network reboots to compile a thorough damage report unimpeded by other system processes, yet she remains awfully conscious. Did he leave a dent? She dumbly reaches below, digits probing between her thighs, and feels the panels shift sickeningly partially out of place, buckled and loosened. Oh, no.
“You strike me as a little too forceful for Slipstream to tolerate, when the allure of your beauty, the thrill of your attention, eventually wear off,” Starscream informs Windblade as Maccadam points at the door, drawing a few stares from other patrons. “Then all that will be left, is force. Frankly, you’re no better than Shadow Striker.”
“Leave.”
“Yes, I’m getting to that, bartender.”
Windblade reels, flopping back in her seat, panting from her vents, slick with perspired coolant and yet she feels so very cold. Her optics roll, gazing confusedly up at Maccadam, who grimaces, and Starscream, who smirks.
“You will regret this,” comes a raspy purr amidst the ambient chatter and the blaring holoscreens. “Your actions today were beyond stupid. Others shall pay on your behalf.” With that said, the Captain confidently strides out, leaving the Cityspeaker to collect herself, failing.
“Shall I call someone?” murmurs Maccadam.
Windblade orders another drink, and asks him to bring her an icepack. She cannot face her friends, right now. She cannot face Ariel. This lack of courage is mortifying.
Kneeling, Soundwave holds out a servo to the stray, a sleek dark feline that noses about the tresh in search of sustenance, humming warily, optics malevolent yet curious, approaching on silent paws with sheathed claws. He has always had a special way with creatures. "Hello," he says, melodic, and judging by the answering meow that morphs into a hiss, he is understood.
“Star, we have not yet finished.”
“Sorry, my darling. The reunion didn’t go so well.”
“Where’s Windblade?”
“Your bodyguard’s over at the old oil house. That’s where we parted ways.”
Ariel pushes back her chair and rises promptly.
“Wait,” Megatron implores her, rising to take her servo, “we have so much more to discuss.”
“Something’s not right.”
“Star, confirm for us the Cityspeaker’s condition. Is she… indisposed?”
“Not with drink, as far as I could tell, but yes,” Starscream replies slyly, inspecting his digits, in particular his aching thumbs. “I’d imagine so.”
Ariel moves aggressively toward him, only to be held back by Megatron.
“Star. What do you mean?”
“She got a little… touchy. I don’t appreciate that.”
Before Megatron can enquire further, Ariel pries herself free.
Starscream rather cleverly slips behind his much more imposing boyfriend, shielded from the huge femme’s physical wrath.
Ariel, however, marches for the door.
“Wait! Old friend, do not leave me yet!”
She pauses, pauldrons squared, fists at her sides.
“I have so much more to say, so much more to hear from you.”
“It’s gonna have to wait. I need to make sure Windblade’s okay. She’s not reported in, and that’s not like her.”
Starscream almost says something snide, but Megatron silences him with a look.
“We’ll talk again. Promise me that, old friend. Please. Meet with me again.”
Ariel looks back at Megatron, nodding once.
“Thank you. Go well. Do not worry, my Decepticons will not harm you. Give my fond regards to Orion. Say hello to Sentinel and Alpha Trion, for me.”
“Sure thing. I love you, Megs.” With that said, Ariel strides out, ignoring the leering Decepticon guards, leaving the coupled mechs to themselves.
“Star,” Megatron rumbles lowly, incredibly patient, “what happened with the Cityspeaker.” It is not a question.
“I was merely defending myself!” Starscream sighs, presenting his servos. “She hurt me, my love, look. My beautiful thumbs.”
The old gladiator gently takes the Captain’s servos, scowling ominously. “Unacceptable.”
“That’s what I said. There will be consequences, I told her so.”
“Indeed.” Huge, soft kisses are deposited on the flushed metal, visibly sore. “I will have her helm for this."
"I expect nothing less as recompense!"
"Forgive me. I did not anticipate that you would come to harm. I am sorry, Star.”
“Oh, don’t you worry about me, my dear, I put that Cityspeaker in her place.”
Sitting up unassisted, chassis fully reconstructed and Energon levels restored, Prowl squeezes Strongarm’s servo, smiling at her.
Ariel finds Windblade, humiliated and hurting and horrified, nursing another drink, a little drunk, overseen by the very concerned and apologetic Maccadam.
When a large servo touches a slender pauldron, a sob comes out.
“Windblade.”
“Ariel. I’m so sorry.”
“What happened?”
“I failed. That’s what happened. I fragged up.”
“Hey. C'mon, now. That can’t be true.”
“I failed you. I failed her. I failed my friends. I failed the High Council. I’ve failed everyone. Even myself.”
“Don’t talk like that. It’s not helping anyone.”
The Cityspeaker does not object to being scooped into a hug, but yelps when she is shifted a little too much upon her seat.
The explorer quickly lets go, recoiling. “Did he hurt you?” Scowling.
“My panels.”
“Your panels? No. You mean–”
“Yeah. They’re loose. He dislodged them.”
Ariel’s optics ignite.
"He kicked me. Got me in my panels. Then he left. Now, you're here. And I'm here."
She is not especially relieved. “You’re seeing Ratchet. Okay. Can you do that?”
“I'll have to, huh. You might need to carry me, though. I dunno if I’m gonna walk, or fly.”
“Come.”
"I'm sorry."
"Hush."
Surrounded by stares of intrigue rather than worry, the Cityspeaker is glad for the general lack of concern for her well-being by the sickened society as a whole as she humbly and drunkenly allows herself to be gingerly pulled out of the booth and lifted up, held securely in the explorer’s large, warm arms, clutching an ice pack to the codpiece.
Ariel nods to Maccadam, then strides out quickly, carrying Windblade brusquely, yet gently, Decepticons and unmarked neutrals scattering to get out of the way.
“Am I heavy?”
“No.”
“Are you mad at me?”
“No.”
“I feel heavy, to me. I’m mad, at me.”
“You’re in no state to take that to Spark. Primus. Can’t believe he plied you with fraggin’ drink, in this state. Irresponsible. Should know better.”
“It's not Mac's fault. He didn’t want to. I told him to. Helped dull the pain a little. Still hurts a lot.” The Cityspeaker lifts the ice pack, grimacing at the damage. "This is fixable. Right?"
The older femme hisses sharply, glancing at Windblade’s mangled modesty panels. "Right. Of course. Don't worry about it." It looks like something unforgivable. Ariel cannot look for long.
Notes:
Nova Storm was doing a Lady Macbeth impression, courtesy of Shakespeare's play, Macbeth. Blame Thundercracker.
Chapter 25: Wound
Summary:
Ariel agrees to allow the others access to her memory files, permitting them to see and hear the recollected meeting with Megatron. Orion Pax challenges the ethics of the cortical psychic patch but Sentinel overrules this protest in the name of the greater good, intending to satisfy his own jealous curiosity. The memory file is accessed and Ariel slumbers through a dream about Megatron justifying his conquest of Cybertron, describing how his old friends and lovers and the system alike have all hurt him and failed him and driven him to do it. When he invites her to join him, she is finally afraid of him, afraid for him. in the wake of what Starscream did, Bumblebee struggles to grapple with the notion that his indomitable best friend is not indestructible after all. Windblade too comes to this realisation about herself, dishonoured by her own foolishness and failure, until Ariel offers an alternative. Flamewar and Thunderblast come to terms with each other.
Notes:
I do apologise for the delay, life is very distracting at the moment. Thank you for your patience and your readership, please enjoy!
Chapter Text
“Primus’ beard!” Ariel exclaims with her usual gruff candidness but none of her macho bravado, optics widening upon the sinister set of forceps. “It's too damn early. Planning on extracting my brain module whole, or in pieces?”
Orion, Sentinel and Alpha Trion all look appropriately horrified. They are familiar with the practice of the cortical psychic patch, but the mechs do not recall such a tool being used as an instrument of data retrieval – ominously snipping at the air, the forceps rather resemble some sort of torture device, if not a crude surgical tool.
“Oops! Sorry, not these! I don’t even know why they’re here!” Wheeljack grins in a way that is intended to be reassuring as he quickly tosses the forceps aside, before retrieving the actual intended item from his various odds and ends in his cluttered workshop. “Ah-ha! This is what we need!” Thusly he presents a rather hefty cable bearing large connective ports, one on each end.
There is a collective sigh of relief. The cable is a bit less awful than the forceps.
“Just in case anybody’s unsure, lemme tell ya how it works! In summary, this nifty doohickey plugs into you, Ariel,” says Wheeljack cheerily as he indicates one end of the cable, “and then it plugs into my computer like so,” he indicates the other end, “and with some fiddlin’ on the monitor, hey presto, you’ve got a cortical psychic patch with high definition imagery and pristine sound quality! This’ll facilitate the connection between your brain module and the interface on my end, which’ll allow us to review your memory files like we’re watchin’ a movie! It’s pretty cool, huh? I love technology!”
“Uh. Sure. A movie. Okay.”
“Soundin’ a bit doubtful. First time jitters?”
“Just… go easy on me, yeah?”
“Oh, don’tcha worry! It’s safe! Mostly.”
“Mostly?”
“Mostly.”
“It is an invasive process.” Orion finds Ariel’s servo, squeezing her digits. “One I have never approved of. If you do not wish to undergo this procedure, old friend, please do not feel forced.”
“It’s fine.” She sighs from within her seat, squeezing his digits in return whilst reaching behind herself with her free servo to manually release the seal at the back of her neck, opening the appropriate connective port just below her helm. “I’m ready. Hopefully.”
“Alrighty! Now, this might sting a bit as it goes in.”
“Ow!”
“Sorry!”
Alpha Trion grimaces softly. “We can resort to using our words, Ariel. You do not have to grant us access to your mind and memories.”
“I’ve been through worse, probably. Not like I’ve got much worth hiding.” She shrugs her broad pauldrons, gripping her shapely thigh anxiously, squeezing Orion’s digits a little tighter. “He's alive in my memories. This’ll get you closer to Megatron than anything I could say with my words."
"If you are certain."
"I am. Go ahead, Wheeljack.”
“Okie-dokie!”
“I’ve undergone the procedure myself.” Sentinel’s optics follow that insidious cable, currently plugged into his ex, Wheeljack poised to plug the other end into the terminal itself. “You’ll be fine. We’re right here if you need any intervention. You’re quite safe. We’ll be respectful when reviewing your data.”
Ariel nods stiffly, moments before Wheeljack fully connects her to his terminal. Her optics widen and she lets out a sound akin to a hiss, fuzzy and faintly echoing.
“I’m proud of you, Ariel,” Sentinel manages feebly, flushed.
Orion softens at those words, Alpha Trion stroking his beard with a quiet sigh.
Ariel’s gaze flickers rapidly from side to side, as if she is speedily reading a volume of text.
“Alrighty, then.” Wheeljack fiddles at the interface, the holoscreen flickering to life with shimmering static yet to take definitive likeness to anything recognisable. “You’ll be out any sec–”
She goes entirely slack, flopping forward onto her own lap and proceeding to slide out of her seat due to her considerable weight and momentum, collapsing into a heap upon her knees, lurching into Orion's arms as he stoops to catch her.
“You are alright, old friend. I have you.”
"Oh, Ariel."
She drools, inert.
“Yeah, that happens sometimes,” supplies Wheeljack unhelpfully, dragging a thumb across his immaculately sculpted moustache. “Probably shoulda warned her, first. My bad.”
“Let’s get this over with quickly,” intones Sentinel, grimacing.
“Agreed,” concurs Alpha Trion, who seems to grow more ancient by the day.
“Alrighty.” Wheeljack proceeds to tune in on memory files, browsing through dates and timestamps to narrow down his search, fast-forwarding through whatever he assumes would be irrelevant. Images flicker rapidly on-screen, currently muted. Familiar faces and places, Deceptibrands.
“I am unhappy with this,” Orion says warily, gazing upon Ariel’s slumped, seemingly lifeless body, curled against his bosom. “She has endured such invasion of her privacy, and now we are the invaders.”
“I don’t like it either, but she consented to it,” answers Sentinel grimly, optics on the monitor. “We need to know what was discussed, and the data retrieval shall make sure nothing is left out of the retelling. It will be more accurate than an interrogation.”
“An interrogation.”
“Do not start. You know what I meant.”
“I trust her to tell us all we need to know. I trust her to be honest. We do not have to do this, as wise Alpha Trion has said.”
“It is already being done. We won’t review more than is necessary, and if we should see something we shouldn’t, we will remain silent for her sake and pretend we saw nothing of the sort.”
“That is awful.”
“It is, yes. Now silence yourself. I believe Wheeljack has found something.”
A turn of the dial slows it all down, the image sharpening with focus, and finally there are voices emanating from an accessed memory.
“Ariel!” Megatron approaches her on eager strides with open arms, smiling radiantly. “Welcome home!”
She stifles a sob.
Demolishor attempts to sit up, and fails. “Oh, frag it.” He tries again. And again.
“Can I help?” Slipstream enquires somewhat stiffly, on account of moving her intake as little as possible as she smears the colour of her preference upon puckered dermas, refreshing her makeup with the help of a holomirror mounted to the wall. She looks fabulous, utterly kissable, yet for all the allure, her optics are sympathetic, glancing aside at him, distracted. She tries not to patronise the guy, a senior combat frame and veteran and valued member of this team, but the stubborn flailing is very sad.
“Hold on, I goddit, lemme try one more time,” he rumbles, after having tried several times already to heft himself off the recharge slab that barely holds him. His crucial weakness is to be overbalanced and ultimately overturned, because he simply cannot reliably recover quickly in such a position, hence why subsequent models would be designed with greater elegance before being banned and discontinued by the paranoid Senate altogether. “Almost goddit.”
She grimaces softly, her reflection grimacing back.
“Grrrmph. Ridiculous. C’mon.” His voice is distorted by internal damage, repeated repairs, and the effort of exerting himself. He is a huge, heavy, and awkwardly shaped mech, in addition to being quite ancient, and although he remains strong, lethal, and capable of incredible endurance as a tank should be, sometimes his mobility suffers for it.
She waits for his permission, replacing the cap on the little tube of ink.
“Yeah. It’s looking like one of those days, again. I’mma need the help. Sorry.”
“That’s okay.”
“But please finish what you’re doing, first. I can wait. Not going anywhere, anyway, right? Hahaha!”
“I’m already done,” she declares huskily after a brief inspection of her work, returning the tube of dark, glossy dye to her kit. Abandoning her own reflection as she turns away from the holomirror, she moves to assist her comrade.
“I’m gonna start sleeping upright or something.”
“You’ll end up with Shadow Striker’s backache. Here.” The Seeker offers both her servos to clasp onto one of the tank’s and pulls, heaving considerably. He is not intending to make this difficult. His hollow digits, even with the additional thumbs, are not easy to grasp onto. She successfully helps him get seated upon his aft, before guiding his legs, bearing worn treads, over the edge of the cramped berth in the cramped room they share, creaking under his heft, the sound of strain echoing against the walls.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
The Decepticons allow for a pause to meditate on their lives.
“Gonna go grease up my joints. I think I need it.”
"You did feel a little stiff. Would you, um…?” She flushes, stood beside him, still seated. There is no way to ask this without it being deeply intimate. “Would you like some assistance with that, too?” It helps that she prefers femmes, and he prefers mechs, and they find some solidarity in each other.
“C’mon, no need to be a hero,” he grumbles with a warbling laugh, then a cough. “You’ve done enough. I won’t subject you to that.”
“I don’t mind. If you need me to get into spots you can’t reach, I’ll do it. It’s no trouble.”
“You’re a good one. Seriously, though, I can manage.”
“If you’re sure.”
“Yup. I’ll be okay.” Demolishor’s mismatched optics are soft and fond, warmed with gratitude. “Also, you look really nice.”
“Thank you!”
“You’re welcome!”
Slipstream positively glows at the sincere compliment.
Windblade and Starscream step out the meeting room, the automated doors sealing in their wake, locking with a confirmatory beep.
Ariel lets out air in a sigh from her vents, then returns to Megatron, seated at the table opposite.
“Look at you,” he purrs in his soft, gravelly voice, capable of tremendous volume if he so wishes. “Look at you!” He speaks in distant, rolling thunder storms. “How have you not aged a day?” His Spark throbs like a war drum, in tandem too with the pounding of his tired old fuel pump, with such potency that she can see the throbbing in his primary fuel lines.
“You look good yourself, Megs.”
"You are too kind, my dear. I am just as you left me."
“I doubt I’ve changed all that much, really. Got a tattoo, and more scars.”
“I would map out every mark and commit the grand array of your constellations to my core memory, all over again."
In another place and time, Sentinel sneers his disdain and Orion clenches his fists.
"It is so good to see you, to hear you, to touch you…”
This memory of Ariel allows Megatron to take her servo, laid out on the table between them. She is no dainty, petite femme, but he is huge, bigger than even Orion, more akin to Sentinel in his great gleaming stature.
“To smell you. Your scent, however… I do note a certain… difference.” Megatron taps his chin whilst turning her servo over within his own and tracing the scuffed paint of her palm, his enstrils flared, optics narrowed. “It is difficult to explain. Spiciness, perhaps. And yet you smell strangely sweet, also. It is not unpleasant, only your scent does not quite resemble any spice or sweetener I know.”
“That would be on account of my research. Organics are pungent creatures, filled with hot fluids, covered in oily secretions, exhaling recycled gasses–”
Sentinel seems suddenly nauseous, wiping his brow as Orion, Alpha Trion and Wheeljack observe the memory playback without the same level of disgust for organic alien life.
“You’re picking up on pheromones and trying to process the feedback into something you can comprehend, but organic life doesn’t operate on quite the same wavelength as we do.” Ariel chuckles a little awkwardly, finding Megatron’s inner wrist and caressing the dented metal protecting his fuel lines. “I spend so much time with my collection that it’s kinda become a part of me. It’s seeped into my shell and I can’t scrub the stink off. Sorry. I think it's a side-effect of my modified digestive subsystems.”
"Modified digestive subsystems?"
"I can consume organic matter for fuel and incorporate certain principles of said matter into my body, allowing for alteration of my constitution. I liken it to evolution. What I consume, changes me. When I need a cleanser, I go back to plain ol' Energon."
"That is remarkable!"
"So long as I don't get too curious and take it too far. I'm not sure what the limits are yet, but I hypothesise that the adaptations would be irreversible. I wouldn't want to overly disfigure myself. Thus far, though, it's allowed for protracted stays for research upon alien worlds. Y'know, since I won't starve and I can adapt to the weather and environmental extremes as native organics do."
"Ariel, you never cease to amaze me."
"Thanks, Megs. But never mind all that. I’d really like to talk about what’s happening here, on Cybertron.”
“Humour me for just a moment more, please, old friend. I am so curious and you are uniquely gifted to satiate at least some of my gnawing hunger to know more.”
She gazes at him, gazing at her. She has always appreciated his desire to learn, and he realises it. “Okay. Go on, then.”
“The organic aliens. Are they ever dangerous? Have any of them engaged you in battle? I see your scars, signs of old wounds I do not recognise.”
“Most of the time, no. Organics are usually fragile and fearful. Sometimes they’re curious, sometimes they’re territorial, and sometimes they’re hungry. Those organics that feed off of Energon can sense it, even my inner Energon. Raw crystals and unrefined liquid sources fuel a number of alien worlds just like Cybertron and the colonies.” She pauses briefly, then murmurs, “Some of the organic lifeforms I’ve encountered tried to establish communication with me. Signs drawn on stone, gestures and calls. I’ve been offered gifts.”
“That is… incredible.”
“Yes. It is.”
“Then why do you seem unhappy about it?”
“I try to avoid contact with anything too close to being outright sentient. Don’t wanna start a mythology of my own godhood among some burgeoning civilisation somewhere long after I’ve gone, but the stories of my passage keep getting told.”
“Why not encourage it? That sounds like fun. A legacy!”
“I’d be a false deity, Megs.”
“You would inspire and fear, and awe, and hope.”
“I dunno about that. The notion of some poor creature crying out to me for food, or shelter, or salvation, and I can’t hear their prayers, and I don’t answer with miracles, and yet my will is enforced by whatever little cult claims to know what my will even is…” She grimaces, shaking her helm. “I’ve slain beasts for sustenance and for sport. I’ve been hunted, stalked, ambushed, swallowed whole on three separate occasions, cut my way out of guts on two of those occasions and managed to trigger the expulsion reflex the third time by punching the beast into a spasm from the inside, and yet…”
“…And yet?” he echoes softly.
“And yet, what stirrs me the most, is the prospect that I might touch a mind someday with the wonder of my existence, and twist that mind into worship once I’m gone.”
“I am so proud of you, Ariel.”
“Don’t be, Megs. It’s hardly a noble thing to admit it. I’ve thought about it.”
“Here you are, alive and intact, returned to me after conquering uncharted worlds and all their environmental hazards in pursuit of knowledge so few researchers would dare to chase for themselves because of stuffy academic sentiments so averse to the serious study of organics, a product of sheer cowardice and narrow minds. You have come home to bless us with all you have learned.”
“I was hoping to get my findings officially published, yeah. Thought I’d go through a university, I’m hoping they’ll be open-minded about it.”
“You are here, and you would share all you have gained for yourself, if only others would give you the opportunity to speak and be heard. I know how that feels, old friend. You strive for your Spark to be known, and that is something that makes me very proud.”
“I’m not getting any younger. Felt like it was time.”
“Do you intend to retire, then? Shall you stay?”
“No,” she answers readily. “Not yet. But just in case, I want to get my research out there. I’ve had enough close calls.”
“Very wise.”
Just when Sentinel is about to tell Wheeljack to fast-forward the memory playback again, Ariel interjects.
“Megs, I wanna talk about you, now.”
“You already know me so well.”
“And all this Decepticon stuff? Me, opposing you within the High Council? Is this really where our late night talks all those millions of years ago have led us now?”
“You are not my enemy, old friend.”
“Of course not. Megs, I could never be your enemy. You know that.”
“I do.”
“I owe you so much of my happiness.”
“You do.”
“I’m just being pulled in different directions all at once right now and I’m struggling to reconcile all we were, with what we’ve become. I’ve come home to a burning Cybertron.”
His rugged facial rigging buckles down the middle as her vocaliser distorts with feeling.
“We were all friends, once. You, me, Orion, and Sentinel too.”
“I am sorry, that is has come to this.”
“I just… I know you wanna save the world. I know you wanna do what’s best.”
“And you must know, that all I have done,” Megatron says gently, cradling Ariel’s servo in his own, “I did for you, and for everyone who has ever hurt the way you once did when you worked yourself dizzy upon those docks, dripping your sweat at Orion’s side, lugging Sentinel’s cargo as he licked the pedes of his masters for scraps of prestige and authority. I cannot stop now, because I still hurt.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“It is not your doing, old friend. I do not blame you, I will not hold you to account.”
“Megs.”
“Ariel.”
“Are the Decepticons really the right way to do this?”
“Ascenticons, I called my people. We overthrow the oppressors in order to uplift the oppressed, even those who remain unaffiliated. Your fellow High Councillors gave us that other name. That is the great deception, old friend, but I truly hope you and I can come to an understanding and find peace. I do not wish to war with you. I tried it Orion’s way, and he found favour where I cannot.”
“They want me to convince you to stop.”
“You will fail.”
“I gotta try, right? I love you.”
“Not as much as I love you.”
“Then let’s figure this out, find another way. Together.”
“You already know the outcome. I am determined to win, Sentinel is too proud to surrender.”
“If we keep going down this road, Megs, we’re gonna find diverging paths.”
“I want you to share my path. I believe you will make the right choice – choose me.”
“Everybody’s making me choose!” Ariel wrenches her servo away and pushes back her chair, rising to pace. “Frag this!”
Megatron sits back, watching her with suffering, but he contains himself.
“I still felt connected to you when I was worlds away. Now, I’m terrified this whole thing’s gonna tear us apart. People will have died and we probably won’t be friends any more at the end. And I wish I never came back.”
“I am sorry. I cannot relent. Not now, not when my dream is upon us.”
“What about Orion? He’s your guy. Please, Megs, do it for him. He’s always been your guy. You know he can help make Cybertron fair, like you, but it’d be peaceful.”
“It would be a compromise, after a compromise, after a compromise, and so on. The peace he proposes would ensure the established power structures remain empowered. And so I grieve.” A weary sigh. “My Orion has chosen his side. Should he ever change his mind and return to me, I will welcome him. I would take Sentinel as well, the arrogant fool, and I would be honoured to accept Alpha Trion in all his wisdom, but you and I both know they will not forsake the system that empowers them, and disempowered you and I. We are fundamentally still left out, old friend, despite all we have achieved on our own merit.”
“I’m freaking out here, Megs.”
“Do not despair, Ariel. I helped you live out your dream. Please, old friend, won’t you help me live out mine? It may seem an impossible choice, but I implore you, make the only choice that is right. Choose me. Join me. I have a place for you at my side. When my so-called Decepticons have conquered all, I will show the High Council mercy they would withhold from me.”
“Mercy,” Ariel echoes with a chill, sinking into her chair.
“You recall what it was like, when I cultivated your blossoming consciousness as to the unfairness of your own station in life, a life of drudgery assigned to you due to your construction and alt-mode, back when you were a dockworker desperate for a way out. I was your way. I was your escape. I could be, again.”
“How does this end, exactly, Megs?”
Megatron tries to smile, though he seems tearful.
Shadow Striker receives an encrypted message. She accesses it and sits back at her desk, one leg folded over the other, scowl softening into a smile.
It is an image. A selfie, rather, taken at an artful angle by none other than Soundwave. In his lap is a sleek black cybercat, glaring intelligently up at him, ears folded beneath his digits.
She really needed this, she realises with a giggle.
“This just shouldn’t have happened, ever. It was bad enough when he picked on me. It was bad enough when he mocked her for being with me. And then this… happened. I feel sick. I can’t stop trembling.”
Hot Rod rubs Bumblebee’s back plates, the mechs overseeing Windblade as she recovers from the recent surgical procedure, the talented and grouchy old medic Ratchet quite confident that she will fully mend and soon will be allowed to leave the ward to go home, under the supervised care of her loving and loyal friends.
“I’ve never seen her like this before. Hurt. Blaming herself. She’s always been… invincible. I feel so scrappy saying it, and thinking it, because it’s so selfish of me, so unfair.”
“Hey, she’ll be alright.”
“It’s messing me up.”
“Bee, what happened with Starscream won’t change who she is. She’ll always be our badaft. We just gotta be good friends to her. We can do that, yeah?”
“Yeah. You’re right. Of course you’re right. Just… I’m not used to feeling this way. And it’s not about me. I don’t mean to make this a me-thing because it’s not.”
“You’re not wrong to feel the way you do. Feel your feelings. Think your thoughts. You’re processing all this just like the rest of us. We’re friends. We’re here for each other. Nobody’s alone. Safe space, always, no matter what. That’s just how we roll.”
“I love you, Rod.”
“I love you too, Bee.”
Laid out on a sterile slab with a cable embedded in her arm that drip-feeds her a fortified Energon blend from a suspended supply, Windblade is groggy and miserable and a bit intoxicated due to residual numbing agents. Her big blue optics wander, struggling to focus on faces. She occasionally slurs unintentionally funny things and nobody laughs. She does not want to be touched. Whatever occurred between herself and Starscream, she is in no condition to fully disclose, thus they rely on Ariel’s testimony of events as she was able to discern them, but the picture is clearly incomplete.
“All this rage, inside of me. I wanna hurt him back.”
Seated berthside, Chromia leans in and presents her audial before ruby dermas when Windblade tries to tell her something, too soft to be understood.
“When I get my servos on that stuck-up little–”
A large palm settles atop Bumblebee’s helm, intended to soothe the hive of furious, anguished thoughts within.
Stalled before fully articulating that threat, he assumes the servo belongs to Orion and looks up, expecting to find paternal patience gazing down upon him.
Ariel’s expression is soft, yet grim. Clearly, she is not built for comfort and she is not especially charismatic around other people, preferring her own company or the company of organics. She has managed to clumsily endear herself to Windblade, however, and by extension her friends.
Bumblebee sniffles and it melts the old femme’s Spark.
“C’mere.”
He accepts a big, strong hug. His small but bulky frame creaks, fortunately sturdily built.
Still, Ariel does not quite know her own strength. She squeezes until she is lightly prodded to release him, but he remains pressed against her chassis as she loosens her arms, thus she does not entirely let him go.
“Thank you.”
“She’s gonna be okay. You’re gonna be okay.”
“We’re all gonna be okay,” adds Hot Rod in his sweet, reassuring way, stepping into them and turning it into a group hug.
Thus holding both Bumblebee and Hot Rod close to herself and towering over the young mechs, Ariel looks over their helms, elsewhere. A frown deepens within her classically beautiful features.
Orion is stood aside, exchanging low words with Sentinel who manages to keep his voice down in a rare demonstration of discretion, quite aware that any yelling will incur Ratchet’s prompt wrath and an exile from the medical bay.
“Yeah,” Ariel mutters. “We’ll be okay.”
Alpha Trion offers her a silent nod from across the distance, stroking his beard, and Wheeljack holds a datapad as if it is a comfort to him.
She nods back, then turns to the patient in the crowded ward.
Chromia is a protective presence that is physically present but generally quiet, whilst Arcee and Grimlock do most of the talking. They are trying so hard to make Windblade feel better about herself, so as to stop her from saying something guilty or shameful. But they can only do so much.
“It’s my fault.”
Watching through the crystalline viewing port, Ariel reads the words on ruby dermas as Windblade says them.
Bumblebee and Hot Rod are gently let go.
Windblade is not listening to her friends when Ariel steps into the ward, announcing herself with a grunt.
“Hey.”
The Cityspeaker blearily looks up, cringing softly. “Hi.” As if expecting to get into trouble.
Chromia eases back a bit, but does not leave, offering a polite nod of acknowledgement in return.
Arcee and Grimlock exchange a glance, then opt to briefly step out and speak with Bumblebee and Hot Rod, freeing up some space which Ariel fills at Windblade’s berthside opposite Chromia.
“How're you feeling?”
“Awful.”
Ariel sighs quietly. "Yeah. Me, too." Her brain module hurts and the port at the back of her neck feels hot. When Sentinel would not meet her gaze, she did not blame him. After all, she did reassure him, as much as herself, that she has nothing to hide.
“My friends keep telling me I didn’t frag up massively back there,” Windblade mumbles through a fugue of painkilling code, mental stress and emotive misery, her big blue optics downcast and slender arm laid out with a segment of the casing removed to accept nourishment via the embedded cable, exposing her mature protoform and its vibrant network of biolights. “They’re wrong. I did.”
“What’s done is done. There’s no undoing it. Best we can do is work with what we’ve got and figure out a way forward, together.”
“He said he’s gonna make people pay because of me.”
“Starscream’s not gonna do scrap. I’ll leverage Megatron against him if I have to. I’ve still got some sway.”
Chromia can see that Ariel hates to admit it aloud.
“But–”
“Agonising over it won’t solve anything.”
“I know.” Windblade scowls at the ceiling, now. “And it doesn’t even make me feel any better.”
“I’m not here to justify your guilt or shame. I’m not gonna beat you up about it. I don’t want you freaking out and getting scared over whatever the frag may or may not come of this. It’s unproductive and it just makes everybody feel worse. You got that?”
“I wish you would do all those things. People are being kind to me when I don’t deserve it.”
“You know it’s because you are very, very loved. That says something good about you. Don’t forget that.”
Windblade foggily turns to regard Chromia, adorable.
“We do love you.”
“I love you guys too.”
“See?" Ariel prompts gently. "You’ve got your friends, and they’ve got you. That means something.”
“But I’m such an idiot.”
“You’re not an idiot,” Chromia corrects Windblade with such gentleness, it makes Ariel swallow reflexively at the ache in her cables, forcing her to clear her vents. “You’re so smart, and strong. You just don’t believe in yourself right now, but that doesn’t diminish our faith in you.”
The Cityspeaker looks close to tears.
“I’m here just to be here, for you,” Ariel intones gruffly, her smoky undertone especially warm. “Just like your friends. Listen to them, and listen to me. You won’t find any ridicule or accusation here. Your job is to find rest and heal.”
“Can I get a hug, now?”
Thus finally invited to touch, Chromia rises from her chair and leans over the berth to gently encompass Windblade’s reclined form, lifting her up into a cradling embrace, their helms brushing softly together.
“You smell so good. You always smell so good. How do you do it?”
“Hush. That's unimportant right now, my love.”
Ariel gazes down at them in silence for several seconds, then turns away.
“Fine. Keep your secrets.”
“Mmhm.”
“I’ll come visit you again soon,” she intones, gently interjecting before she goes. “If there’s anything I can do to help out, lemme know.”
“Wait.”
Her servo is large and scuffed, the aged living metal callused from labour, a working femme’s touch. She feels a smaller, but strikingly strong servo interweave within her own, effortlessly keeping her here.
“Thank you, High Councillor.”
“Nuh-uh. None of that. Just Ariel, please, like I keep telling everybody. Not Ma'am or Sir or whatever else. I'm just some guy.”
Still bent over the berth and cradling Windblade close, Chromia’s smile of gratitude turns handsomely crooked as she squeezes Ariel’s digits once, then lets her go. “Understood, Ariel.”
“Ariel,” Windblade says within Chromia’s embrace, an echo. "Pretty name. Very feminine."
“Yeah? Well, uh. Thanks."
"Please forgive me for leaving my post, for leaving you." The Cityspeaker shakes her helm slowly. "I’m dishonoured. I don't deserve your pardon, but please, show me this grace.”
“There’s nothing to forgive,” replies Ariel with a backwards look, managing a shy, awkward grin over a pauldron. “C'mon, you oughta know I don’t blame you for anything. Your honour’s still perfectly intact in my mind.”
“You’re too kind. Everybody here is too kind. I want to make things right with you."
"Well, okay, there's something you could do for me."
"Anything."
Chromia feels Windblade subtly shift against her.
“It can wait until you’re healed and feeling up to it,” intones Ariel with a ruggedly easygoing sort of countenance. "I was gonna ask you later on anyway. I’m thinking lessons.”
“What’d you be teaching me?”
“No, you’d be teaching me.”
Chromia looks quite intrigued as Windblade inclines her helm.
“I’m not sure what I could teach you. You've seen and done so much.”
“Wanna teach me how to fight? Fight for real, not drunken brawling or wrestling with hungry organics.”
The Cityspeaker perks groggily. "I can fight. I'm really good at it. Right, Chromia?"
"You are an excellent combatant."
"See?"
“Cool." Ariel sucks in air, lets it out slowly. "Teach me how to defend myself. Then you won’t have to feel so bad about me, and you won’t worry if I’m safe without you around. You can still be my bodyguard if you want to. I kinda find it flattering, to be honest.”
Windblade smiles.
“I’ll ask you again when you’re, uh… less indisposed. Anyway. I’mma go, now. See you later.”
"See you, Ariel," the Cityspeaker says softly, sweetly.
The High Councillor grunts, a gruff and oddly shy sound, then ducks out the door.
Chromia finds some amusement in that hasty exit.
“She’s really nice." Windblade looks up at her fellow Camien. "I like her a lot.”
“Yes. I like her, too.”
“And she’s so big!"
"She is."
"Bigger than you!"
"Indeed."
"Biggest femme I ever saw! Well, no. Clobber is bigger. Big and beautiful. Just how I like 'em."
"Windblade, you need to rest."
"Okay, Chromia. You're right."
“Excuse me, where are you going?”
“Uh, to find some place to sleep, preferably without disturbing anybody else with my snoring. This is to skip the step of having you kick me outta the recharge bay. Thought I’d anticipate the inconvenience and act pre-emptively.”
“Oh, sweetie, I’ve been cruel to you, haven’t I?”
“Meh, maybe. I don’t hold a grudge about it.”
“Poor little thing,” Thunderblast simpers with some genuine sympathy, caressing Flamewar’s scuffed cheek. “How could I turn you away?”
“Pretty easily. And ferociously. You were all, like, rawr, all of a sudden. Scared a little oil outta me the first couple times, but then I got used to it, and now I know better. I’ll spare you this time.”
“I’m such a villain!”
“Hey, a girl needs her beauty sleep, or that’s what you told me.”
“Still! It’s not fair.”
“It’s fine. Me, I can nap anywhere, anytime. Almost, anyway. Like, so long as I’m not gonna get tripped over ’cause I nodded off in the middle of Demolishor’s patrol route like last time. He almost fell right on top of me. Almost died. Didn’t. Bit of a shame, really. Would’ve got to meet our Maker, so I could’ve known for sure if he actually does have a big beard like in those old portraits. Seems unmanageable.”
“All that rambling aside, I feel just awful.”
“Nah. Figure I might break into a locker or find a comfy bend in one of the pipes. No biggie.”
“No, sweetie, I think I’ve figured out the solution.”
Flamewar has to tip her helm back to meet the statuesque Thunderblast’s gaze, downcast golden optics wide and inviting even as twin suns narrow suspiciously upward.
“What’s with that look, sweetie? Don’t you trust me?”
“I do. I trust you to carry me on the mercury.”
“Then why the look?”
“Are you gonna smother me in my sleep ’til I’m quiet?”
“As in, shall I sit this magnificent aft on your face and stifle your snores just so?”
“I wouldn’t complain if that’s how you wanna go about it.”
“Sweetie, you’re my little freak. No matter where life takes you, please stay strange.”
“Uh-huh. So, we doing this or nah?”
The boat is smiling down at the bike with great indulgence.
“Now I really am curious.”
“Come with me,” Thunderblast purrs as she gently yet firmly takes Flamewar’s servo and begins to lead her along. “If this works out well enough, you’ll never again have to leave me to my beauty sleep.”
“That’d be nice.”
“Indeed. And if it works out especially nicely, I’ll never let you leave.”
“Threatening, yet hot. I’m okay with this.”
With a melodic giggle the boat pulls the flushed bike over to the doors, which slide open and grant the femmes access to the recharge station within.
“So, what’s the plan?”
“I got the idea from Slipstream, although she doesn’t realise it.”
The doors slide shut.
Flamewar feels a shiver along the length of her spinal strut as Thunderblast perches prettily upon a recharge slab, still interweaving their digits.
“I figure she’s cured your snoring. Hence why you two enjoy sleeping together, even without getting up to all the kinky mischief as I’d imagined it. Seriously, no fragging?”
“Hold up. Are you gonna offer me a cuddle?”
“Would you like a cuddle? I know I dragged you over here, but I will release you if you refuse.”
“No way. I would love a cuddle, dreamboat.”
“Then come cuddle me.”
Slipstream has no idea of what she has wrought upon them.
Thunderblast reclines with a soft, breathy hum, pulling Flamewar down, down, down.
“Aw, yeah.”
“Comfy?”
“Sinfully so.”
The boat and the bike are interwoven altogether now, their bodies snugly compressed, seemingly inseparable.
“I’m glad we’re doing this, sweetie. I can see why she’s so into it, with you. You are actually very cuddly.”
“I’m apparently built for it. Small, I said. And curvy, she said.”
“She’s right.”
A fiery forearm is caressed beneath slender digits until finding the wrist, coaxing claws over and onto the swell of a hip, brushing shallowly into the gap between glossy armour panels.
“Can I get a kiss? She did mention kisses. Please?”
“You can take as many kisses as you want, dude.”
Thunderblast bows her crown of sensory spires intended to help navigate through storms across great swathes of ocean, accepting a peck upon the forehelm.
“How’s that?”
“That’s a good start.”
Flamewar’s dermas are incredibly soft, despite being scarred over in places with faint criss-crosses. She applies them to that same spot, only she presses in with a little more forcefulness and lingers a little while longer.
“It’s been ages since I just let myself lie down with someone like this.”
“Missed it, huh?”
“More than I would’ve thought.” Golden optics flutter shut, expression serene, shapely frame sinking within a sigh of contentment. “I don’t even have to perform to impress you. I don’t gotta work you up, or down. You’re just giving it to me.”
“I’m pretty easy, not gonna deny that.”
“It’s not an insult, sweetie. I’ve been worked hard so many times. I do it to myself, as much as I let others do it to me.”
“That’s okay, so long as you’re happy.”
“Happy,” is the faint echo.
Fangs glimmer like shards of ice, biting around words exhaled so warmly. “Does fragging make you happy?”
“I enjoy it. I appreciate the afterglow, assuming my partner – or partners – can get me there. I do take initiative and finish myself off if I have to. But I wouldn’t describe the feeling as… happiness. More like satisfaction. I’ve got dreams, y’know? Ambition. And needs.”
“I remember when you told me you’re gonna seduce Megatron and rule the world with him on a leash, or something.”
“Mmhm.”
“I hope you’ll remember me when you’re at the top. I don’t want power or esteem. I just wanna feel like I’m part of something bigger than me, and not just the refuse left behind by a previous life I don’t remember living, only that I recall loss.” Claws brush over slender pauldrons far too gently to leave scratches upon the paint.
The boat opens her optics to meet the bike’s searing gaze.
“You’ll help Megatron make the world less scrappy for the little guys like me, right?”
“Sweetie, when I’m calling the shots, I’ll know who my friends are.”
“We’ll be friends, then?”
“I hope so.”
“Then, if we are friends, will you find the time to see me?”
“I’ll probably include you in my personal consortium, assuming you’d be willing.”
“Whassat?”
“Bit less than a Conjunx, bit more than a concubine. A live-in fragtoy, but with social status and some empowerment on account of garnering my favour. Megatron would be my Conjunx. Your job would be to accompany me to fancy events and let me have my way with you whenever. In your downtime, you’d lounge about drinking high-grade and eating snacks and generally just being decorative, without any responsibilities beyond taking care of yourself and pleasing me.”
“Oh, cool.”
Thunderblast chuckles at Flamewar’s easygoing reaction.
“I’m not good at taking actual care of myself, but I’m real good at surviving.”
“I’d ensure you’d be well taken care of, sweetie. You’d belong to me. I take care of whatever and whoever I covet. Just like my quad-tube launcher. It’s precious to me, and so much fun to use.”
“It gets me tingly just looking at it. But it’s not a person. Seems like people who bore you tend to die, when their usefulness expires.”
“That’s just unfortunate for them. They should’ve stayed fun and useful.”
“Hence the survival aspect.”
“You aren’t boring. You have your uses.”
“I’m also not afraid to die and I can be really lazy.”
“I wouldn’t make you disappear under suspicious circumstances, sweetie. I promise.”
The bike snuggles under the boat’s chin.
“But this reminds me that fragging isn’t everything.” Thunderblast is a lot bigger than Flamewar, thus it is easy to envelop her in an almost smothering embrace. “I can only remember a handful of conquests who actually wanted to hold me afterward. Even fewer who’d hold me before.”
The bike’s gaze is without judgment as she gazes into the other femme’s Deceptibrand and murmurs very softly against it, “Did any of them ever love you?”
“They loved the way I look, the way I touch, the way I permit their touch. They loved my body and my ability to wield it like a weapon. They loved my skills in battle, in berth.” The boat allows her servos to wander over dark, scarred curves. “I’m no fool. I know how the world perceives me and I know how to take advantage of the world. Survival, sweetie, like you said. But someday, I’ll be on top of it all, and I’ll have beautiful people on their knees begging me for scraps. I’ll be as generous as I am greedy.”
Flamewar lays her palm over the Deceptibrand and feels the flinch. “Did you ever love any of them?”
“In a sense, I suppose. I’d say I’ve been in love many, many times, yes. But it’s never enough. Maybe after Megatron, I’ll conquer other worlds. Maybe I’ll never be satisfied, even when I rule over everyone and everything. I’ll figure it out when I get there, I guess. I’m adaptable.”
“Wow. You’re an amazing femme.”
“Thanks!”
Flamewar eases back, probing Thunderblast’s breastplate, just above her Spark chamber.
“You wanna get at my tits, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“Actually, how’re yours feeling? The sealant helping at all?”
“Every time I catch myself scratching, I get that scrap on my claws and I hate it, so… I guess so.”
“I’d offer to kiss your wounds better but I doubt it’d taste very good. That stuff has a, uh… certain stink to it, sweetie.”
“I know, I hate it.”
“Aw. But I can kiss you elsewhere.”
“Just kiss me already. Frag’s sake.”
The boat giggles.
“You don’t gotta tease me,” grumbles the bike playfully, bumping her helm gently against the other femme’s. “A cuddle will pretty much guarantee I’m yours for the duration. Not gonna go anywhere unless I gotta. I give you my permission to kiss me, preferrably without stopping.”
“Okay, okay. You got a special place you like being kissed?”
“Anywhere. All over. Consider me a canvas for kisses, dreamboat.”
“I love it when you call me that.”
“Make with the dermas already.”
Thunderblast begins innocently enough. A soft, silky peck to the shutter of Flamewar’s optic, fluttered closed to receive. Another kiss falls upon the cheek. Another brushes over the chin.
“That’s real nice.”
“You’re purring.”
“Not too loud?”
“No, it’s soothing, actually. I could fall asleep to your sound. Slipstream really did figure out the cure.”
“Knocks Slippy out, for sure. I think it’s just a feeling of being wanted, and safe, and held that works for me. That’s why I don’t have wild dreams, so my engine won’t kick into gear, and that’s why I don’t snore – when she cuddles me, it’s all-consuming. But in a nice way. Like this, like us.”
The boat gazes closely at the bike.
“Just guessing, though. I wasn’t planning on asking you to cuddle me.” Flamewar is flushed, handsomely scuffed, softened by a wonky smile. “But then you went ahead and yeah, let’s just go for it.”
“I’m not usually cuddly,” Thunderblast replies in a warm, sincere sort of way. And it is not usual for her, either, to speak to someone with such naked emotion. “But this was my idea. And I’m glad I went for it. And I wish more of my lovers would be so inclined.”
“Me, too. Honestly, the more bodies, the better. We can do this whenever. Don’t even gotta be lovers. I’m chill, low maintenance, albeit clingy and maybe a little bit paranoid. So long as you don’t, uh, reject me or abandon me when you’ve given me a reason to think we could be something that lasts. Please don’t.”
“Sweetie.”
The bike finds herself hugged like a toy.
“How far do you wanna take this?” murmurs the boat.
“As far as you’ll let me. I know Slippy’s limits. Yours are… more extreme, I imagine. So are mine. But I’m good with whatever.”
“You need to learn to want things for yourself, and not to please someone else.”
Flamewar stiffens all over.
Thunderblast feels it, pinned against her bigger body.
“You’re right. You’re so fragging right. Primus. I’m a total pushover.”
“Now, now. I didn’t say that. It’s about… boundaries. Healthy boundaries. Like how I want you to stop it with the pirate stuff.”
“You hate it, don’t you.”
“Well, hate is a strong word.”
“You do. You hate me every time I bring up the pirate thing.”
“No! Sweetie, of course not. I’d just appreciate being valued for more than just piracy.”
“Then you admit it! You were a pirate.”
“Let’s not go there or mommy will get upset.”
“Okay.” The bike exhales shakily from her vents. “You cannot bust that out without warning. It’s distracting as frag.”
“You get my point though, right?”
“I make you feel uncomfortable. That’s what you mean by boundaries, right? I overstepped myself. I’m sorry.”
“I just want you to like me for who I am.” The boat shifts upon the slab, drawing somehow closer. “I’m amazing. All that pirate mythology just renders me, well, mythical. But I’m real. All the things I’ve done, the places I’ve been, the sights I’ve seen.”
“I do like you! For real! I like you for so many reasons, dreamboat, and they’re all very real to me.”
“Then why do you fixate on the piracy? I’ve got more to offer than that.”
“Of course you do. The pirate thing just… I dunno, it resonates with me for some reason. It’s not a fetish. It’s something else. But if it makes you feel bad, then I’ll put it down, okay? We’ll just be us.”
“You’ll still like me, when I’m just me. Won’t you?”
“Duh! You’re my dreamboat! Sure, the pirate thing was the hook that snagged me – wait, that one was unintentional, I swear. Sorry.”
Thunderblast rolls her optics, huffing.
“Listen, getting to know you as a person? I like you. I like who you are.” Flamewar bites the inside of her cheek, jaw anxiously churning. “My people skills suck. That’s why I’ve always been alone, outside of berth and some dodgy contacts that got me through tough times, and now I’ve got you and the Decepticons, and I don’t wanna lose anybody. I’m such a mess. I’m a hot mess. But I never meant to upset you, okay? I’ll do better. Please, let me do better by you.”
The boat purses her dermas.
“No more pirate stuff. I promise.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“I forgive you.”
The bike sags where she reclines, groaning her relief.
“So long as you still think I’m, like, cool and interesting and stuff.”
“You’re really cool and interesting and stuff.”
“This won’t put distance between us?”
“I’m way too clingy, you know that.”
Thunderblast sighs as Flamewar whines.
“Boundary established, to be acknowledged as there and respected in action.”
“I believe you.”
“Can we kiss this all better?”
The boat smiles, nodding gracefully.
The bike brightens, then leans in, closing the distance with a breathy moan that is swallowed by the smooth, soft, synthetic skin of the flawlessly maintained facial membrane.
Thunderblast leans into it as if to intensify the sensation, to prolong the pleasure. Feels a pang when it is over.
“You ready to pass out, now?”
“Only if this works and you don’t snore.”
Flamewar kneads at the bigger body as if to make those curves more accommodating, before rolling over and shuffling backwards until nestling snugly into the crook, ultimately settling like this, purrs unobtrusively low and sending out drowsy vibrations.
"Sleep well, sweetie."
There is no reply.
Chapter 26: Crush
Summary:
Windblade has always been aloof and independent, thus she struggles to accept help even from her friends who love and nurture her as she heals from Starscream. Nightra starts getting twitchy when Sentinel launches a formal investigation into the elite guard, determined to find and dispose of the Decepticon spy. When Nightra gets twitchy, she runs away, but can she flee with or without Strongarm, who is finally beginning to feel safe and forgiving? Shadow Striker teaches Slipstream about swordplay and also about playing games with femmes who know their way around a sword - femmes like Windblade. Starscream demands that his Seekers spend some quality time with him for once, to bond altogether as a family, to prove to himself that he is better than any critic could proclaim. The stunned Seekers choose the gladiatorial arena, Nova Storm in particular keen to see the carnage caused by a young gladiator femme who has been making a name for herself. The gladiator does not disappoint, her performance catching Megatron's critical optic as he considers fresh talent for the Decepticon upper ranks, though Starscream personally does not think she is all that hot anyway.
Notes:
I'm about to bring in an obscure character. I feel it necessary to explain here and now that I've had to rework her quite a bit (for example, I don't intend to bring in her femme underlings as an entourage because I already have plans in place - on that note, the 'transplay' thing Thunderblast mentions in this chapter as a fun, kinky activity is actually an adaptation of an ability possessed by one of the aforementioned underlings of said entourage as a weapon/torture device). In my depiction, this obscure character will be less of an overpowering maneater and more of a leader of her own cult of personality, thus seducing those within her field of influence and sometimes inducing dubious consent in others, so fair warning for that - no offence is intended on my part toward those involved in her canonical conception and characterisation, but the way her comic appearance went about depicting her as a supreme femme fatale with her all-femme crew of maneaters terrorising mechs was too problematic and oversimplified a character who had such potential to be better than what she was reduced to, in my opinion, so I will try to make her more interesting and less predatory whilst keeping her mostly a villain. As a contrast, Megatron will eventually lose his power of persuasion and resort to brutish displays of rage, inflicting fear of force to intimidate his underlings into obedience. I figured these could serve as character foils. All that being said...
Gentle reminder: this story is intended for mature audiences and themes of pleasure/pain, love/hate, sex/violence, consent/coersion, duty/obligation, friend/foe will be recurring. Please read responsibly.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
It is a bright and beautiful morning.
“Comfy?”
“Yes, thank you.”
"Need another cushion?"
"No, I'm pretty much swamped."
“Good! I mean to immobilise you in comfort."
Windblade keeps a tidy, fashionable habitation suite located in one of the nicer districts, situated high above the streets with a lovely view of the park beyond. Her home is large and shiny and bears upmarket conveniences and various facilities suited to catering for friends, adorned with Camien works of art and various little trinkets to please their optics. But she honestly prefers to chill at Bumblebee's cramped and cozy little place, where the laughter is loud and Cube stars adorn the walls, and so that is where she tends to be. When Chromia is visiting Cybertron, she resides with Windblade and goes wherever she goes, associates with her friends as she does, and makes passionate love to her as often as she desires it. Life has been lonely of late. Arcee is visiting to check in on Windblade and give Chromia as her primary caretaker a little help, whilst the other friends are busy doing their duty to the High Council. Rotation shall ensure Windblade is never neglected and Chromia is never taken for granted. Yet that lonely feeling persists.
"You just sit back and take it easy today, huh?”
“Not much choice. I’m so sorry to do this to you guys.”
“Aw, sweet Spark, don’t be. We love you. That’s all there is to it.”
“The Decepticons aren’t slowing down, but I’m slowing you down.”
“Please don’t start on this again. We've been over it already. The world's not gonna end just because you need a few days off to heal after surgery.”
“You could be out there, doing way more productive things, but instead you’re stuck here, taking care of–”
“Windblade.”
“Arcee, I just–”
“Shuddup, okay?”
“But–”
“Enough.” Chromia sets down a laden tray. “Listen to Arcee, Windblade.”
“Shush, shush, shush.” A dainty digit presses to ruby dermas before they can move to protest again. "You heard the lady. Now, you listen to me."
“Mmph!” Windblade’s big blue optics are fierce, yet pleading.
“I know you like your independence. This recovery period will be tough on you, because you’ve always been so strong, so sure of yourself. This is a life lesson. Learn from it.” Arcee smiles a sisterly smile as she slowly removes her digit, replacing it with a kiss.
Big blue optics flutter shut. “Mmph.”
Amidst the various constituents of a lovingly prepared meal, Chromia readies the next dosage of numbing agents.
Arcee lets the kiss linger, then eases away again, cupping Windblade’s delicate chin in a slender servo. “Sometimes, you’ve just gotta let yourself rely on your friends. Let us look after you. That’s why we’re here.”
“It’s not in my nature to need anyone like this. I'm not sure this is something I can learn to just... accept. To just let this happen to me, at everybody else's expense.”
"We love you. It's not a cost to us at all."
"I know you, Windblade." Chromia draws close, caressing the sheath of a retracted wing. She sighs. "I know it is in your nature to be patient."
"I'm being - a - patient, right now. That's for sure. I feel like an invalid."
"Not what I meant and you know it."
“Chromia's right. Give us your patience, and you’ll make it a whole lot easier on yourself, and us too. You can do this. Okay, Windblade.”
"I'm going to get glitchy. I'm already getting glitchy."
"We know. We still love you, and we always will."
"Please forgive me if I lash out because I feel so dumb and selfish and helpless right now."
"Nothing to forgive, sweet Spark! Stuff happens. Friends accommodate."
“Ugh. You're so wonderful."
"Mmhm."
"Okay. I’ll try."
“That’s the spirit!”
"But don't tolerate any scrap from me, alright? Tell me if I'm getting mean.”
"Oh, don't worry, we'll sort you out."
"Good. Now, let me give you a hug."
"I'mma come and get it!" Arcee carefully avoids pressing between Windblade's open thighs, knowing that the swelling needs to die down as the repaired modesty panels acclimatise to being reset, bending into an embrace. "Gimme that!"
"I love you."
"Love you back!" Arcee is such a positive person, so fun and alive and filled with light. It would be a great tragedy if something or someone were to ever strip her of her joy and leave her dimmed, snuffed out. “Now, truthfully, I’m no doctor, but I think I’ll prescribe more kisses anyway.”
Windblade chuckles softly, presenting a painted cheek with nobility and grace. “Oh, go on, then.”
“Mwah, mwah, mwah–”
Whilst Arcee keeps Windblade distracted, Chromia does the ugly job of finding an injection port in the open segment of her best friend’s arm, inserting the needle with a grimace.
Shadow Striker strides into the mess hall, as it were, and finds her idiot Decepticons mucking about over their first Energon ration of the day. And she feels a surge of affection for them as she draws to a sudden stop, lingering on the periphery, silently observing their interactions as a group. These fools with their weird and wonderful quirks are hers to command. Hers.
“Transplay?” enquires Demolishor with a blank look, thus he interrupts another of Thunderblast’s thrilling reminiscences of a past conquest retold. Although she dislikes being interrupted, she can be astonishingly patient with the people she likes. Fortunately, she likes him. “What’s that?”
“Transformation play." Thunderblast is painting Flamewar's talons with clear, glossy polish. "You know, where you transform yourself whole or in part to please your lover, or lovers. Or maybe you just transform to get yourself off. Whatever floats your boat. It's the erotic interplay between states, as in the transformation itself, or it's the eroticism of one's actual alt-mode. Or both!”
“Oh?” Slipstream tilts her helm, palms cupped under her handsome jaw, elbows propped on the table. She looks so cute like this, entirely unaware. “That’s a thing?” She is far too interested, even if Seekers are naturally curious creatures.
“Yeah! Transformation isn’t just a utility, after all! It’s an extension of personality and mind, and our alt-modes reflect something of who we are. I'm strictly for loving one's alt-mode, even if you turn into, say, a garbage truck or something like that. Anybody can exercise a little self-love. Besides, why not have some fun with presentation and purpose while you're at it? Play with your transformation, own that alt-mode, make it all yours to enjoy. And maybe your lover, or lovers, could share that enjoyment with you.”
"You'd say so, even for the garbage truck?"
"I mean, sure, I guess? Seriously unfortunate, but yeah. I wouldn't, but someone always will."
"Yass," proclaimes Flamewar, snapping her claws to punctuate. "Preach."
"Sweetie, your polish isn't dry yet, no snapping please."
"Oops!"
Shadow Striker cracks a grin and still she does not dare interrupt.
“I guess as a cold construct, designed as a weapon, my relationship with my alt-mode is… different.” Slipstream hums softly, thoughtfully. "But that's a really interesting way to put it. And beautiful."
“Would you like to change that relationship with your alt-mode?” enquires Thunderblast in that surprisingly gentle way of hers, despite being quite possibly a killer. Her teammates have their suspicions as to those circumstantial deaths of lovers past. "You can. It might take some therapy, but you can do it, sweetie."
"Yes. I didn’t choose this body, or what it turns me into. Why would I find anything erotic in my alt-mode?”
"So customise yourself. Make yourself feel erotic, even if you're flying solo. You don't have to go all the way with remaking yourself, but that's an option too. Alt-modes don't have to be permanent and unchanging. And remember, you're not just another Seeker. You're you. Your girlfriend Windblade likes you."
Slipstream is not even sure if she is Windblade's girlfriend, but the sentiment is still appreciated. "Thank you, Thunderblast. I needed to hear that."
“Maybe you don’t consider yourself desirable,” the boat says very gently to the jet, “but that doesn’t make you undesirable to somebody else. And that includes your alt-mode. People are way more flexible than you realise. That girl of yours, she's gotta see it."
"I just don't see what she sees in me."
"And that's the hard part. Your self-image. You're way too modest and you're so unkind to yourself."
Shadow Striker blames Starscream for that, but he can only take so much responsibility.
"I can give you all the compliments in the world and mean every word I say, but self-love starts with you. Nobody can convince you to love yourself, sweetie. I'm sorry, but that's just the truth. Listen to her when she loves you, believe her, but take proactive steps of your own to counter the thoughts and feelings that make you dislike yourself. You deserve better, sweetie. There are professionals you can talk to if therapy is something that you'd be okay with. You can try repeating positive affirmations to yourself on a daily basis. You can fake it 'til you make it. You'll figure something out, just don't give up on loving yourself.”
"Okay." Slipstream swallows audibly, optics glistening. "I'll think about it."
"Me, too." Demolishor sighs heavily, rubbing her back plates. "I'm a cold construct designed to fight in a war long gone, before any of you were forged. I don't consider myself desirable, and I'm not handsome when I transform either. But he said different. And I did believe him. And he gives me strength to love my tired old body, even though he isn't here any more to love it for me. But this transplay thing? I appreciate that people transform to express themselves, and maybe other people would do that sorta stuff with their alt-modes when transformed, but I’m a tank, I'm built to destroy. Do you think I could be transformed and give pleasure instead?"
"I know you could, big guy. You don’t have to behave like a weapon. You can be sensual, too, even when transformed. No alt-mode is beyond that. What I said to Slipstream pretty much applies to you, too, Demolishor. Just don't pull that particular trigger in the heat of the moment and you'll be gold. Also, don't take this wrong, but you're an antique, and that adds value."
"Hahaha! I sure am."
"Seriously! It's a huge turn-on for the right person. If you wanna get out there and find somebody who'll appreciate you, there are online groups of mechs, mostly, who are super into tank alt-modes, and some of them are tanks too. Tank enthusiasts have their own little ecosystem going on. You'd be a huge hit."
"You mean, uh, I should try online dating?"
"Yeah! But don't just do it for the guys. Do it for you, if you wanna try it out. You've gotta work on loving yourself first. You know you deserve it, sweetie."
Demolishor smiles ruggedly. "I'll be thinking about that."
Thunderblast turns Flamewar's claws over. "Slipstream, sweetie, may I ask you something personal?"
"Uh, yeah, sure."
"Do you want to be controlled? Or do you want to control someone else?"
"Well, eh. I... I like domineering femmes? And being told I'm doing good?"
Shadow Striker inwardly sighs.
"Mmm." Thunderblast glances at Slipstream, unsurprised. "Then maybe you oughta give transplay a try. Get yourself a domme, somebody you know and trust. Someone you'd let manipulate your transformation sequence."
Slipstream thinks of Windblade, but not her exclusively. "Oh, I don't know if I'd do it very well, and I'd hate to disappoint her."
"If she's worth your time, she'll forgive a few failed attempts. Transformation can be a great way to show the ultimate intimacy. Practice makes perfect and it takes a bit of trust in yourself, maintaining that level of self-control when you’re transformed and in overload. And of course you’ve gotta be mindful and trustworthy when messing with somebody else when they’re in a transformed state. Accidents happen. T-Cogs get mangled when people overdo it.”
“It does sound dangerous,” murmurs Slipstream, optics wide with cautious curiosity. “But also potentially very rewarding.”
“Some people enjoy a bit of danger,” purrs Shadow Striker ominously, finally opting to join their table.
"Boss bot! You're here!"
"Pretend I'm not. Carry on your conversation. I'm interested."
"There’s risk involved," Thunderblast goes on, speaking to Slipstream mostly, but including all. "And that’s true for most things. Life is all about taking calculated risks. As per my calculations, with a bit of practice and the right partner, or partners, transplay is so totally worth it. When you get really good at it, you actually gain more finesse over your own transformation sequence, and I find that quite empowering. And if you’re really, really good, you can learn to manipulate others and make them transform at your touch, sort of bending them to your will."
"Whoa."
"You like that, huh? That would make your domme happy, transforming you. And if she's happy, she'll be good to you too. It doesn't have to be a huge step beyond groping kibble and sticking stuff into transformation seams, though, if you'd prefer to keep it simple. There are guides online if you wanna take a look.”
“They come with pictures?” asks Flamewar jokingly.
“Yes, you little dirt bike,” replies Thunderblast fondly.
“Nice.”
"Wow." Slipstream blinks slowly. "That sounds... awesome." Even considering the danger, she can only imagine being at someone else's mercy like that, deconstructed, reconstructed, or existing in some state between.
"I thought you might like that. Windblade's gonna turn you inside out and you're gonna love it." Thunderblast winks. "Of course, start small and work your way up. Get familiar, get comfortable. Stay safe."
Slipstream sits back, staring into space, contemplating the prospects. Slowly, a shy, subtle smile spreads as colour fills her angular cheeks.
“Damn. It’s serious.”
“Yeah, they took a statement, y’know, asked me a few questions,” says an elite guard mech, speaking to a small group of fellow guards. “Then they hooked me up to the computer and I passed right out. I hope they didn’t find anything embarrassing! I don’t remember doing anything embarrassing that day.”
“Brrr. Did it hurt?”
“The cable hurt when they plugged it into me, and it hurt when they yanked it out. Pretty sure I saw static for a bit. Otherwise, felt nothing.”
“And Sentinel’s gonna try make us all undergo the procedure?”
“Guess so. It was like I was a bad guy just sitting in that chair, and I didn’t even do anything bad. I had to sign a form and everything. Like a contract. I was so nervous, I barely read any of it. Hopefully that won’t bite me in the aft later.”
“Uh, yeah. I’m gonna look for a new job soon as I get home.”
“Wait, wait, wait. They can’t seriously expect us all to just, like, go for it, right? Even if we don’t wanna? I mean, they can’t make us do it, can they?” sputters Nightra as beads of perspired coolant roll down her cheeks like tears. “That can’t be right, you guys! C’mon, we got legal protections and stuff, don’t we? It’s fragging invasive! Our minds are our own! If we don’t have privacy in our own helms, or whatever, then…”
Helpless shrugs and grumbles answer her.
“I, uh…” She suddenly feels not only terrified, but sick to her fuel tank too. “I gotta go to the ladies' real quick. S’cuse me.” She turns and staggers off and nobody really minds, nobody really cares if she finds a window and makes her escape.
Nobody but Strongarm.
“We’re gonna pretend this is a bladed weapon, something you'd usually wield one-servoed.” Shadow Striker tosses a section of pipe over to Slipstream, who catches it without fumbling, fortunately, because that would have been embarrassing. “A short sword, machete, or whatever you prefer. Just imagine something of similar reach with a pointy bit.”
"Why a bladed weapon, specifically, Sir? Why not practice with it as it is, a blunt weapon?"
"You come with a lotta questions."
"Not to challenge your method, Sir, it's just that I'm more likely to encounter a blunt weapon in battle, aren't I?"
"I see your point, but I like bladed weapons. They're my specialty. I can't use an actual blade to train you with, though. You might lose an arm. We'd better play pretend. I don't have a dummy sword, so the pipe will have to do."
"Oh. Okay. Fair enough."
"Besides, I did say I want to teach you skills you'll need to survive. Bladed weapons are rare, but they're also especially difficult to deal with, so as unlikely as it is, you'll dread seeing a sword whipped out on the battlefield because without some idea of how to manage your opponent and their blade, if they want you dead, you'll be dead. You'd better get some sort of proper instruction, which is my intent. We clear?"
"Understood, Sir."
"Good girl. This lesson, I’m gonna go over the basic disarm techniques, then teach you advanced moves around a blade that the average grunt won't know about, giving you some element of surprise over your opponent. Core principle to remember – a blade comes out, assume you’re gonna get cut, so keep your distance and do what you can to avoid or at least minimise the damage, until you get control of the blade. Skill will improve your chances at survivability, but even mastery will only get you so far. Blades are an element of combat that defy any pretence of safe practice. You do what you can, and you do it smart. The rest is up to chance, or fate, whichever you prefer."
"So, even if I do my best, and do exactly as you teach me, I'll be wounded anyway. Probably."
"Yes, that's the assumption."
"Great."
"Look, I'm the best, but I cannot perform miracles. And this is why I'm fixated on pretending that pipe you've holding is, say, a sword. No miracle, but it's better than nothing. It's something."
"That's still not very optimistic, Sir."
"Sure it's not. It's exactly why I like my knives and machete. They're a little oldfashioned, sure, but they're lethal, they're stealthy, they're a glitch for my foe to manage, and the intimidation factor alone wins the battle of the mind first. Whoever I've set my sights on already knows they're screwed the moment I draw my blade and get close enough to cut them down, so they get scared, they make mistakes I can take advantage of, they die horribly. Don't let that happen to you. That's my goal."
"You're already perfectly scary without a blade adding intimidation factor, Sir." The Seeker shudders. "I'd feel pretty much screwed even if you attacked me with a pillow."
"Aw, really." The mercenary chuckles. "I think it'd be fun, if I came at you with a pillow. Don't you like pillow fights? Or feeling screwed?"
"Well, uh." Flushed, Slipstream waves the pipe back and forth, testing its weight, its momentum. "It's been a while, for me."
"Don't ask me to be gentle. You and your handsome aft. You could geddit. So, you ever used a blade before?" asks Shadow Striker, switching from flirtatious to stern in an instant. Whiplash, how she does that.
"Yes. Windblade has a sword,” the Seeker says fondly, smiling at the blunt, dull segment of pipe in her fist like she is beholding something pristine and precious. “Stormfall, she calls it. She showed it to me. Let me try it.”
“My sensors detected it on her person. Camien origin, according to my data readout."
"Yes, Sir, she is from Caminus."
"Those guys produce some of the finest blades around, y'know."
"I didn't know that."
"Interesting how she likes carrying her sword on herself even when she’s out and about in public, like she’s ready for an ambush at any moment, anywhere. Almost like she figures herself a target." The mercenary smirks cruelly. "Of course, I can’t fault the girl if it’s just her pride at stake. If I had a Camien sword, I wouldn’t forget it back at home either. It would never leave my side."
Slipstream still looks at the pipe in that strangely intense way. "Stormfall never leaves Windblade's side."
Shadow Striker sucks in air, holds it, and lets it go. "Are you envious of her sword?"
"Yeah. I hope she takes me and keeps me for the rest of my life, at her side. I hope she holds me the way she holds that sword. I hope to become an extension of her, too."
"Primus. Okay. Wow. I could mock you for being pathetic, but honestly, that's... oddly sweet."
The Seeker smiles shyly.
"And seriously concerning."
The smile fades.
"I didn't realise you would be quite that invested."
"Oh."
"Look, It's none of my business, anyway. I don't know her like you do and I don't make your choices for you." The mercenary scoffs, scowling. "But considering how you're willing to surrender yourself to please her will, she'd better treat you right. You deserve it. Don't settle for less than your worth, or there's no profit to gain, and you'll just end up with loss. The worst thing love can do to you, is leave you with less of yourself than you had before you let yourself love someone too much. Goddit?"
"She wouldn't do that to me."
"I don't mean to crush your hopes and dreams. I told you to look to your friends when you need the encouragement to keep going, to survive." The scowl sharpens. "But you're in deeper than I thought."
"I would like to unpack that with you, Sir. What you just said to me, before. Because I think you got really hurt by someone close to you, and you might be projecting your hurt onto me, onto Windblade."
"My baggage isn't your problem. I'm just being miserable. Still. Nobody is beyond hurting you. And no matter how invincible a glitch tries to be, nobody is beyond getting hurt. We all cut, we all get cut."
Slipstream gazes softly, sadly at Shadow Striker.
"Believe it or not, I speak from a place of..."
"...Care?"
"Yeah."
"Thank you for caring about me, Sir."
"Just be careful with her. I'm not telling you to give up on her if she keeps you going. If I wanted you to accept defeat, I wouldn't be here, trying to train you to win your battles. She's the prize at the end."
The Seeker says nothing.
"So! She showed you her sword." The mercenary licks her dentas, sharp and keen, trying to recover herself. "She let you try it out. How'd it feel, to you, holding that sword?"
"It felt warm, and light, and thrumming with power. So much like how she feels."
"Did she demonstrate how to use it properly?"
"She almost seemed to dance with her sword as her partner. No, closer than that. Her sword as a part of her."
"Show me."
"Um. I mean, I can try?"
"Do it."
"Errm. Yes, Sir. But don't laugh.” Slipstream sucks in air, lets it out slowly, and attempts to emulate Windblade’s movements without sharing her agility and poise, being so much heavier set and cumbersome in shape, as well as far less skilled with a sword. “I can’t do her justice.” And yet the emulation is elegant and controlled, powerful and smooth, beautiful despite all the flaws a master could identify. "But I guess it's the sentiment that counts."
Shadow Striker watches in grim silence, scope whirring, tracking, displaying readouts of data within the periphery of her HUD. She mentally compiles a list of calculated criticisms.
“I hadn’t seen anyone so connected to their weapon, before I saw Windblade and Stormfall.” Pipe held aloft like a weapon of far greater majesty, the Seeker turns the joint of her wrist and braces herself upon her pedes, sweeping low, curving high, rising from a block into a counterstrike. “She wielded her sword like an extension of herself, mostly in one servo, but sometimes in both. She’s been my friend from the start, but that moment she first showed me this dance, it changed us.”
“How so?” asks the mercenary quietly, almost gently, softening her facial rigging like she knows where this confession is going before it has gone there.
“I realised that the femme I love could be so destructive. So lethal.”
“That’s a hard lesson to learn.”
"I think she realised my fear. All of a sudden, she stopped dancing, just stood there, holding Stormfall. Then she turned, said to me..." Sighing, Slipstream settles into stillness, pipe held in a sword’s neutral position, prepared to defend or attack as her opponent deems fit, the pipe’s end pointed at Shadow Striker’s cheek. "It's not about the blade. It's about the bot who wields it."
"That just makes her sound scarier."
"That's exactly what I thought, Sir. I guess I've misunderstood. Maybe my misunderstanding persists. I know Windblade means to tell me that Stormfall is not the source of her power. But then, is she also trying to tell me that she and her blade do not dance and fight as one? Is she not the embodiment, the poise and personality, of that sword? Or is the sword entirely irrelevant, and she is all that remains, dancing alone? Is her capacity to be dangerous entirely her own? Maybe they are not alike, and maybe Stormfall does not extend Windblade. But that is how I perceive. Am I wrong?"
“Windblade scares you no matter how to wanna justify carrying a lethal weapon. How can you love that which you fear?”
“But I love her regardless.”
"Wow."
"It's okay, Sir. You can tell me how hopelessly romantic I am. I know it's not gonna impress you. Maybe it will be the death of me. Hopeless romantics don't meet peaceful ends."
“Always assume you’ll get cut,” the mercenary intones, scope upon the pipe, optic upon the Seeker. “Nobody’s invincible. No matter how fearful they make you feel.”
“Not even you, Sir?”
Shadow Striker lunges, avoiding the pipe entirely and breaching the extended arm from outside of the projected strike's direction and reach, seizing Slipstream by the wrist and twisting sharply whilst pressing in hard with the thumb, forcing the joints to bend farther than is comfortable. The pipe slips free and is thrown off course by the Seeker's own momentum as she is neatly folded onto her knees below the mercenary's bulk. As the pipe falls, it is swiftly kicked across the floor with a metallic clamour of impact, thus the pretend weapon skids harmlessly away, out of either femme's reach.
"Sir! Ow! Light contact only!"
"Sorry. I was trying to demonstrate this gently."
Slipstream is promptly released, huffing, and offered a servo up.
"Here."
She moodily accepts the offered servo, thus holding onto Shadow Striker's firm digits and rising with a helpful pull upward.
"You can do to Windblade, what I just did to you."
"Oh, please. No way."
"I'm being sincere. You just need the element of surprise and you need to pay attention to what I'm teaching you. Hence the lack of any warning. I wanted you to feel momentarily powerless, like she would feel it if you were in my place."
The Seeker is stunned into silence for some time.
Meanwhile, the mercenary stalks over to the pipe, hooking the tip of her pede underneath it. With a sharp upward motion the pipe ascends, revolving before her, until she catches the trajectory in her fist, snatching the pipe from the air.
"But that hurt, Sir, and I wouldn't hurt her." Slipstream's pauldrons slump, her arms fall to her sides. "You’re terrible. You're incredible."
"Heh, aren't you glad I'm on your side."
"You'll teach me that? How to disarm, like that?"
"Yup. I did promise you a lesson." Shadow Striker twirls the pipe with an almost playful flourish. "Lemme show it to you again, but this time, the surprise is spoiled and you'll see it coming."
"Is there a counter to that disarm, Sir?"
"Of course. Do not let your opponent know what you're capable of until it's too late for them to react. Her mistake was showing off to impress you, so when you demonstrated the general gist of her stance, I scanned your stance and movements, compared the results to past battles and my own training, ran a few calculations and opted for a decisive strategy. It took an instant for me, but you went about it so slowly. You're not me, I don't blame you for that, but you will develop a knack for quick and cunning reactions on the field after enough experience has got you operating in harmony with your combat programming."
"Wait. You assessed her capabilities based on my awful demonstration of what she showed me?"
"You weren't so bad, actually. You're clearly below her skill level. Like I said, you got the general gist. That's frankly a little impressive. You were paying her all your attention, and you commited her to memory with such clarity in your circuits that the motions you made were almost your own, like her ghost was haunting your body. And you still doubt yourself. She should feel flattered. Her impression has been left upon you, and what more could a domineering femme desire?"
Slipstream catches the pipe as Shadow Striker tosses it over.
"I see great potential in you. All you did was copy her moves, and you actually almost looked convincing."
"So, I did good?"
"You did good. But you can do better. Now, focus on me."
The Seeker grins. "Yes, Sir!" Braces herself.
The mercenary smirks. "Good girl." Lunges.
“Well!” Starscream snaps at his Seekers. “Don’t just stand there, gawking unintelligently back at me! Pick a fun family activity already! And please don’t choose something terribly boring, do try to remember that Megatron and I will be attending as well, so as to supervise you lot! If any one of you misbehaves and embarrasses me, I will have you all scrubbing the floors for however long I like! Be good. No pranks.”
Skywarp pouts.
“Now, then – choose! Or I shall choose for you? There is a rather lovely art exhibition up and running just now. Perhaps I’ll bore you all half to deactivation and get to admire the nonsensical shapes and jarring colours at the same time. Megatron is rather opinionated on matters of purple, anything with hard lines and pointy corners too.”
The Seekers all cringe, except for Thundercracker, the artistic individual of the group who might rather enjoy attending an art exhibition. He dares not contradict the crowd, however.
"Well? Choose something already! Primus, it is a simple matter! What, are you all too afraid to speak to me?"
Nova Storm, one of the more dominant personalities, recovers quickly enough to speak up first, eagerly raising her servo to catch Starscream’s optic. “Oh! Oh! I wanna watch the gladiators fight! I say we go to the arena! There’s this new femme, she’s huge and hot, I saw her crush a guy between her thighs, like, clean in half– ”
“Charming. Anyone else have an alternative notion?”
“I kinda miss Cube,” Thundercracker intones, not wishing to impose. “Can we go watch a game? Uh, please?” He really would enjoy the art exhibition, but Cube is cool too.
“Ugh. I hate Cube. ”
“Pretty please?”
“Perhaps.”
“Whatever.” Thrust shrugs, arms folded, being difficult as usual. “If it gets me an evening off, I don’t care.”
Acid Storm and Slipstream are absent, as has become the new normal.
Skywarp looks to her brethren, shrugs, and then points at Nova Storm.
“Yes! Warp agrees with me, so that’s two votes for the arena! Captain?”
“Hmm. Now that I think about it, Megatron did mention possibly recruiting a few gladiators for the cause. I suppose he could scope out the current talent, and I will prove that damned Cityspeaker wrong. I, Starscream, am a fantastic leader who cares oh so deeply about my people. I am the greatest Captain ever. Is that correct, Seekers?”
"Oh, absolutely, Captain! And you're very handsome!"
"Mmhm. No doubt about it, Sir. Heh."
"Yeah, sure, whatever you say."
Skywarp nods airily, smiling in her naughty way.
"I knew you'd agree!" Starscream sighs, clasping his servos together. "Take that, Windblade," he mutters darkly under his vents.
“So…” Nova Storm loops an arm around Skywarp, endeavouring to look cute. “We’re going to the arena, then, Sir?”
“Yes, my dear. We’re going to the arena.”
"Can we get snacks?"
"Of course, darling, I'm no monster."
“Frag, yeah! Warp, you’re gonna love it! Being there, like, in person, is so much better than watching it on the holoscreen! You can smell death in the air!”
Skywarp silently says yay whilst grimacing as her burly sister Seeker squeezes her with that rugged strength so often left unchecked.
"Hey, sweetie, remember when I told you and the guys about transplay?"
"Yup."
"Well, I've got a little something I wanna confess to you. It's relevant."
"Lemme guess." Flamewar reaches for the solvent. "It's about our rides out on the mercury. When you're transformed, and I'm on you or in you, loading and unloading you with cargo, or just cruising with you as my vessel, it turns you on. Yeah?"
Thunderblast sighs, stood under the downpour of lukewarm recycled oil. "I forget you're actually smart and you pay some attention to stuff. What gave me away?"
"Other than the flirting? You get this heavy tremble in your voice when you're edging, kinda like you're trying to hold in a bellyful laugh. It's hot."
"And you didn't do much to confront me about it."
"I like it. Not gonna shame you for your kink, since you're not hurting me and I'm a freak anyway. 'Sup?"
The boat turns to smile down at the bike.
"I know you don't stick around long enough to help with the inventory management afterward, since the moment we're back you've gotta go straight to boss bot to frag her."
"And you find that very funny, huh."
"Yeah. I bet that's part of why she sends us out as often as she can. She gets laid and we bring in the goods." Flamewar shrugs and proceeds to douse too much solvent over herself, dumping it atop her helm and pauldrons and allowing it to agitate when wet, lathering into a fragrant, fluffy foam. "Boss bot has it all under control, including us." Optics tightly shut, the soapy femme blindly passes the solvent over to Thunderblast.
"Thanks."
"Welcome."
"So..."
"Do I like it? Yeah. I like being with you for a lotta reasons, I already told you that. I just wasn't gonna make a big deal outta this one."
"I'm sorry I didn't say something sooner. I always meant to tell you."
"I know. No harm done, dreamboat."
"Just... took me a while. I figured if not now, then when?"
"Thanks for saying something. You don't owe me the truth. But if it makes you feel better, I don't mind it one bit."
"Okay. Thank you. That does make me feel better."
"Cool. I figure this is good practice. When I'm your consort, I'll treat you like my pleasure cruise and take naps in your cago hold, sip drinks on your deck, wax you down."
"Sounds wonderful. We have got to do something about those heel struts, though."
The gladiator's scream dissolves into a wet gurgle and then silence as his struggles weaken and finally fall still.
Even the crowd grows silent and still, too, watching with rapt fascination bordering between fetish and horror.
The hulking femme utilises her brute strength and bare servos to tear through the reinforced cables and spinal implant, bracing her heavy pede to his upper chassis to keep him pinned as she rises slowly until entirely ripping his helm off his pauldrons in a spray of pressurised Energon. Upon reaching her full height, she beholds her trophy held aloft before herself, face-to-face, optic-to-optic. She casually kicks his corpse over the edge of the levitating platform, sending the rest of him tumbling into the abyss below, thus decapitated. Finally, she lifts the severed helm, as if to show to the audience.
The crowd explodes, Nova Storm included, drunk on the adrenaline protocols and the stink of spilled inner Energon.
The rail attached to the gladiator's broad back plates sways slowly and sensually back and forth, oddly flexible and serpentine, like a tail tipped with a stinger wagging for joy. She turns slowly in place, allowing the decapitated mech to gaze at the bristling stands one last time, until she comes to a stop upon turning her own gaze upon the grandest seats.
Starscream instinctively sucks in air as some terrible influence crushes him, invisible, whilst electrifying Nova Storm and leaving Skywarp oddly flushed.
"Yeeeaaah!"
Even Megatron bodily flinches, and Starscream does not see it, but he feels it, sat poised like a statue with his servo stuffed in a bag of Energon gummies, snuggled up against his lover's gunmetal grey side.
The sole surviving gladiator draws back her mighty arm, the one holding up the ghastly severed helm in her palm, Energon oozing between her digits. She takes a step back, and then a step forward, as if to assess how much force she ought to use to cover the distance without overshooting her shot, and then suddenly tosses the severed helm up above herself, allowing gravity to return it to her whereupon she swings her rear rail and whacks the mech in the face as if striking a ball with a bat, aiming high, sending the severed helm hurtling in a soaring arc over the lower stands and directly toward the best seats.
"I goddit, I goddit!" Nova Storm briefly leaves her seat as she intercepts the severed helm before it can hit Megatron squarely in the lap, catching it herself instead. She falls back on her aft with the helm clutched to her bosom, grinning. "See?!"
They do see, yes.
"Told ya I goddit!"
Skywarp silently gawks, poking the dead mech's crushed, concave cheek a few times with wonder as Nova Storm eagerly presents her prize to her fellow Seekers.
Thundercracker and Thrust hug each other in their attempts to make distance, pressing into the partition separating them from the common rabble like they hope to phase through solid matter.
"Nova!" Starscream bellows far too late, upsetting his bag of Energon gummies in the commotion that follows. "Put that down! Throw it away immediately!
"I won it for you, Captain, here!"
"No, no, no, don't give it to me, I don't want it! Aaagh, you're making a mess, it's bleeding everywhere!"
"Megatron, you're proud of me, right?!"
"Yes, Nova Storm, I am very proud." He reaches over to pat the eager Seeker atop her pauldron, very fond of her. "Well done." Yet he is distracted, unsure of the intent behind the gladiator femme's low bow - is she mocking him, or honouring his attendance? She surely knows of him and his will be done, he shall soon know of her as well.
Notes:
Please do not look to me for self-defence advice, I do not actually know how to disarm an opponent wielding a bladed weapon and it has been a long, long time since I last took self-defence classes. In other words, I made some shit up, so please do not act upon anything I have written for dramatic effect because this is a work of fiction. A friend of mine told me once some years ago that disarming a bladed weapon without getting hurt in the attempt is highly unlikely and therefore always assume you will be cut (more specifically, they said a knife is something that can cut the attacker and defender alike during the disarm attempt, successful or failed) and so it is best just to run if possible, which makes sense to me since I've been told many times before that running is usually preferable to fighting at all, however I am not claiming authoritative knowledge here.
Chapter 27: Catalyst*
Summary:
Something about Empress does not sit right with Starscream, but this hardly matters since Megatron is instantly taken with the femme gladiator who meets him optic-to-optic and seems entirely amused as opposed to afraid of him, earning his affection and respect with ease. Slipstream brings Flamewar spare parts and scrap for her workbench and ends up fondly talking about family and friends, but it turns out that their social circles intertwine more closely than they had both assumed. When Slipstream foolishly hurts herself on one of the various tools, Flamewar offers to kiss the injury better, but they catch each other's optic in the act and it leads to kisses placed in other tender places that ache for relief. Hot Rod befriends a stray cybercat. Searching for Slipstream and finding her lodged down Flamewar's throat, Shadow Striker stops and stares despite herself, but her unintended intrusion has consequences.
Notes:
Featured sex scene: Slipstream/Flamewar with Shadow Striker mentioned (praise, oral/blowjob/fellatio, fingering, one femme on knees whilst the other stands, masturbation whilst servicing, unintentional intrusion, voyeurism, erotic eye contact, unintentional/premature orgasm, cum to the face, both partners involved orgasm at same time).
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Slipstream sits partway up in berth, propped on her elbows. She proceeds to kick out a long leg and bend herself further, stretching her spinal strut and burying a yawn in a fist. Then, she grows slack, sighing, gaze upon the low ceiling. She feels as well-rested as can be expected.
Flamewar, however, makes no move to revive, curled comfortably against the bigger femme, silent and still, evidently awake and pretending not to be, badly.
“C’mon.” A large servo gently jostles a dark pauldron. “Gotta geddup.”
“Nuh-uh.”
"We gotta go to work."
"Nuh-uh!"
The Seeker smiles despite everything that demands she should cry, or rage, or seep into indifference.
"Don't wanna." The bike rolls over, grabbing that servo and pulling on it, dragging her friend back down onto the recharge slab and into another embrace. “Five more minutes.”
A smile is buried in neck cables, along with a kiss.
The reply is a sigh.
And so goes the start of another shift in the Pits.
That oppressive, electrifying aura fills the chamber simply on account of her presence, radiating off of the gladiator like the stink of battle, like she embodies the sport and spectatorship within her rugged body and its sensual language, beautiful brutality rendered docile and gentle.
“Come here. Let me take a look at you.”
She thus saunters on over, summoned.
Megatron offers a servo.
She takes it just as she closes the distance between them.
“Hmm.” He tests the strength of her grip, the condition of her digits and knuckles. “Good.” Then proceeds to inspect the bulk of her arm, bending it at the elbow and straightening it out again, testing the tension of her hydraulics in case there were a blockage of fuel or oil flow. “A little stiff.”
She tolerates it without discomfort.
“When did you last see a medic?”
She answers that with a soft smile.
“When were you last given proper maintenance?” he asks, rephrasing with a little more force, significantly her senior yet not intending to be disrespectful, only domineering by his very nature.
“Too long,” is the honeyed murmur, totally unbothered. “I should take better care of myself.”
Starscream feels the femme’s vocaliser in his Spark. He grips his upper chassis, grimacing. How peculiar. How disturbing. As if a voice could speak to the soul itself.
“You are in dire need of repair,” Megatron notes in his soft, rumbling cadence, lingering somewhere between concern and disapproval. “This will not do.” The old mech is confident, calm, his brilliant optics narrowed as he then moves to encircle the fellow gladiator, a femme that is as big as he is. “Your condition is… less than to my satisfaction.”
She lets out a gust of air with steam. “My apologies.”
“It is hardly your fault. I know the life.”
“Yes, you’re legendary within the arena, and you’ve made a name for yourself outside of it in the realm of philosophy and politics. You carry your mantle with pride and distinction, Megatronus.”
“I go by Megatron, nowadays. Less ostentatious.”
“Less impressive.”
The Captain sputters.
The gladiator still smiles.
The leader of the Decepticons recovers after a moment, laughing. “Very good! I like your humour. You have great courage, as you should! I can work with that.”
“Do tell me your intentions with me, then.”
“Recruitment. But first…” Inspecting the huge femme closely from another angle, Megatron asks the younger gladiator, “Does your manager not ensure your maintenance?” A gentle prod to a deep cut across her pauldron, a wound where tender wires are exposed, as if intended to garner a reaction so as to prove his point.
She refuses to flinch, however. “I don’t have a master. Just I.”
“Master,” he echoes, smiling. “Neither did I. Useless things.”
She feels him grasp her rail, which has been rigid at her back, but now it segments itself and sways, eerily serpentine, squirming slow and sensual within his curious palms.
“You were a labourer once. This is a tool intended for hard work. Now, it is a weapon. I saw how you used it to crush your opponent. Resourceful. You are like me. My flail was, believe it or not, intended to smash rock and not brain modules.”
“I’m flattered.”
“And I have a proposition for you.”
She watches him as he steps before her. Allows him to grasp her chin next, turning her helm from side to side, peeling back her upper derma to bare chipped dentas.
He grimaces. “I will organise your repairs and pay for the lot.”
“And in exchange, I’ll give you my contract and fight for you.”
“You make it sound so… mercantile.” He brushes a thumb over her cheek, where there is dried Energon spattered upon the membrane of her synthetic skin. “I shall have you cleaned up and assigned a place where your skill and strength will be actually useful and not just entertaining. You shall help me save our world as it turns into a new era of peace, prosperity, and progress.”
“I’m not built for peacekeeping.”
“Neither am I, yet I fight for it.”
She rumbles like thunder deep within the bulk of her plain, unadorned chassis, favouring armour over aesthetics, typical of gladiators, yet her gaze is fixed and far too friendly for such a grim, gorgeous creature. Her rail sways behind her, serpentine, and then goes rigid once more, setting against her spinal strut.
“I enjoyed seeing you in the arena. You are impressive, even to me. I have no doubt that great fame awaits you, yet this life is not conducive to having a future. Take it from me. I would know.” He releases her chin, finally, and lays a palm over her Spark. “You will wear yourself down and die to someone half your age someday, as you might kill me if I were still playing that game.”
She looks down at his servo upon her upper chassis, then looks up at him again, still smiling.
“Join me, Empress, and I will make you more than you are now. I will give you a future.”
“As an Ascenticon.”
“Ah!” Megatron beams with delight, instantly appearing millions of years younger. “Yesss. You know our true name! That delights me. Oh, we shall be firm friends, you and I. I know it in my Spark! Do you know it in yours?”
Instead of answering, the femme looks to the other mech in the chamber.
Starscream’s pretty face is twisted with revulsion at the stink of spent inner Energon, perspired coolant and greased joints so typical of these bulky grounder athletes, only magnified somewhat after a recent battle. Certainly, he has enjoyed his lover’s masculine scent, but Megatron has been very well-groomed since he gave up the arena.
Empress’ smile deepens as the smaller flier hastily steps back, fleeing from her gaze and the potency of her presence.
“You called Slip yet?”
“No,” Windblade confesses, avoiding Bumblebee’s optics even as he cuddles closer to her.
“Don’t let Starscream ruin her for you. Don’t ever let him win.”
“I know. I won’t. I just need to get myself in order, before I inflict myself on her. She’s got it hard enough already, without me acting all… weird. I hope he doesn't take it out on her. Primus. What have I done?”
“She's strong. Tough. She loves you. She’s one of your friends, Windblade. We all love you. She'll be okay, so long as you're okay. And you're gonna be okay, because you're loved.”
“And you all keep telling me that,” the Cityspeaker mumbles, running her palm over the scout’s arm. “But I don’t feel very lovable right now.”
“We’ll still be here for you."
"I've got the best friends ever."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah!" Windblade looks at Bumblebee, managing a smile simply because his smile is so convincing. "It's true. The very best."
"Then trust you'll pull through, bestie, and you won't do it alone."
"Thanks, Bee. I love you."
"Love you back."
They nuzzle.
"Don’t neglect her, okay? Take some space, then give her a call.”
“Okay. You’re right. I will.”
“For now, how about a game of Dead-Dark-Drone?”
"Oh-ho! You in the mood to kick my aft all of a sudden, huh?"
"Hey, maybe you'll beat me this time! Can't know if you don't try, right?"
"Right. Pretty sure you'll beat me again, though, since you always do. Probability dictates, and whatever."
"Whatever!"
They embrace, giggling altogether.
“Got the stuff you wanted from storage.”
“Thanks, Slippy. You're the best.”
"Sometimes, a little bit, maybe."
"Don't you go being too modest."
Slipstream sets a heavy box of miscellaneous spare parts and assorted scrap gently down, then idly stands by and watches Flamewar tinkering with her shotgun for a while. "Whatcha doin'?" Seekers are naturally curious creatures, despite their reputation as idiots.
"Trying to get this charge pack installed. It's a tight fit. Needs some filing down."
"Isn't that dangerous?"
"Yeah, if I breach the inner casing, the cell's integrity will be compromised and the whole thing's likely to explode when fired."
"Oof. Please be careful."
"Don't worry, I'm a professional. I think?"
"Okay. I trust you."
The bike smiles as the curious Seeker draws a little closer, large servo fiddling with the vice on the edge of the workbench.
"I always think of Acid Storm when I see you in here, tinkering away at something."
"Smart green guy, right? Kinda quiet, easygoing?"
"Right. Of course, they didn't have a proper workshop back at the base, but they made do. They hardly complained. I tried not to, but I made so many appeals to Starscream and he'd always say something-something budget, something-something unjustified expenditure, something-something go away I'm busy right now..."
"Jerk."
"I always felt so..."
Flamewar glances up at Slipstream to find her scowling handsomely.
"It made me angry. At Star, for being such a jerk to us, sometimes. At the world, for prohibiting us Seekers from truly participating within it."
"Nobody's hiring?"
"Nobody wants us."
"Primus."
"All Acid wanted to do was create things and solve problems, but they always got shut down when they proposed their inventions and they eventually just stopped trying to be seen and heard, just tinkering quietly away in the background. The other Seekers were always happy to play, because our lives were so simple and easy back then and they didn't feel the same emptiness I always did. But Acid, my Acid, they wanted to do more, be more. Star stifled them. The world stifled them. I'm still mad about it."
"Self-awareness is a glitch, huh?"
"Ugh. It sure is."
"I'm sorry, Slippy. I feel real bad about all that stuff I said about fliers before. You clearly had it worse than I realised."
"It's fine, I don't blame you. Seekers are idiots, mostly, and our gift of flight does make our kind generally a bit arrogant."
"You're sweet, though."
"So are you."
"Your old boss sounds like a gaping afthole. Can't believe dreamboat wants to frag him so bad, just so she can own him and ride him out in public or whatever. She should aim so much higher, she deserves way better."
"She does. And she won't seduce him. I'm just not sure how to break it to her, just yet. But he's not all bad, really."
"He's not?"
"Star has his quirks. But he does love us, in his own way. He's a Seeker, too - he's a victim just as much as I am, only he outranks me."
"Megatron's with Starscream now. Stuff is gonna get loads better for you and the other Seekers, soon as we Decepticons have won, and we're winning already. Hang in there, okay?"
"I just need to survive."
"You will. You're not allowed to die." Flamewar's undertone is a little spooky. "You promised."
Slipstream swallows thickly.
The bike perks all of a sudden, lighter and less intense. "You're not alone, Slippy."
The Seeker finds it in herself to smile.
"You got me, you got boss bot and dreamboat and the big guy. We got your back. And you got a girl waiting for you back home, and that little yellow guy she's always with, what's his name again?" Flamewar calling anyone little is unintentionally amusing.
"Bumblebee." Slipstream chuckles, playing with the vice, tightening its jaws.
"Yeah, that's the one. He sounds kinda hot."
"He's very handsome. Charming and funny, too. If you like him, you'll like Hot Rod, he's really nice."
"Oh, dude with the flames? Really hunky, but kinda silly too?"
"Yes! You've met him?"
"Had a drink with him."
Slipstream grins at Flamewar.
"I would." The bike shrugs. "He would. I could tell. Except he forgot to ask for my comm link, and I forgot to ask for his, so yeah. Would've, should've, could've, but didn't."
"Honestly."
"Yeah, but I'll get him next time."
"You two will be firm friends, I'm sure of it."
"Friends that frag, I hope."
"My friends are all, uh, quite liberal with each other, in that regard."
"Nice. I can't wait to meet 'em."
"Arcee will love you. She's got the softest, brightest spark, so much positive energy. When she smiles, it lights up the room."
"Is she hot?"
"Oh, she's so hot. And very pink. Her best friend is this big guy, Grimlock, he's very articulate and clever, tells great stories."
"Y'know, I think I've met her, too."
"Really!"
"Yeah, I was getting, uh, 'escorted' outta the Grand Imperium by that guard - the one with the optics - and she went all customer service on his aft, threatened to report him for abusing me. She had this big guy with her. Never got their names, never gave them mine. Seems like I make enigmatic entrances and exits something of a habit, huh?"
Slipstream is unpleasantly reminded of all that happened before, at the Grand Imperium. "That does sound like Arcee," is said a bit distantly. "She would rescue someone in need. Big on social media, though I wouldn't know much about that."
"I don't have any online presence whatsoever." Flamewar turns over the charge pack, inspecting the outer casing closely as she shapes it with a file under a warm light. "I tried to find myself and found nothing."
"I know how that feels."
"Slippy, let's not get too existential here."
"Definitely, let's not do that."
"And as much as I like having you all to myself, you're gonna get in trouble with boss bot if you leave your station for too long."
"Oh, yeah, I should get back to work."
"Right. I borrowed you already, but I sure don't wanna delay you too much and get you lectured. You're so well-behaved, it'd spoil your flawless record." Flamewar smirks. "Isn't that right, eh, good girl?"
Slipstream gasps, shuddering.
"Did I say that right? Should I say it again, low and slow?"
"That's so unfair!"
"Good... girl."
"Stahp! Don't tease me!"
"You're blushing, bro."
"Well, fine! I am a good girl, and I am certainly not ashamed of that, not even a little bit!"
"You are such a good girl. Gooder than dreamboat and me. You're the goodest good girl. "
The Seeker puffs out, rippling all over with pleasure, flushed and adorably frowning.
The bike giggle-snorts over her workbench. "Aw, you're so much fun."
"Lucky for you, I just miss you when you're cooped up in here."
"Slippy, you see me every day."
"I still miss you."
"Aw. I miss you too, pal. Low-key, it does get lonely in the armoury." The bike certainly does not mind the companionship. She does not mind, even when she reaches for a file of a different grain and finds it has gone missing.
The Seeker has procured the metallic file and is inspecting it.
"Careful with that. It's sharper than it looks."
Slipstream tilts her helm, distinctly avian, wings bobbing. She is big and beautiful and being very cute just now.
Flamewar sighs fondly.
The Seeker brushes a digit ever so lightly over the grain, then raises the tip to her optics. “Ouch.”
“What did I just say?" The bike throws up her servos with a dramatic huff. "Seriously, Slippy! Gimme that.”
Slipstream meekly passes back the file, frowning at the minor superficial damage to her own paint. She did not really feel it. It does not really hurt. She is covered in armour, even at the tips of her digits.
“Gimme that, too,” Flamewar grumbles, gently taking the wrist to guide the wounded digit, depositing a kiss upon its tip. “Better?”
"Yes." The Seeker smiles. “Thank you.”
“Honestly, Slippy.” The bike deposits another kiss upon the tip of the digit. “What did you think was gonna happen?” Another kiss, lingering and firm.
Slipstream impulsively imagines it is her engorged and extended spike pressed to Flamewar’s scarred intake instead of that large, blunt digit. Flushes at the hot surge of arousal such a graphic thought provokes, smile turning crooked, Spark fluttering, fuel pump suddenly overworked.
And then they make optic-contact.
Said spike sends an eager prompt inviting full pressurisation, but the modesty panels remain stubbornly shut, thus the semi-swollen desire is choked in its captivity in a way that feels really pleasant and also really unpleasant all at once, tightening the modesty panels with a hot throbbing need for release. This happens sometimes, the Seeker reminds herself, lost in the bike’s upturned gaze. Surely it is easy enough to go on pretending like it is not happening, has not been happening over and over, even when it begins to hurt.
Flamewar assumes she knows Slipstream’s limitations, and for all their flirting, tries not to exceed them. But the bike knows exactly what the Seeker is thinking, right now, because Flamewar is picturing the very same thing that has Slipstream so flushed, cooling fans whirring in their frames, a crescendo of instinct throttled by manners.
Self-pleasure protocols will silence nature’s call for a time, after all, but not the lonely need for companionship some creatures feel even when their baser needs are physically sated.
“…Uh…”
The bike hums a reply, muffled by digit.
The Seeker chews her bottom derma in that distracting way of hers.
Flamewar suddenly parts her intake from that digit, only just far enough to speak. "Is this okay?" Hot air, filtered through fangs.
"Yes." Slipstream’s wings quiver. Her digit remains steady, hovering before those scuffed dermas, so much softer than they seem. "If it's okay with you, too?"
"It's so okay, Slippy."
"Okay."
The bike leans in and kisses the digit again.
The Seeker's shutters flutter.
Flamewar’s engine rumbles, as it often does, but she betrays her desire with a dilation of her lenses, flooding the periphery of her bright optics, dimmed lustfully. She is entirely spoken for by the digit pressed to her kissing dermas, now.
“Do you, uh… come here… often?” That is one of the stupidest things Slipstream has ever said, and she says it with one of her handsomest smiles ever, too.
It works, however, because it shatters so much of this tension and gets the bike giggle-snorting into the kiss. In turn her dermas part and her fangs are bared, but she does not withdraw, nuzzling closer to the Seeker's digit.
Slipstream’s digit breaches the gap, lightly touching one of those curved fangs, brushing against the blade.
Flamewar is still giggle-snorting even as her vents hitch and she gently closes her dermas around that digit, neatly trapping the tip of it within her smiling intake.
At this point, the Seeker becomes aware not only of the wet heat of that intake, but the wet heat of her valve automatically self-lubricating. Were she to open her modesty panels and expose her array, her spike would spring free to fully pressurise and her valve would drool lubricant until dripping onto the floor and wetting her inner thighs. She always has been a bit of a gusher.
The bike blinks slowly. She has the most gorgeous optics, like fire dancing with life, darkened only under the smoke of her lust.
“Ouch,” Slipstream says very huskily, caressing the fang again, flushed. "Better kiss me some more."
Flamewar sucks softly on that digit, mimicking a kiss that shallowly consumes the tip, still gazing upward.
The Seeker makes a keening sound, chewing her bottom derma, wings bobbing eagerly. It is so erotic, she can hardly hide herself at this point. She hardly cares to bother with the pretence.
The bike eases her dentas apart and slides her glossa betwixt, licking the submerged tip of that digit, perhaps a little daringly.
“Holy scrap,” Slipstream croaks.
Flamewar winks. "Mmhm."
"Okay." The Seeker lets out a shaky gust from her vents. "Oh-kay..." Slowly, she pushes herself in further, squeezing between fangs, wiggling her digit affectionately against the slick scrape of that glossa whilst measuring its worming length and girth, easing her way deeper within the tight cavern of that intake and journeying ever closer toward the bike's throat. Eventually, the knuckle is kissed, digit fully hilted, and yet there is no gag reflex triggered by the obstruction. "Oh! Okay!" Clearly astonished and impressed. "Wow!"
Trying not to look too proud, Flamewar sucks again, using her entire intake, nuzzling Slipstream's knuckle.
"Damn, girl! What that intake do!"
The bike cannot resist giggle-snorting at the Seeker's clumsy and honest delight, and in doing so, the hot, wet jostling about that digit finally triggers a dulled sensor that must have been tuned onto a low setting to make sucking spike easier. Thus Flamewar gags, with a hiccup.
Slipstream finds it astonishingly erotic, yet her concern for her friend's wellbeing wins out and she begins to pull out, until claws seize her wrist and yank her back in deep. "Easy, you'll be sick!"
A hoarse moan answers that, with a fervent sucking toward the throat, lapping of the glossa around the digit, gnawing of the fangs to provoke pinpricks of pain against the knuckle instantaneously medicated with dermas kissing so softly and soothingly, claws clenched about the reinforced wrist. The bike provokes herself to wretching noisily and a tear rolls down her cheek, but her expression is ecstatic.
"It's okay." The Seeker lays her free servo gently upon that cheek, brushing the tear away with a delicate stroke of her large thumb over an old scar. "I won't hurt you."
Flamewar rests her cheek heavily in that palm, trying to choke herself on that large digit
"You're so... Primus, I..." Slipstream cannot be a gentlefemme about this, now. Either she acts on her urgency, or she flees from it. "I want to frag you." Even saying it has the big femme quivering, but not from fear. She is not afraid of her. It is so refreshing, in so many ways. And it is so raw. A reminder that being a caretaker to a bunch of selfish and stupid Seekers does not stop the responsible one from being a sensual being too, with needs and feelings of her own, often overlooked or outright ignored or set aside for later to probably be forgotten about. "But I don't want to lose you."
The bike hears the words, even as she wretches over her workbench.
"If we do this, please don't... go." The Seeker scrunches up her handsome, angular facial rigging, aroused and anguished. "It's happened... before."
Flamewar stops herself with a shudder, blinking rapidly to clear her optics of tears, wide and staring, pupils swollen and swallowing.
Slipstream makes a soft, soothing sound and gently wipes away those tears as they overflow and spill.
The bike suddenly yanks the digit out of her throat, her intake, her dermas. A bridge of oral lubricant connects the tip with her glossa until she licks her dermas and breaks the connection. Claws release a wrist, leaving scratches behind in the paint.
The Seeker flinches as if struck, or screamed at.
"Slippy," Flamewar says, a little hoarse, nuzzling into the palm that cradles her cheek, "I couldn't leave you if I tried. I'm way, way too attached to you by now to even think of doing that. Hence why I forbid you from death, before, remember? You cannot die."
"Not when I'm with you."
"Stay with me?"
Slipstream is silent for a while, only because she refuses to let her libido do the talking.
"Slippy. Please."
"If I survive all this, and I can get away from here, I'll take you with me."
"You promise?"
"I promise."
The bike sniffles, then buries her face in the Seeker's palm.
"Please don't cry," is murmured, warm and kind.
"These are happy tears," comes out muffled and wet.
Slipstream's instinct to take care of someone she deems fragile, overcomes her urge to frag until she is spent, mostly. She kisses Flamewar's helm and nuzzles her there, producing a sort of humming sound as internal mechanisms shift. "Hush. There, there."
"I'm not like the other girls," the bike declares suddenly, pulling her face plate out of the Seeker's palm to glare up at her with passion. "Were you used, before? Did some glitch hurt you? I won't do that to you, Slippy. We're friends. I know you struggle to find friends and keep 'em, just like me."
"I'm sorry. You're not like her at all, and I don't mean to superimpose my trauma, or whatever this is, onto you. Onto any other femme. My fears are my own. You've been good to me. You don't deserve my dysfunction."
"I'm kinda dysfunctional myself, Slippy, but you want me anyway."
"I like you."
"I like you too. Describe her to me. Gimme anything you can about her movements and habits. I'll track her down and-"
"No."
"And gut her," Flamewar finishes rather lamely. "I can keep her alive for days on end, Slippy, sat with her innards in her lap, cycling in and out of consciousness."
"No," Slipstream repeats, gentle yet firm, depositing a kiss to the forehelm. "No gutting anyone, not for my sake. That's not what I like. Even if it's kinda... sweet of you to offer, I suppose? You're so intense. Windblade is the only other femme to offer to slay someone for me."
"But is she as hot as me? Way you described her, she sounds like a demigoddess. Like a femme Prime, walking among us mere mortals."
"She's a bit like that, yes." The Seeker rumbles softly with amusement, brushing her dermas over the bridge of the bike's olfactory sensor. "But I think you're both just as beautiful."
"Wow. Really?"
"Mmhm."
"Awesome. I just hope she doesn't mind sharing you. 'Cause I don't."
"She doesn't. Don't worry."
"Cool. Do you think she'll like me?"
"I know she will." Slipstream draws her wet digit before her own dermas and, with a sort of sensual sadness, takes it into her own intake, sliding slick and slow between glossy, plump, sinfully dark dermas, gaze downcast upon her friend.
Flamewar's tyres are quickly set to spinning on air at her pauldrons, engine grunting. "You like my taste?"
The Seeker suckles her own digit for some moments, before nodding. "Mmhm."
"Nice." The bike grins, flushed and flirtatious all over again. "You baddie, you. Wimbles is a lucky girl."
Slipstream inclines her helm, withdrawing her digit with a wet pop. "Wimbles?"
"Yeah. I'mma call your girl Wimbles from now on."
"Aw! That's adorable!"
Flamewar sighs, shrugs. "I like my petnames, what can I say?" She proceeds to grasp that wrist and draw the slick digit into her intake, sucking it all the way in.
The Seeker shivers, wings jerking upright, fluttering. It is fascinating how tactile they are.
The bike gags herself to wretching, tears bursting forth and freely.
"Ohh, you'll make yourself sick, please be careful," Slipstream purrs with some concern even as she fumbles and finds Flamewar's other servo, proceeding to clumsily lick each claw, slathering the lethal blades in slick, intake hung open to seep drool like a classical pleasure frame. "Mmyeah."
A claw inserts itself as gently as such a thing can be.
A glossa drags against edges and bleeds unnoticed.
“Just gonna stand there and watch, huh?”
“I would prefer to be helpful, if I may.”
“Sit on me.”
“As you wish.”
To anyone else, it would be a comical sight.
Orion, seated upon Ariel’s back plates, rising and falling in tandem with her regimen of push-ups, adding his considerable weight to her workout.
Nobody else is here, and so nobody else laughs.
“Gonna be honest, I’ve lost count. I’m in this for the long haul.”
“That is alright. Do not strain yourself. I will get you refreshments afterward.”
“Thanks, Orion.”
“You are welcome, Ariel.”
She has always valued exercise and he is no weakling, coming from the docks as she did. But by comparison, he knows she excels in brute strength and sheer endurance even in her old age, whereas he has grown soft with academic pursuits. He knows, also, that she is upset and trying to constructively burn the energy.
"C'mon, Slippy," Flamewar purrs, on her knees, gazing upward. "Pop those panels for me."
Slipstream tastes her own inner Energon oozing from the cut in her glossa, but she does not care about that, hardly noticing the sting when she licks her dermas and finally, finally, allows her codpiece to open up to someone else.
“Here, kitty.” Hot Rod sets down the bowl, remaining crouched. “Come get your noms.” He hopes that this time, he will be permitted to pet the stray, after weeks of gradually warming up to his presence and developing a tenuous trust in him.
The sleek black cybercat is looking and smelling distinctly cleaner this visit, almost as if someone kind took to caring for this little creature. Slinking over with bright optics and sheathed claws, the stray hisses at the mech before diving into the offering of food, glaring at him all the while.
He smiles and offers his digits. He has been scratched before and he will forgive being scratched again, but he senses that this time, it will be different.
The cybercat stiffens, taking a moment to raise its mucky muzzle to sniff his servo before hissing again and resuming eating.
He inhales sharply and lays his digits upon the stray’s ears without retaliation. His patience and compassion have paid off. He has finally made a friend out of the feline.
Stood in the doorway and yet unnoticed, Shadow Striker quickly reboots her optic whilst leaving her scope online, thus confirming that she is not imagining what she sees. Never mind what she hears and smells and senses in other, subtler ways, highly tuned and modified as she is, rebuilding much of herself into an almost perfect huntress, built to efficiently track, stalk, and ambush targets whilst operating on her systematic data readouts dependant on whatever scant evidence she can glean from the environment.
Back pressed uncomfortably against a weaponry storage rack, pauldrons slack amidst guns on display that are secured behind a shimmering mesh with a coded lock when in disuse, Slipstream moves her hips slowly, almost gently, all whilst fondly caressing Flamewar's helm and bracing her there beneath a large servo. Clearly, this has been going on for a while, because both femmes drip perspired coolant and stink of frag-me pheromones.
The mercenary gawks like a fool.
The bike's bright optics are rolled back, her open intake stretched about the slick girth and suckling the submerged length, positioned upon her knees and bobbing her helm in tandem with the Seeker's lazy thrusts from below her grip, thrusts that impale deep enough to occasionally provoke a hiccup, a wretch, and much weeping, engine purring all the while.
"You're so good at this… I like what you're doing… I like you…" Slipstream being capable of using such a delicious undertone has even Shadow Striker indisposed.
Flamewar is enjoying herself far more than one might expect. Her engine guns it and she shudders within her curves, almost melting upon her knees, drawing out a charge that flickers within her field, radiating affection and desire and pleasure all at once.
The mercenary is no virgin frame. Age has done nothing to diminish her libido, heightened as it is by trauma, the response of some traumatised people. She is experienced and accomplished as a professional, and as a lover. In her long and varied life, she has enjoyed mechs and femmes and anyone else willing, partaking in her fair share of organised orgies and impromptu liasons. And yet she is utterly unprepared for this. She had almost grown comfortable with the Seeker's shyness by now, although the bike is not nearly as subtle.
Slipstream huffs a little as she battles against the urge to release her transfluid from her neglected reserves. She affectionately pinches Flamewar's ornamentation and smiles tenderly down upon her. "Touch yourself."
Shadow Striker is very tempted to do just that.
The bike eagerly sets about fondling herself, cupping her fiery breastplate and retracting her own modesty panels with a wet scraping sound before digging between her splayed thighs, whimpering with a stuffed intake and obstructed throat.
"That's it… I like that, ooh… I like that a lot…" The Seeker looks almost pained as she resists the protocols begging for release. Not just yet, she tells herself. Just a little further now. She wants her friend to overload first, if possible. "Hahhh! Are you gonna…?"
The mercenary feels her codpiece clench upon her interface array.
"I want you to 'load for me… I need it…"
She had come searching for Slipstream, who has neglected her assigned task - concerning, because it is so unusual of her to be so careless, considering who she is, the validation she craves - and did not foresee that she would be getting laid, but here they are, and clearly Flamewar is doing a good job of it, if the quivering wings and dulcet moans between husky words are any indication. Shadow Striker is a bit jealous, being left out like this. She wants to join them, or at least jerk herself off if she is going to stand here and watch. She does neither such thing.
"Ohhh, yeah… I'm close," the Seeker murmurs, vents hitching and brows creased together, reigning in the urge to pump and dump, keeping her hips to a considerate rhythm. "Where do you want it?" She affectionately drags her digits over the bike's finials, eliciting a moan, muffled and wet. "Tell me… I'm so close… I can't hold it… Flamewar, please!"
The mercenary realises she is being a creep and quietly begins backing out of the doorway, intending to leave the femmes to their compromised privacy, only to brush her heel against a box of spare parts. Something metallic is shifted out of place with a clatter and she grimaces, freezing instinctively, but she does not have a cloak integrated into her frame right now and so she is not invisible.
Slipstream spots Shadow Striker and gasps. "Sir!" Attempts a salute, hips jerking out of control due to this diversion of conscious attention, grimacing upon the rule of instinct in spite of any rank or riducule of social censure.
Flamewar takes a thrust in too deep, almost empties her digestive tank and wretches horribly as she hastily spits out the spike, wrenching back her helm to splutter and drool cloudy, thickened oral lubricant mixed with transfluid.
"Sorry." The mercenary holds up her servos. "I can explain."
"Heh, boss bot." The bike turns back with a wonky grin, slick and drooling. "Nice."
The Seeker is about to speak, when she promptly overloads with a bellow worthy of a true slag instead, still trying to maintain that salute, bless her.
Flamewar catches a burst of transfluid to the cheek, and where some femmes would take offence, she is delighted instead, squeezing an optic shut and grinning. "Aw, yeah, gimme that stuff!"
Shadow Striker gawks harder.
Slipstream's knee joints finally give out and she claws at the mesh behind herself to avoid falling atop her friend, helm thrown back with a dull clang of impact and a mewl or much needed relief.
The bike grabs the spike and holds it steady, bathed in release.
The mercenary just goes on gawking as if she has never seen such a thing before.
The Seeker dies a little bit.
Craving more, Flamewar massages the curve of throbbing metal, marked out in glowing sensory nodes at regular intervals, her clawed fist pumping up and down with haste and astonishing strength, squeezing out rope upon rope. In moments, she overloads too, stroking herself into a frenzy that has her bouncing on her other servo, cursing and cooing, clenching her ample aft reflexively.
Shadow Striker locks optics with Slipstream.
"Sir, I - ohhh, yeeeaaaah! Frag! Grrrmph!"
And just like that, everything is irrevocably different between them.
Notes:
I wasn't gonna make you wait another 50 chapters for Slipstream to finally get laid. Also, please let me know if you know who 'Empress' actually is, considering how obscure a character she is and my efforts at not entirely giving her identity away all at once.
Chapter 28: Ecstasy*
Summary:
In the wake of Slipstream's undoing, Shadow Striker hesitates, and so Flamewar reminds them both that she is not in the mood to be patronised, levelling the playing field between the three of them. Starscream tells Megatron that Empress is not so hot, to no avail, for he has designs in place that include her as a key player in the coming pro-Decepticon propaganda pieces. Possessive over Megatron and naturally jealous, perhaps some part of Starscream fears that Empress may be hot enough to replace him after all, if not now, then eventually.
Notes:
You may have noticed that the rating of this story got bumped up from M-Mature to E-Explicit, which is to account for Explicit sexual content. Upon review almost 30 chapters in, I (the author) have made the executive decision (it's my story) to let the robots fuck with far less censorship than I'd exercised prior (therefore expect more sex scenes, written in detail and at length). Feedback is welcome, as I don't normally share E-rated content and I would value the constructive criticism. Of course, if you just wanna leave thirst comments, or tell me what a dirty little sinner I am, or disengage entirely because sexual content isn't your thing, that's fine too. Rest assured, the story is not being sacrificed for sex. That being said, this chapter is largely dedicated to the Shadow Striker/Slipstream/Flamewar triangle that is rather integral to the story, thus it is a continuation of last chapter. I hope you enjoy. Thank you!
Possible trigger warnings: abuse of power dynamics and workplace toxicity, untreated mental illness vibes, reference to self-harm via masturbation, erotic asphyxiation, use of the descriptor 'fat' in a sexual and kinky context (meant affectionately and not to bodyshame), cuck/cuckolding fetish.
Featured sex scene: Slipstream/Flamewar/Shadow Striker with Thunderblast mentioned (voyeurism/audience, scents, pheromones, instincts, dirty talk, praise, erotic eye contact, afterglow, aftercare, affection, tenderness, threesome, tactile, sticky, licking, cum swallowing, cum transfer via kiss/spit, groping, self-service, masturbation of two femmes at once, fingering, handjob, neck biting/fuel line pinching as robot equivalent of choking, headlights as robot equivalent of breasts/nipples, tyres as sensitive/erogenous zones, service switches, bossy bottom, hitting it from the back, vaginal, anal, oral/fellatio, on a workbench as if it were a desk, two femmes are more experienced than the third, older woman/younger women, unusually large spike due to modifications, unusually accommodating valve due to modifications, larger femme on smaller femme, smaller femme vocal, cuck/cuckolding)
Chapter Text
The armoury stinks of interfacing, the still, stale air humid and heavy with the frag-me pheromones femmes release when they perspire and overload, to encourage intimacy and stir up passion in even the most reserved personalities.
Slipstream is a little drunk on it. She forgets all composure before Shadow Striker, because Flamewar is overloading and there can be nothing more intoxicating than that. What purpose do shame and decorum serve, in these moments?
They are living metallic beings, after all, with desires to be satisfied in body and mind, complex social networks to develop and maintain, instincts to act and react. Civilisation is the collective pretence otherwise.
“You like that?!”
“Hoooyeeeaaah!”
“Take it, glitch!”
Truthfully, the mercenary has heard far better dirty talk. This is quite basic stuff. But it has her engine running hot all the same, interface protocols screaming at her to engage with the coupled femmes, to rut with their bodies. And yet she keeps back.
The Seeker’s trembling legs provide support as the bike frags herself frantically against them, yanking on that spike in a manner that surely must be painful as well as pleasurable, digging claws into her own valve with obscene squelching sounds and barks of her engine.
Shadow Striker’s enstrils flare to take in their scent, audials tuning in on their panting vents and whirring cooling fans and the grinding ebb and flow of internal mechanical parts, her vision highlighting areas of vulnerability and offering helpful data readouts upon the periphery.
Flamewar is not being gentle with herself, let alone with her friend.
Slipstream is not complaining at the rough treatment, or even cautioning that her friend avoid hurting herself.
The mercenary watches the bike with a combat scope, whirring and narrowed into a pinprick of keen interest that zooms in on her servo buried between her dark and shapely thighs, churning lewdly. Simultaneously, the neighbouring optic stares at the Seeker’s flushed face plate, and she stares right back, electrifying.
Flamewar suddenly stops making so much noise, slumps, sighs, as if in the process of shutting down, sitting heavily on her own claws she had just used to pleasure her valve, spike left unattended and enclosed within its protective, discrete interior sheath with some strain, evidently due to personal preference. Her dark and shapely frame sinks into an afterglow upon her knees with another lover’s transfluid upon her face.
Slipstream cries out for the both of them as one final yank on her collection of sensory nodes engorged with pressurised inner Energon draws out an agonising spurt. Optic-contact with Shadow Striker remains unbroken. And then, only whimpers and whines, wounded.
The mercenary licks her dermas reflexively.
“Awesome,” the bike concludes quietly. “I needed that. Damn.” She leans heavily on her friend’s partially collapsed legs, nuzzling against her slick thigh, depositing a little kiss to her spike. “Thanks, Slippy.” Claws release the curve of hot, slick, flushed metal and it flops without the added support of that servo, semi-pressurised and rather tormented.
The Seeker just offers a breathy and husky moan as she holds herself together with her brute upper body strength, knees too weak to do so on their own. Helm hung heavily on her bent neck, she oozes, exhales steam from her vents, chews her derma in that distracting way of hers. She flutters her shutters coquettishly, dimmed optics upon Shadow Striker, sultry and starved.
The mercenary grinds her jaw and clenches her fists, aching for some soft living metal to sink her dentas and digits into. Unfortunately, her resting glitch face and tense posture make her seem furious, and yet her scent and field indicate furious arousal. It is very hot, but also severely intimidating.
Slipstream is not frightened off, however. Her overload-drunk brain module craves affection and intimacy more so than usual, to give it away and to get it back. She wants to throw herself at someone, anyone who will take her and have her. She might actually have the idiotic courage to swagger on over and make a move on her boss, if her legs would only respond.
Flamewar giggle-snorts. Her bright optics are shut. She looks like she might doze off in this position, slumped against her friend’s thigh, nuzzling at the edge of an opened codpiece, flushed face plate half spattered with transfluid, kneeling in a puddle of multiple overloads, groping her own valve. A large servo settles upon her helm and she purrs beneath it.
Shadow Striker intends to playback this memory file over and over again, for her own enjoyment the next time she feels lonely. Even she feels lonely, from time to time.
The Seeker leans heavily back against the gun rack to uphold her immense weight in her weakened condition, one fist gripping the mesh to keep from collapsing upon her knees whilst the other fusses fondly over the kneeling bike’s helm, cradling her close to the groin, ruffling her finials and fondling her audials. All whilst gazing intently, hungrily into the mercenary’s searing optic, scathing scope.
Shadow Striker knows an invitation when she sees one.
“Wanna go again, Slippy?” murmurs Flamewar drowsily against an inner thigh, enjoying a nice pat on the helm with a faceful of her friend’s sweaty groin.
An eager nod and bobbing of the spike are all Slipstream can manage.
“I’mma spike you this time, eh, Slippy.”
More eager nodding and spike bobbing in reply.
“Cool.”
“Pardon me, ladies.”
The younger femmes revive a little when their commanding officer thus addresses them.
“You left your station and didn’t report to me, Slipstream,” the mercenary purrs with a nod to the Seeker, who flushes but offers no apology. “You’re usually the one she goes to when she does go astray, Flamewar,” is then purred to the bike, who is shamelessly touching herself. “And so here I am. Just checking in. All the same, I apologise for the interruption. If I’d known, I would’ve at least knocked.”
“That’s cool, boss bot. You made it better.”
“Oh, did I?”
“You’ve got perfect timing, y’know. I squirted while you watched us. So did Slippy.”
“I’m flattered.”
“And I’m a bad influence, so don’t blame her for this one, yeah?”
“I don’t blame anyone.”
“Whew!”
“Though, I do prefer that the tasks I assign to my team are undertaken to completion.”
“That’s fair. Sorry.”
“I’ll let this one go. I’m no spoilsport. We do need to have a little fun around here, down in the Pits. It’s so dreary and dull and depressing otherwise.”
“Also, you’re fragging dreamboat on the side, so it’d be hugely hypocritical for you to get mad right now. No disrespect to her, she’s awesome. She can geddit, and she does. She makes you her glitch, doesn’t she, boss bot.”
“Listen, you. I’m nobody’s glitch.”
“Does she make you call her mommy when she’s topping you?”
“She’s tried. I drew a line. Besides, there’s nothing wrong with bottoming for a beautiful femme who knows what she’s doing.”
“I wish she’d top me. Damn. Just crush me underneath, know what I mean? Totes squish me. That’s how I wanna die, if I gotta die. Obliterated under a fat aft.”
“Mood. And you haven’t stopped touching yourself this entire time.”
“I’m still rowdy. Help a girl out?”
“Tell me what you need and I’ll consider it.”
“We put on a good show for ya? Did you have fun, too? Tell me, boss bot. I wanna hear you say it.”
“You certainly did. I certainly did.”
“Niiice.” Flamewar is just enjoying her afterglow, sighing, squeezing herself between her thighs with a series of squelches and shudders. “Super hot that you watched us, what we got up to. I like that a lot.”
Slipstream ought to be mortified that she got caught fraternising with a comrade in a secured area with strictly restricted access to lethal weaponry, ashamed that she left her work unfinished in contravention of a superior’s command without reporting in, and afraid of just what might be done to herself and her friend in punishment. She just does not care about any of that, not in the afterglow.
“Dirty old femme.”
Shadow Striker smiles all of a sudden. Her smiles are rare, and rarely soft or kind. This smile is cutting and cruel, which just makes her more erotically intense.
“Sooo…” The bike licks her fangs. “You gonna keep watching, boss bot? Or are you ’boutta show us how it’s done?” She gropes her valve a little faster with a wet cacophony partially muffled between her thick thighs, panting from her vents.
The Seeker interjects with an eager nod, a bobbing spike.
The mercenary focuses upon the valve and spike presented to her with lingering interest. Her smile turns crooked, sly.
Flamewar fondly kisses the curve of swollen, throbbing metal, slick and fragrant with release, burning to the touch.
Slipstream feels herself twitch against those soft, scarred dermas, semi-pressurised. There is more than enough transfluid left in her neglected reserves and her valve remains unsatisfied, lubricated generously in preparation, dripping a puddle between her pedes. She is being so dumb right now. She cannot care.
“Keeping your distance like you paid for this performance, boss bot. That's cool with me, and it seems like Slippy doesn't mind. But, like, c'mon, at least tell us what to do to each other, for your viewing pleasure.”
Shadow Striker hesitates. She is not a good person, she has never asserted otherwise. She is not lacking in self-awareness, for she knows perfectly well just how bad a person she really is. She takes advantage of Thunderblast's fetish for power in order to gain access to the enjoyment of her body, and in turn, allows her to take advantage of Shadow Striker's authority in order to fulfil some power fantasy. But whereas Thunderblast lusts for Shadow Striker's power, Slipstream and Flamewar actually admire their commanding officer. They might adore Shadow Striker, someday. This terrifies her when she thinks about it. She has already abused her position of power over them, simply where it was convenient to do so, simply for the pleasure of it. Being a mercenary has left her a survivor and selfish. Being a Decepticon has forced her to settle, but she is still that ruthless old glitch at Spark. Megatron expects nothing less.
"You want me to top her? I can do that."
The mercenary's line of work and lifestyle do not facilitate characteristics of goodness, even under the shared banner of Decepticons, no matter how noble their core proclaims to be. Gentleness, empathy and patience are not in her nature, they do not come easily to her, but these qualities would benefit fragile people like Slipstream and Flamewar. And so Shadow Striker hesitates to frag them. Being trapped down in the Pits with these people, she knows how sick this is and how sick she is and how sick they are, for having grown fond of each other as people, yet perpetuating this toxic dynamic. Is there any other way?
“You’re real quiet, boss bot.”
“Sorry. I’m a little lost in thought.”
“Naughty thoughts?”
“Some of them are.”
“You might be thinking too hard.”
“I’m sure I am.”
“You’re not as impulsive as me, huh. If I were in your place, with two gorgeous femmes offering me their afts? I’d dive right in.”
“I’m quite capable of being reckless. As if fraternisation even means anything down here.”
“So, what’s stopping you? Just don't wanna?”
"No, I want to." A tired sigh. “If I tell you the truth, I’ll appear soft, and I don’t generally appreciate that.”
“Ah." A scoff. "I geddit, now.”
“Do you?”
“Yeah! You’re too hard for us. That's a bit patronising, I mean, for me it's patronising. Slippy might not mind.”
“Primus, Flamewar, I'm trying to be decent here.”
"Boss bot, I get that, but you're using a tone with me and making a lotta assumptions about what I can take from you, and even if it comes from the right place, I don't like it right now. Right now, it rubs me wrong. In other contexts, it'd be kinda sweet, but not like this. Not when I got my whole valve out and you're staring at it with all that hunger while talking to me like I'm an invalid or something. Pardon the terminology."
"Flamewar."
“Again! Don’t do that! Don’t say my name like a mentor that’s mad at me. I got issues, but I’m glad to say, mentor issues aren’t any of them. I don’t remember my mentor, if I ever had one, and respectfully, you’re a poor substitute.”
The Seeker cringes. Her spike goes a little more flaccid.
"Was that mean? I feel like I oughta backtrack. That was mean. Sorry, boss bot, I'm not good at, uh, stuff like this."
“Enough.”
"Okay, now I'm annoyed, for real. I got more to say! I did my best to hear you out, every time you tried to talk me down, so you listen to me, now! Or just leave!”
Shadow Striker stays put, glaring, facial rigging bent into a scowl.
“Thought so! You do wanna hear what I have to say. Because you care! And I appeaciate it, Sir. It means so much to me, you don't even know.”
"I do know."
"Then listen." Flamewar is still touching herself, but she does it like she means to cut her valve into ribbons with her claws. “If you don’t want us, that’s cool! If you just don't feel like it right now, that’s cool too! No pressure! But don’t be so demeaning! Yeah, I need a safe, secure, loving home, filled with safe, secure, loving people. But I can't exactly get what I need, because who would accept me? Not normal people! I'm too abnormal and strange, but here, I got people who like me as I am! And what I got right now, are these Decepticons, and you!”
Slipstream's spike keeps deflating little by little, gradually giving up hope that this will manifest into the hottest threesome in history. She feels such guilt. Stupid, selfish, sad.
"What, you think you’re too big, strong, tough, and bad for us?” The bike tilts her helm, dripping the Seeker’s transfluid, one optic squeezed shut and the other a slit of burning light that probes the mercenary intelligently despite the self-pleasure protocols still in effect, claws buried in a valve. “Okay, Slippy is a sweet Spark and I can’t speak for her, but that offends me, boss bot. I’m offended.”
Something Windblade said echoes in Slipstream’s helm, like a prophecy of self-destruction. It is a sobering memory, but not sobering enough to quell what little of this temptation remains. It just makes things sore, but pain can be pleasurable or excused with overstimulation, both of which apply right now. Her spike still has a little pressure retained within, too swollen to sullenly retract within its internal compartment. She tries to hide it under a servo, pinning her dwindling erection against herself and averting her gaze elsewhere.
“You care and that makes you uncomfortable.” Flamewar strokes herself faster, still, ranting over her panting vents and wet slapping sounds muffled by thick thighs. “What makes me uncomfortable, is that you think I'm so pathetic and fragile and whatever, just letting yourself give in, allowing yourself to frag my body, might do irrepairable damage to my already fragged mind! Because surely I couldn't take whatever you wanna dish out even with me asking for it! Because I'm small and strange! I'm a little crazy, sure, I'm damaged goods! But we're all kinda crazy and damaged down here. Well, okay, except for the big guy and Slippy, they're the sanest among us, and I don't think their damage makes them kinda crazy like you, me, and dreamboat, no offence, but we are definitely not normal. Nuh-uh! No way!”
“I’ve lost my mind a little bit,” the Seeker concedes quietly, speaking for the first time in some time. “Demolishor is definitely the sanest, though.”
“I'm a bad glitch! But you stand over there, looking at me like that, acting as if I couldn’t make you my glitch for a change, or survive being yours! I’m offended, boss bot. Dreamboat isn’t the only femme with her wiles intact, y’know! Again, no shade to her, but if she can take you, I’ll survive you too, I promise! So take me, then, if you want me, because I say it’s okay to want me, and I want you too! And it’s okay if you choose not to, but please, do it without making me less of who I really am! I... I dunno who I really am. It hurts to think about. Please don’t feel sorry for me. I just wanna be wanted back.”
The mercenary’s chin quivers with actual emotion.
"And anyway, it’s not your job to fix me. Like, you aren’t equipped to. I didn’t ask to be fixed. Just to be accepted. You can’t fix me, it’s not your place, you even acknowledged that! You, acting all superior, all self-righteous! How arrogant are yooouuugh–!” The bike lurches, overloading on her own claws.
Slipstream wishes she could disappear, hit with another wave of frag-me pheromones.
Flamewar slumps again. She drools onto her own bosom. Her engine ticks over.
Shadow Striker takes a step closer. One step becomes two. And with each subsequent step it takes to cross the armoury, it becomes increasingly apparent that she is struggling just to walk, tottering drunkenly over to the younger femmes. Her arousal is that intense.
"Boss bot," the bike mewls, weeping, shuddering, "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean-"
"You did," the mercenary mutters before dropping heavily to her knees with a groan of agonised ecstasy and clamour of heavy armoured sheets upon impact. "It's fine."
The Seeker dares herself to look at whatever might happen next, sufficiently emasculated.
Shadow Striker scoops Flamewar into a hug, smearing transfluid, perspired coolant, lubricant from the intake and the valve whilst pulling her smaller, curvacious framework close and holding her tightly enough that they both creak with strain.
Slipstream manages a weak smile at that as her spike grows entirely soft.
"I don't like her."
Megatron exhales softly from his great, battered old vents, an arm wrapped about Starscream's slender frame, the mechs walking together side-by-side.
"Not one bit."
"Why do you dislike her so? You have only just met."
"She has this... I don't know, call it a miasma, about her."
"Mmm. She does need to bathe."
"That's not what I was referring to, although I do agree. Strongly."
"It is strange, but in her company I realised that I have missed the stench of battle. It reminds me of my youth. I was so handsome and virile, back then! So splendid and strong! Not this tired old mech you love, as I am now."
"Well, I much prefer you clean and doused in scented oils as you are now, decrepit though you may be, thank you very much!"
The leader of the Decepticons rumbles with laughter, then settles into a sigh and smiles lovingly aside at the Captain of the Seekers, who scowls prettily into the distance, unamused.
"No. It is not her Energon-soaked, unwashed armour that offends me so. Though, that does nothing to endear her to me. She would be rather lovely if she took better care of herself, I must confess."
"What are you referring to, then, my shining Star? What is this miasma of hers, that offends you so?"
"She makes me feel like she might crush me just with her presence. Her... influence. It radiates off her like, well, an odour. But she cannot wash this effect away. No, this is all her doing, it's quite on purpose."
"Ah, she is imposing. I felt it too, though perhaps not in the way you did. To me, it felt alluring."
Starscream angles a glare upward at his smiling lover.
"And by that, I mean to say I wish to weaponise it," Megatron adds quickly, "for her magnetism could be useful to achieve our own ends!"
"Humph!"
"I can make a hero of the people out of her, as I made myself a hero. She is popular, she is successful, she reminds me of myself, when I was her age. I was alluring. Or, so I like to think."
"You remain alluring, my love, but you do not make me wilt."
"Star, I can only speak for myself, but I sense something within her. As an old gladiator, I can empathise. A kinship, perhaps. It does not offend me. No, I sense such potential. If I were to give her direction..."
"I don't like her and I don't see why we need her."
"We do not. Yet I might appeal more to the youth, with a young face and a certain charisma. I have grown dull and boring in all this political movement. It has empowered me, yet I am alienated."
"The people adore you!"
"They adore my legacy. I would not have as much sway, were I not the greatest gladiator to have ever walked upon Cybertron. Indeed, I have persuaded open minds with my words. But I am old. My appeal shall wane, in the next million years or so, and I must think ahead. I must consider the longevity of the Decepticons."
"Will that even matter? We are to crush the High Council and their sympathisers soon, far sooner than a million years or so!"
"I hope so. I do not have much patience remaining."
"You are too gentle with them!"
"A part of me wishes for Orion and Ariel to realise that I am right, I am the way. Sadly, I believe Sentinel and Alpha Trion to be lost causes, too indebted to the systems that empowered them to ever forsake their masters. Still, I love them. I hope to convince them. I must try, for just a little longer."
"You are such a kind soul."
"Thank you, my love. You help keep me kind. Your brightness begs the betterment of all. I will remake Cybertron into a world worthy of you."
Starscream always wants to swoon when Megatron talks like that.
"And in the meantime, I will embrace my allies and make something better out of every mech and femme who could further the Decepticon dream. Out of a select few, I will forge figures of renown. Leadership, serving my will, my word filtered to the masses and translated so even the simplest can comprehend, infiltrating their common culture with Decepticon ideals and behaviour 'til all are one. As above, so below."
"And you think Empress could be like Soundwave? One of these influencers, as it were?"
"Indeed, I do believe so."
"Well, fine! I've stated my grievances! I ask only that you exercise caution around that one. Because frankly, my love, I dislike the way she looks at you and I dislike the way she looks at me, too."
"I will speak with her about showing you the proper respect, my love."
"Yes! Do that!"
"Indeed, so I shall. She is to be a Decepticon, she will learn to respect me, but most importantly, she will learn to respect my second in command, first in my Spark. She will learn to respect you. The Star that shines brightest, at the highest point in the sky."
Starscream cannot be grumpy when Megatron says such things, sighing and accepting a kiss on the dainty servo.
"But do give Empress a fair chance, mm? Let me work with her. I know the weight of the gladiator's burden. I am sure she will prove useful. If she fails me, I will deal with her, as I deal with any failure. Do this for me?"
"Ugh. Fine. For you, I would do anything."
"Let me see," Shadow Striker insists, but very gently.
"Boss bot?" Flamewar glances at Slipstream, who nods encouragingly.
"Please."
The bike sniffs, then trustingly removes her claws from her valve and swings her thighs wide, exposing herself. She is obscenely wet and twitching with charge, node aglow.
"No damage." The mercenary heaves a sigh of relief, peering down. "Primus. I thought you might've cut yourself."
"I've learned to live with these claws. I know how to work myself. I get too slippery to cut. I didn't cut Slippy, either, since I got her so wet and I was being careful, believe it or not."
"That's good, then."
The Seeker glances at their faces, then stares into that valve like she could sink inside it just with her optics. Her spike gives off a tingle. She just feels too bad for much more than that.
Shadow Striker cups Flamewar's chin, gently tipping back her helm to inspect her cheek, slick and sticky with perspiration, drool, and Slipstream's transfluid, optic squeezed shut. "You're a muck."
"Yeah. I like it."
"It's a good look, on you. But it must be uncomfortable by now."
"I'll get cleaned up, boss bot, and back to work."
"I wasn't rushing you."
"I think I'm done."
"Then let me help you clean up."
The bike gazes up at the mercenary.
The Seeker's smile turns twisted when their face plates draw close, and closer still.
Shadow Striker thus dips her helm slowly and just when it seems like a kiss is destined, she extends her glossa and drags a slow lick across Flamewar's cheek, then another, and so on, patiently lapping up the mess that includes Slipstream's transfluid.
The bike stiffens all over, stunned and secured and small within the mercenary's big, strong arms.
The Seeker's spike sends a prompt for pressurisation, evidently quite flattered by the sight of its product being consumed. She accepts and swells painfully.
Flamewar grins wonkily under Shadow Striker's lapping glossa, evidently quite enjoying her tender ministrations. "That tickles."
Slipstream pumps herself, coaxing her spike to return to its full glory. Even if nobody wishes to touch her, she can touch herself to the sight of these two beautiful femmes, touching each other.
"Nasty old glitch." The bike nuzzles against the glossa that licks her clean. "You like the taste?"
The mercenary hums her appreciation and does not swallow. Just scoops her dripping glossa back and forth, lapping up filth from scarred synthetic membrane as skin, filling the reserves of her intake with lubricant, coolant, transfluid, and beyond all that, tears.
"Okay, I'm getting all hot and bothered again."
The Seeker groans when she garners a sidelong look from both femmes simultaneously, reminding her that she has not been forgotten about.
"And so's Slippy. She's hard. Nice."
Shadow Striker very gently licks the shutter of Flamwar's optic clean of fluid, allowing it to flutter open.
"Thanks, boss bot. You gonna swallow that?"
Slipstream really hopes so, pumping herself a little faster.
The mercenary looks up and gestures with a beckoning digit, intake sealed, dermas glistening and curved into a smirk.
The Seeker falls to her knees to level herself with the other femmes, drawing her face plate closer to theirs, as prompted.
The bike's grin widens. She knows now, where this is going. "Aw, yeah."
Slipstream, however, does not. When a digit brushes across her intake and applies pressure upon her chin, coaxing her to open, she obeys with innocence and eagerness, easing her jaws apart, parting her plump dermas, gleaming dentas, and exposing her own glossa and the aperture of her throat.
Shadow Striker had prohibited kisses between them, before, promising such a thing would have its consequences no matter how good it could feel. Yet she forsakes another of her own rules and leans into a gaping kiss that partially swallows her lower face plate.
The Seeker's optics widen, then flutter as they narrow with pleasure, then roll partway back into her helm as the mercenary allows for a few moments to process and respond, kissing her back.
The bike watches this happen, delighted, excited.
With an armful of Flamewar, Shadow Striker injects the payload of lubricant, perspiration, transfluid and even tears into Slipstream's intake, glossas writhing together.
The Seeker tastes herself, tastes the bike, and moans, leaving that spike unattended to capture the mercenary's cheeks in both palms instead, bracing her there, keeping her in place to lap and suck the filth from out of her. Tasting her.
"Swallow," Flamewar commands, resuming stroking herself, snuggling against Shadow Striker's neck, pauldron and bosom, hot and slick. "Be a good girl, Slippy. Good girls swallow."
Slipstream does swallow it, all of it, neck cables bobbing with the swallowing reflex. And yet she proves it when she breaks Shadow Striker's kiss and pulls back only to flop that handsome jaw open unprovoked, glossa overhanging dentas and throat bared, slick and throbbing.
"That's my girl," the mercenary mutters with approval. "Good girl indeed."
The Seeker snaps her intake shut and beams, preening under the attention, absorbing the approval with relish.
The bike giggle-snorts. "Ah, Slippy, you're so precious."
"Kiss her next, Sir."
Shadow Striker does not have luscious dermas like Slipstream's, nor are they deceptively soft like Flamewar's scuffed intake. But the mercenary has the skill and tact to make up for what she physically lacks with sheer technique, and so the bike is kissed into a stupor while the Seeker watches fondly and lustfully.
"That's beautiful," Slipstream says softly. "You're beautiful. Both of you."
Shadow Striker pries herself off of Flamewar to mutter, "Primus, that's sappy as frag." And scoff. "You're beautiful, too." And smile. "Both of you."
"Thank you, Sir."
"Aw, boss bot, Slippy. You guys!" The bike brushes her wet claws softly across the mercenary's cheek, then the Seeker's. "You're the best. Even if I did get mad at you before, boss bot, and I'm never mad at Slippy."
"I know. Can you forgive me?"
"You're definitely forgiven, after that. Damn."
The femmes share soft, relieved laughter.
Chromia sets the groceries down, following voices and finding Bumblebee and Windblade poised together in a game of Dead-Dark-Drone.
"You sure you're not cheating, Bee?"
"Hey, if I needed the edge to win, I'd just act cute and distract you, so you'd make bad plays."
"Ah, sure, I do get stupid when you flutter your shutters at me." The Cityspeaker grins at the scout, then looks past him and sees her fellow Camien. "Chromia, you're home. Hi!"
"Hey. Playing nicely?"
"Well, Windblade here is convinced I'm cheating. I told her I'm too pretty to cheat."
"No, you told me you're pretty enough to discombobulate me, which is cheating."
"Nuh-uh." Bumblebee playfully flicks Windblade's cheek.
She nips at his digit. "Uh-huh."
Chromia sighs and leaves the best friends to it, shaking her helm with a smile. She needs to pack the groceries away and pour herself a drink. A strong one.
The laughter inevitably dies.
"Hey, you."
"Me, boss bot?"
"Yeah, you. Tell me something. You like getting your aft ate?"
"Yeah, I do!"
"Nice. And what about you?"
"Oh! Um. Well, I've never actually tried that, before, so I wouldn't know. Uh, Sir."
"You wanna try it?"
"Try it, Slippy, it's awesome! Trust me!"
Slipstream flushes, giggles shyly. "Okay, but be gentle with me, please. First time, and such." She cannot believe this is happening. The hottest threesome ever, right within her clumsy, awkward grasp. If there is one thing in life that she does not screw up, may it be this. May this be the one thing that she does right.
"You don't gotta be gentle when eating my aft out, boss bot. I wanna feel those dentas nipping me."
"You little maniac." Shadow Striker nuzzles Flamewar's forehelm. "I'm so glad we met." Deposits a little peck there, in spite of supposedly refusing kisses as a general rule.
"Then you won't mind if I sit on your tits and, like, frag 'em a little bit? Or a lot? See, being short has its advantages, so I'm basically optic-level with everybody's tits. Yours are calling out to me, like, all the time. Please?"
"Mm. You can do whatever you like to me."
"Careful, boss bot. I'll hold you to that. Trust. Samesies, by the way."
"That's just what I wanted to hear."
The bike's lustful gaze softens with concern. "You're sure? Because I really don't mean to bully you into-"
"I'm sure."
The Seeker reaches over to brush a droplet of perspiration from the mercenary's cheek. "Sir, we'll respect you no matter what you choose to do."
"We're your team. Your guys. You're our boss bot."
"Thank you." Shadow Striker briefly leans into Slipstream's touch, optic fluttering shut, scope downturned on Flamewar who is held closer still, cradled against a smile that is now pressed to her forehelm, then the bridge of her olfactory sensor, her fangs, her throat, and finally travelling down into the crook of her slender neck, lingering close to the pauldron, where the throbbing cables are bare and tender, less armoured.
The bike purrs as a fuel line is licked, then mewls when the cable is pinched between the mercenary's dentas without doing any harm beyond stifling flow of inner Energon to the brain module. Within moments, euphoria sets in as warnings pop up over and over within the peripheral HUD complaining of some obstruction, the threat of partial starvation and compromised function, repeatedly dismissed and ultimately ignored.
The Seeker reaches around and negotiates entangled limbs to apply her big, strong servos to the task of teasing, dragging the digits over the femmes' shells, caressing their armour and probing transformation seams betwixt, until one servo cups a sealed interface array to grope the modesty panels burning and throbbing, the other servo delving into molten wet between open thighs so that digits apply pressure within the valve's plump mesh and a thumb eases onto the anterior node like a button needing to be pressed. She grips both femmes at once, feeling powerful at their reactions to what she is doing to them.
Flamewar jerks, squealing, and tries to frag the servo between her thighs with frenzy whilst Shadow Striker holds her steady, gnawing on a fuel line and restricting movement within the embrace, making escape impossible and maintaining strict control over the circumstances of this encounter, growling softly into neck cables, rolling hips with elegance against the palm upon her codpiece still sealed.
Slipstream has not pleasured another femme like this in a long, long time. She hardly ever pleasures herself, because she hates herself and does not crave her own touch. And now, she is pleasuring two femmes and enjoying herself immensely. She remembers a past lover well, the motions she liked her to make, and emulates the deft strokes and slow circles of the thumb over the node, digits delving deeper into the twitching, oozing mesh that would suck her in hungrily and devour her large digits up to the knuckles if she allowed the valve such a privilege, hips endeavouring to thrust madly and seeking penetration with impatience. She simultaneously cups the codpiece and squeezes hard enough to elicit a growl, then taps it playfully, as if knocking upon a door and requesting entry. "Open for me, please, Sir?"
The mercenary rumbles with a fuel line between her dentas, "Spike, valve?"
"Both," the Seeker purrs. Then gasps as the modesty panels retract and before she can even contemplate how hot and wet her commanding officer's valve might feel upon the surface, a spike nuzzles its way into the aperture of her digits, startling her with the length and girth. "Whoa." She contorts herself to look between their bodies, gazing downward, appalled and delighted at the same time, somehow. "Sir!"
The bike grinds against the servo that flirts with her valve, distracted as it may be. "She big, Slippy?"
"She's... a monster! Primus' light!"
"Hahaha! Hear that, boss bot?"
Shadow Striker grins into Flamewar's neck.
"I'll be honest, here, um." Slipstream gives the foreign spike a curious stroke. "I don't think either of us can take this, Flames."
"Nice!"
"No, I'm being serious."
"Me too, glitch! Split me in half with that thing! Frag me to bits!"
"Flames, you say that, but you have to look at it. Just look."
"I can't! She's kinda biting my scrap right now, Slippy. One wrong move and she'll tear my line. I'll bleed all over the place. So hot."
"Sir, I'm pretty sure this spike goes against regulations."
"Aw, c'mon, don't lose your courage now, Slippy! I, for one, welcome the pain!"
"Well, I'd like to be able to sit afterward. Or walk. Thunderblast is braver than I am."
"Surprised dreamboat didn't brag all about it at the table! Maybe she couldn't take it and she's embarrassed? No offence!"
The mercenary is enjoying the femmes' reaction to her modified, overclocked spike. They have seen it flaccid in the shower block, when exposing and washing her interface array, but she knows it is something entirely else when aroused. She rocks back and forth, sliding her imposing erection within the large fist that grasps her with awe, slick with perspiration and the transfluid of pre-overload.
"Slippy, dammit, if you're not gonna hop on boss bot's spike and let me watch, could you at least get those digits inside me already! Frag me hard! Stop teasing!"
Slipstream makes an apologetic sound and inserts one of her large digits to start with, groaning as Flamewar's internal walls clench tight and hot, pulling deeper. "Got that grip, Primus."
"More!"
Another large, blunt digit slides in, to be devoured, probing for interior nodes, stimulating sensors, slick digits released and sucked back into the hungry valve with every thrust, knuckles rubbing against mesh on account of the bouncing hips which do all the hard work.
"Just stuff all of 'em in me!"
"Tell me if it's too much, okay?"
"I'm small, but I can take it, Slippy!"
Shadow Striker keeps that fuel line pinched and shapely body restrained, fragging the fist wrapped about her spike.
The bike curses and cries out as the Seeker inserts all her digits at once, grinding into the anterior node with a large thumb and seeking the nodes buried within the mesh, digits curling inside the tight valve that stretches to accommodate as if to beckon the overload closer, closer, closer, dark hips frantic in their gyrations, seeking friction with a wet smacking chorus of repetitive impact.
The mercenary feels claws grope her bosom, locating her headlights and scratching at the crystalline substance without finding purchase upon the smooth, sensitive surface, provoking her to whine in such a way that would be funny if not for the arousal they all share.
"Fat glitch! Damn, these titties! Can't wait to get my glossa all over 'em! Slippy, you're gonna make me 'load real soon, don't you dare stop!"
Slipstream nuzzles the femmes under her care, depositing little kisses and delicate nibbles to whatever bodily parts she can reach, pumping her fist over Shadow Striker's thrusting spike and thumbing at the slick tip, plunging digits in and out of Flamewar's thrusting valve whilst digging a thumb into her anterior node, effectively multitasking. "So beautiful," is murmured in reassurance, with a deep, husky undertone between kisses and nibbles, as they shudder and squirm. "I like you. I like what you're doing. Beautiful, yes. So beautiful. Everything about you is beautiful."
The mercenary winces as claws scrabble over her headlights, holding onto the bike overloading with spasmodic relief, keeping her contained and cradled close, enduring the sharp parts of her and stifling fuel flow to her brain module until she feels a little faint.
The Seeker smiles indulgently, buried up to the knuckle in flexing valve, doused with lubricant that dribbles down her wist, forearm, into the bend of her elbow joint. She squeezes the spike in her other fist and drags a slow circle over the tip with her thumb, sensing that release is coming soon.
Shadow Striker finally releases Flamewar's fuel line, and only because she feels a little too slack in these arms, sinking loose-limbed and relaxed like a fresh corpse within the afterglow. The return of normal fuel flow causes a surge of pleasure and only intensifies the euphoria.
Slipstream is curious to try it herself. She slows the movements of her digits submerged within the valve and eases her thumb off of the anterior node, encircling the periphery of the sensory bundle instead. Her fist squeezes the spike and pumps it hard and fast now, to meet with ther commanding officer's hastening thrusts. "How do you feel?"
"So good," the bike moans, drooling and collapsed in the mercenary's embrace, weeping a little. "Golden."
"Close," Shadow Striker grunts, then grasps the back of Flamewar's helm and forces her face-first into an ample breastplate, smearing tears across a headlight. "Real close, now."
Slipstream nods once, maintaining a gentle hold on her friend's valve and focusing more on their commanding officer's spike. "Where do you wanna finish, Sir?"
The mercenary does not reply immediately, distracted by the bike's fangs, gnawing over the crystalline casing of the headlight.
"Sir," the Seeker purrs huskily into a keen audial, "where should I finish you?"
In answer, Shadow Striker finds Slipstream's wrist, prying her fist off that spike and redirecting it onto, and then into, the valve instead.
Flamewar slobbers over a headlight, claws brushing across a Deceptibrand in a way that hurts, engine purring.
The Seeker proceeds to treat the mercenary's valve to much-needed stimulation whilst playing with the bike's valve at the same time, large digits of both servos inserting themselves within two wells of molten wet, thumbs encircling glowing anterior nodes and submerged digits beckoning pleasure from sensors buried deep within.
Shadow Striker keeps Flamewar's face plate pinned against a headlight under the weight of a palm. A sigh, before turning to bump forehelms with Slipstream. "You're awfully good with your servos, you know."
"Thank you, Sir."
"Those sinful massages you've given me in the showers were a clue, of course."
The Seeker gives the mercenary a squeeze between her thighs and bumps their forehelms lightly together.
"Handsome fragger, you."
"Mmyeah?"
"Mmyeah."
The bike scrapes her fangs against the headlight pressed firmly to her face plate.
"Ow! Dammit." Shadow Striker hisses through grimacing dentas. "Do that again. I dare you."
"Those are sensitive," Slipstream observes, watching Flamewar drag her claws over that headlight, gnawing at the crystalline surface.
"Nasty little glitch. To be fair, I have amazing tits."
"You both have beautiful bodies. I feel so boxy by comparison."
"Don't do that." The mercenary scoffs, dragging a digit along the length of the Seeker's spike. "You need to know your worth. Competition between femmes tends to be toxic. Shouldn't be that way. We're all in this together."
"That's an interesting point, Sir." The spike twitches agreeably. "Solidarity and stuff."
"And anyway, I'm the best, so don't measure yourself against me." That digit taps the head of the spike in fond reprimand. "Got that?"
"But I like telling you how beautiful you are. You and Flames. I'm honoured to know you both this way."
The bike purrs as her anterior node is pressed.
"C'mon, Slipstream. I know what I got. I've seen you checking me out. Stroking my valve is enough, you don't gotta stroke my ego too."
"I'm being sincere, Sir. This isn't a seduction tactic. But if I am seducing you..."
Shadow Striker bumps her forehelm almost playfully against Slipstream's pauldron, leaning into her servo as it begins to truly plunge in and out of that sopping valve. "I know, I know. Primus. You're..." A shaky gasp. "Ohh, frag."
"...I'm?"
"Terribly sweet."
"Terribly?"
"It's almost annoying."
"Are you blushing, Sir?"
"Pffft. No."
Flamewar smirks, resting her cheek atop their commanding officer's bosom. "She's totes blushing. She's tryna hide it."
"Shuddup," comes out muffled, the mercenary burying her hot face plate in the Seeker's neck, fragging her digits a little faster, a little harder, modified spike bouncing and drooling pre-overload.
"She's being a brat." The bike winks. "Slippy, I'm thinking you and me split boss bot 'tween us."
"Which half of her would you like?"
"I'mma take the front side 'cause tits plus I want that fat spike in me, so I'mma have to sit on it. You get your fat spike up in her and hit it from the back. Deal?"
"Awesome."
Shadow Striker moans into Slipstream's neck.
"You sound like such a slag, boss bot. Suits you!"
Another moan.
"Slippy, damn, I'mma bust. Get her there first."
"I'll do my best." The Seeker indulges the valves in her big, strong servos, smiling tenderly as she works the femmes to completion.
The mercenary does overload before the bike, lurching and seething, producing a feminine sound as hot, wet walls of mesh convulse, tightening spasmodically about buried digits, anterior node pinned under a blunt thumb, lubricant spilling forth to coat trembling inner thighs.
Flamewar bursts within moments after Shadow Striker, clawing at her headlights, licking the sweat from her breastplate, hugged so tight within those powerful arms that something metallic audibly creaks.
Slipstream sighs, very pleased with herself, slowing the motions of her servos. "There you go. I've got you."
In this blissful heat, the bike wriggles her way free of the mercenary's slick arms, withdrawing the Seeker's sopping digits from that valve. "Right! Get into position, c'mon, slags!"
The mercenary drags her face out of the Seeker's neck, leaving clumsy, sweaty kisses over cables, an angular cheek, the casing of an audial. "Primus, gimme a sec."
"I want that spike in me, boss bot!"
"You'll get it. I'll give it to you. Just lemme breathe. I'm older than I look, remember?"
Slipstream exracts her servo from Shadow Striker's valve, giving her throbbing, swollen spike a few languid pumps with wet digits, garnering a grimace.
"Ugh. You're too good with those servos."
"Mmhm."
"Boss bot, c'mon!"
"I'm coming."
"No, you're gazing into Slippy's optics. Which is fair, she's got pretty as frag optics. I like losing myself in them too."
"Thank you, Flames. Your optics are prettier."
"Aw, Slippy, you mean that?"
"Yes. You and Thunderblast both have lovely optics."
"Boss bot, Slippy always has nice, romantical things to say. You got something romantical to say, too?"
"You've got a fat aft. I wanna run my spike through it."
"Thank you! I like your tits. I'll sit on 'em."
"Sure, sure."
"Now frag me already! You're supposed to be the peak of performance, how long do you gotta recover for?"
"Humph. Who's the brat now?"
"Me, duh." Flamewar tosses her helm prettily, scoffing. "So what? You gonna spank me?"
"If you keep this up, yeah, I just might have to."
"Nice. I like that scrap."
"Little maniac. Surely you don't want me to frag you on the floor. We're already disgusting, kneeling in our own filth." The mercenary kisses the Seeker's smile, then nods aside dismissively. "Get that fat aft on your workbench."
"Yass! This is a recurring fantasy of mine!" The bike manages to stand, staggering over to her workstation where she hastily sweeps things aside to make space, then throws herself over the workbench, aft up, wiggling her hips invitingly. "Come and get me good, I'm so ready! So, so ready. Frag."
Orion leans over to peer down at Ariel, rising and falling with her.
"I'll be okay. Don't worry 'bout me."
"I am here."
"Yeah."
"I love you."
"Love you too, old mech."
"When you feel you have exhausted your great strength, I will carry you."
"It's rude to keep a lady waiting!"
"Right, then." Shadow Striker braces a palm on Slipstream's upper chassis. "Help me up."
"Yes, Sir."
Together, the large femmes rise, weak at the knees and leaning altogether for mutual support, exchanging playful gropes and aimless kisses. The Seeker giggles as the mercenary sighs.
The bike watches this with glee, peering over her pauldron, past a tyre as kibble. Her engine roars. "Ohhh, scrap, that's so hot." She rubs her thick thighs slickly together, sinking her claws into the scuffed dull metal of the workbench beneath her small frame.
Shadow Striker turns her attention on her other subordinate, smirking. "Are you sure you can take this spike." There is concern, veiled under lust. She does not mean to do actual harm.
"I'm sure I wanna try!" Flamewar flutters her shutters, posing over the workbench. "Break me, boss bot."
"Maybe start slowly," Slipstream interjects a little nervously, optics upon the magnificent spike. "That's really... quite a lot to take in."
"I'm no virgin frame. I know what I'm doing. Don't worry, I'll be careful."
"Oh, c'mon, I can take it! I've fragged trucks before! And trucks aren't known for being gentle in berth, y'know."
The Seeker winces at the notion.
The mercenary slams her palms down on the workbench, one servo splayed on either side of the bike, stooping over her smaller frame and resting the ample breastplate upon the curve of a spinal strut, essentially pinning her in place from behind. A roll of the hips, the curve of that spike scraping the cleft of that shapely aft with a soft snarl of appreciation and a mewl of desire from beneath.
"Ohhh, boss bot!"
"Damn."
Flamewar feels Shadow Striker grinding herself within the cleft, over and over, dermas applying kisses to pauldrons, dentas biting the back of the neck, glossa tugging teasingly on a fuel line.
Slipstream gropes herself to ensure she is ready.
The mercenary draws back her hips, braced on her palms and her spread pedes, lining up her spike blindly with the bike's aft.
The Seeker licks her dermas, tasting her own perspiration.
"Wait, wait, wait!"
Shadow Striker immediately stills herself, having readjusted herself so that the tip of her spike presses in on Flamewar's puckered waste port. It goes no further.
Slipstream stops playing with her own spike, expression softened by concern. "Flames?"
"Uhh, I'm having second thoughts! Sorry! That thing feels, like, huge. I got a quick look at it before, it looked huge in that moment, but now I'm feeling it, and it feels... huge."
The mercenary eases off of the back of the bike's neck, spike withdrawing from her aft.
"I feel really lame. Scrap. Sorry, guys."
"It's okay."
"Whatever you're comfortable with, Flames," reassures the Seeker in a kind, patient undertone, waddling over to the workbench.
"Hey, uh, you can try my valve! I know I can take you that way, boss bot. I've fragged trucks, remember?"
"If you'd prefer Slipstream's spike, or you'd rather do the spiking-"
"Sure! Yes to all of that! But after you frag my valve, boss bot, yeah?"
"Yeah," Shadow Striker murmurs into a kiss to Flamewar's spinal seam, vents blasting hot air upon dark panels. "Slipstream, would you line me up, please?"
"Of course, Sir."
Flamewar purrs as Slipstream delves a digit within her valve, as if to help locate it, making quite the performance out of stroking back and forth within the drenched mesh, probing her anterior node.
"Ah, found you."
"Ohhh, Slippy, get her in me already!"
Biting down on the back of the bike's neck and snarling, the mercenary feels wet digits grasp her spike and readjust its trajectory in tandem with her rolling hips, guided by the Seeker's servo.
"Easy, now." Slipstream removes her digits with a final squeeze about the spike as its tip submerges within the valve, a parting caress to the anterior node. "Gently, Sir."
Flamewar makes a strangled noise and tenses up as Shadow Striker enters her in an agonisingly slow motion, trembling with restraint.
"Don't get it all in at once, Sir. Ease it in. That's it." The Seeker is teasing the mercenary somewhat, who obviously knows what she is doing, having done this many times before, but does not protest. "You like that, Flames?"
"Uh-huh," the bike utters dumbly in reply, drooling over the nest of her folded arms, chin propped atop, claws scraping lines within the dull metal surface of her beloved workbench.
"Is she all the way in, yet?"
"Nuh-uh."
"Sir, you're being so gentle, taking it so slow and easy. Very good."
Shadow Striker hums into the back of the neck, gripped within her bared dentas. She does not hate it when Slipstream caresses her fondly upon the aft, then squeezes rather hard.
"Flames, you still good?"
Flamewar answers with a thumb jerking upward, optics fluttering, engine rumbling.
"Okay, well, it seems to me like you've figured things out together. I guess you two don't need me."
A clawed servo lashes out and grabs the Seeker by her spike, then drags her closer by said spike.
"Aaah! Sensitive! Sharp!"
The bike apologises by slapping her dermas upon the tip in an open kiss, glossa taking swipes at the oozing transfluid, fist pumping the length with vigor even as she drowsily shuts her optics and relaxes when the mercenary finally fully submerges her own spike within a tight but astonishingly accommodating valve, internal modifications allowing for calipers to readjust themselves more than one would assume possible for such framework.
"You little fiend," Slipstream mutters fondly, ruffling Flamewar's helm. "That hurt."
Shadow Striker holds position for a moment, allowing for mutual anticipation, then begins to slowly extract herself, draging out her slick length and throbbing girth in a manner intended to make this pleasurable rather than painful, swooning to the sensation of calipers readjusting to her in perfect harmony until she pauses with the tip smothered within the valve's entrance. She holds position momentarily like this, then begins to push back in, slowly.
The Seeker feels the vibrations of the bike's moan. "She likes that, Sir."
The mercenary eventually bottoms out, then withdraws, then reinserts herself until she can go no deeper, and pulls out most of the way again, to repeat the cycle a little faster each time.
Flamewar dissolves over the workbench, loosening all over and rippling handsomely with pleasure, dark curves bouncing against Shadow Striker's hastening thrusts.
Slipstream manages to extract her spike from her friend's slackened, drooling jaw, narrowly avoiding the curve of her fangs upon exit, gently grasping her claws and removing them from the shaft one by one. Upon some sound of protest, she says patiently, "You did tell me you wanted to share the boss. If we go on this way, we'll just wind up sharing you. Which I'm happy to do, too."
The bike frowns a little, trying to think about the logistics of this threesome whilst getting so many of her internal sensory nodes triggered. "Huuuh." Her glossa flops out. "Want you in her."
"Yeah, exactly." The Seeker stoops to kiss the tip of that glossa, bracing their forehelms together with a giggle. "I'll take her from the back, like you wanted me to. Okay?"
"Mmyeah!"
"If you think you can handle having both of us bearing down on you at once. It won't be too much?"
"Dude. Totes squish me, like..."
The mercenary groans at the clenching mesh that squeezes her spike in a pulsating wave of rippling pleasure, as if to finish the rest of that utterance where words fail, which makes thrusting in and out a little more arduous. Releasing the back of the neck, she mutters, "Slipstream, stop being a tease and frag me, you slag. She's a lost cause."
"Yeeeaaaah," agrees Flamewar stupidly, "frag that glitch on top of me! I'm lost! Mmm!" Her helm falls onto the workbench with a thud, arms flopping over the sides, claws dangling.
Slipstream grimaces at that, then sighs and smiles at Shadow Striker.
The mercenary smirks back. "Well?"
"Am I, um, taking you by your valve, or your aft, Sir?" The Seeker moves behind, depositing kisses across pauldrons and the kibble mounted to them, going so far as to kiss the tyre treads.
Shadow Striker gasps at that, arching against Slipstream. "Which do you prefer, handsome? Treat me nice like that and I'll give you anything you want."
"It's been... a while for me, Sir."
Flamewar purrs and coos, bouncing below, flopped dramatically over her workbench.
"So I really just want to do what you want me to."
"You do tend to be obedient." The mercenary licks the bike's spinal seam whilst pushing back against the Seeker's spike. "Not a brat, like this one, here."
"Sorry, not sorry!"
"I try to please you, sir. So does she." Slipstream has never fragged a femme up the aft before. She figures she might as well give it a try, since Shadow Striker seems very willing to oblige this curiosity.
"You're a good girl. This one, too, but not so much."
"I wanna be a bad, bad girl, boss bot, mmm!" Flamewar licks her dermas, slick with drool, tasting of perspiration and transfluid. "She stuck it in you yet, Sir?"
"No, but she's priming me for it," the mercenary mutters as a large digit slides up her aft. "You've got big fragging servos, Primus."
"Sorry, too much?" A kiss to the tyre.
"Lucky for you, I like it." A smirk and a snap of the hips, eliciting a whine. "Nice of you to prep me first, some people just shove it in."
"Those people are bolt-heads, Sir."
"Heh, agreed."
The bike squirms as she finds herself finally getting fragged hard and fast, the gentle treatment meant to ease her into the motions evidently done and dealt with.
"Your digit feels great," Shadow Striker pants through bared dentas, flushed and pounding into Flamewar from behind, pinned to the workbench with a smile, "but I'm sure your spike will feel better for the both of us. Don't waste too much time and effort on foreplay, I'm ready for you."
"I always liked foreplay, Sir," Slipstream murmurs mildly, before withdrawing her digit and replacing it with her spike as requested. "As you insist."
"Slippy's treating you so, so right, boss bot, be grateful. Me, I would've just licked you a little and got right to it. Ahh, frag, that feels nice. Real nice." The bike registers a distinct change in the mercenary's thrusts, giggle-snorting wetly. "She just got it in, huh, boss bot?"
"Gahhh!"
The Seeker moans lowly as if hurt.
"Thought so. Old slag, you. Take it, boss bot! Hear me? Give it to her, Slippy, give it to her nasty, so she'll give it to me! Harder, faster!"
Slipstream clasps onto her commanding officer's enviably slender waistline with servos large enough to encapsulate much of the feminine widening of Shadow Striker's jostling hips, burying a burning face plate in her neck and making these low, aching sounds that echo within large, powerful frames, crushing the smallest below themselves.
Flamewar does not complain, does not fear for her safety when Shadow Striker's arms collapse and she halfway lays over her, submitting to Slipstream who frags with such tenderness, like she fears herself, lacking in practice yet making up for it with affection and attentiveness.
Ravage, as Soundwave has taken to calling the sleek black cybercat stray that refuses to be fully domesticated unlike all the other creatures that he is so fond of acquiring and caring for, has yet to return from a solitary walk.
The missing femmes do not answer their secured comms, which is bizarre for the likes of Shadow Striker and Slipstream. Even Flamewar answers her comm link, although sometimes not immediately, because she takes naps or gets too involved in her work or just wants to be a menace and tease her caller.
When it becomes ridiculously apparent that Thunderblast and Demolishor might as well be running this operation as a duo, he keeps guard whilst she goes on the hunt for some answers, intending to lecture the lot for job abandonment. She soon discovers why.
Flamewar, under Shadow Striker, under Slipstream, moving altogether in ecstasy.
Those glitches, Thunderblast thinks, are having a threesome, which is great, but they did not invite her into what would have been a fantastic foursome. First of all, how dare they exclude her like that? Rude, especially after all her thrilling retellings of past conquests. Second of all, why is this exclusion making the outrage she feels so much hotter, arousing her so much more intensely? She never considered herself something of a cuckold. Is she a cuckold, she wonders, stood in the doorway to the armoury, unnoticed? "Oh, no." Her love life is already so complicated. She departs unnoticed, in a flushed huff, on wobbly legs. "So unprofessional. We're running a slaghouse. Primus!" Those glitches are lucky she kinda likes it, she decides, letting them live. On the way back, she makes up a story for Demolishor's sake, as he really does not need to know the details.
Chapter 29: Hunger*
Summary:
Walking in on Slipstream doing her utmost for Shadow Striker's benefit, Thunderblast finds she quite likes the jealousy - though she refuses to think too deeply about the implications - and finally has her way. Ariel brings Windblade an exotic gift to wish her well, but Chromia sees the flirtatious sparkle in those optics and inwardly rolls her own, well aware of this taste in big, burly femmes with soft Spark and shy smiles. Shockwave reports his and Acid Storm's success in mass-producing Seekers to Starscream, who approves of the brand-new Conehead design.
Notes:
Possible trigger warnings: fat-shaming and body-shaming as kinky dirty talk (please note this is merely dirty talk and not intended as an insult or criticism directed at anyone as I have never put much stock into conventional beauty standards myself and I try not to hold other bodies to higher expectations than my own), cuck/cuckold roleplay, dommy mommy kink.
Featured sex scene: Shadow Striker/Slipstream/Thunderblast (difficulty walking due to prior penetration, gentle teasing, dirty talk, praise, groping, on knees, ass worship, eating ass, reach-around, excited wings, sexualisation of rank/hierarchy, voyeurism, interruption, humping air, objectification, wings as erogenous zones, slapping and pinching a wing, orgasm without direct stimulation to genitals, stimulation of sensory spires, making out, roleplay of cheating scenario, playful insults, threat of violence, dragged across the room, on a desk, dommy mommy, licking, neck kisses, penetrative sex, vaginal, unusually large erection due to modifications, tight fit, little slut, naughty, trying to get work done, work interrupted, cumming inside/outside, swallowing another's cum, oral/cunnilingus, aftercare, cuddle, sexual scent)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
After taking a very thorough shower and making a stalwart effort to buffer out most of the paint transfers, Slipstream had finished her shift dutifully and helped the others with their respective tasks wherever she could. She had taken her final Energon ration with her fellow Decepticons like usual, exchanging a few suggestive glances with Flamewar and even Shadow Striker to Demolishor's ignorance however wilful it may be, before collapsing in an exhausted heap with Thunderblast upon their shared slab for a cuddle and a much-needed recharge cycle. The Seeker had been so relaxed and satisfied, failing to notice the smouldering envy in those golden optics and the slight tremble in those slender digits as they caressed her handsome bulk until the boat finally powered down, after doing far too much thinking and offering far less conversation than usual.
Their internal alarms chime to wake them at the appointed time, announcing another shift in the Pits.
Slipstream revives with a grunt, scratching herself rudely over her modesty panels, wincing at the lingering sensitivity within. She sniffs her digits afterward, detecting hints of Flamewar and Shadow Striker, as well as her own distinct musk.
“Charming,” Thunderblast mutters, her helm atop her recharge buddy’s upper chassis, a slender arm slung about her tapering waist, optics narrowed and pretty brows lowered disapprovingly.
“Oh, sorry. I forget I’m with a lady.”
“Hey, you do you, I guess. Whatevs.”
The Seeker makes an apologetic little noise and nuzzles the boat’s helm, drowsily rubbing an angular cheek against one of her projecting sensory spires.
Thunderblast loves having her sensory spires touched. Getting them sucked on is one way to make her overload real hard, real quick.
“Did you sleep well?” murmurs Slipstream in her deep, big voice, husky from sleep.
“Yeah.” Eventually, anyway. “You?”
“Mmhm.” Like the dead.
“I bet you did,” the boat says in a huff.
The Seeker just smiles, failing to ponder whatever that comment could mean, failing to notice the peculiar undertone.
Thunderblast rises suddenly to stretch her beautiful self, reaching for the ceiling and curving her spinal strut with a metallic creak, and a pop that makes her groan. "Aw, yeah." She tends to detatch and forgo her kibble when it is not needed, as it is bulky. She can extend a pretty digit and touch the flickering light above them. She often pities Demolishor, and to a lesser extent Shadow Striker, who are both very tall.
Slipstream gazes up at the living artistry in berth beside her, brain module swimming in relief and body seized by an affectionate mood due to finally getting so thoroughly laid after surviving such a lonely dry spell. She sits up too and surprises her recharge buddy with a big hug.
“Oh! Hello?”
“Hi! I’m so happy to see you!”
The boat softens, sighs, smiles. Letting her lingering irritation slide, recognising that the other femme is not to blame, she melts into the Seeker’s burly arms, snuggling against her reinforced neck, returning her hug and really enjoying the rugged shapeliness to this frame. “You’re so silly. You see me every day.”
“She said the same thing.”
“Flamewar?”
“Mmhm.”
“Aw. Cute.”
“She’s so cute. Just don’t tell her that. She hates it.”
“Can’t blame her. She probably has to put up with bigger frames telling her she’s cute all the time. Must get old.”
“That’s what I thought, too. So I don’t tell her that. I just think it.”
Thunderblast kisses Slipstream’s cheek, a silent apology. The boat does not always mean to be a glitch, but she has a lot to think about and she is also feeling a lot right now, too. A lady can get moody, after processing enough data to make her question herself and her own proclivities. Surely, the great terror of the silver sea, the shining siren herself, is not a cuck – cuckoldry is absolutely, definitely not a newly awakened fetish aching to be entertained by these fellow Decepticons, including this hunky Seeker who is really such a nice person and does deserve to have a nice time sometimes. But also, would being a cuck, really be so bad?
“Do you mind if I make you a little late?”
“The boss will forgive me, I’m sure. I have my ways. Why? What’re you planning?”
“This!” Slipstream thus takes her spontaneous bit of courage further and throws her weight to the side, in turn effortlessly pulling the slender Thunderblast back down onto the recharge slab and into a full-bodied embrace.
The boat gasps, then giggles, giving the Seeker’s broad back panels a playful little slap. “Hey, now, don’t get too eager. I need to put a face on.”
“Me, too, actually.”
“Want me to do your makeup? I’ll let you do mine.”
“Sure!”
“Alright, sweetie. Five more minutes, then we gotta get our afts up.” Thunderblast entangles her shapely legs within Slipstream’s, pedes dragging affectionately against ankle joints. “I’mma let myself have this. Treat myself. I deserve it.”
“This is so nice. I love cuddles.”
“I'm kinda into it, yeah. Between you and Flamewar, I even look forward to this grotty little recharge bay, now.”
“I love that you’re cuddling her, too.”
“It cured her snoring. Go figure.”
The Seeker surprises with a kiss to the boat’s cheek. “Thank you. It means so much to her. She adores you, really, she does. I think it’s a crush.”
Thunderblast is not the sort to flush, but she feels heat creeping on, remembering the sounds of Shadow Striker’s spike sliding in and out of Flamewar from behind, the way drool and perspiration glittered like jewels over her dark, scuffed panels licked with fire, the way she jostled and bounced with every thrust and clung to that workbench, collapsed dramatically over the edges, overflowing.
Slipstream buries her face plate in Thunderblast’s slender neck cables, hugging her as close as is possible. “You’re so warm.” An echo. A reversal of roles. A change in the power dynamic.
“I’m overheating.”
Windblade is no stranger to getting gifts. She is blessed with her friends, whom she loves with all her Spark and is loved just as generously in return, often expressing their closeness through tokens of affection. She is beautiful, deemed exotic as a Camien delicacy among Cybertronians particularly, thus she is the object of many romantic suitors vying for her affection with pretty offerings not only within her native home-world, but within her second home too.
Chromia can be a bit overprotective, as a matter of lifelong friendship, but she hardly has to bother. Bumblebee jokes that his best friend has a habit of breaking Sparks, but his playful teasing is also based on truth. Friends are kept close and shown great tenderness, but hopeful suitors must contend with the distance of an aloof and wilful temperament.
Windblade keeps the lovesick at bay just fine on her own, just by being herself. Hers is a temperament that renders her fiercely loyal to her friends and her duty to Titans as Cityspeaker, yet so staunchly independent and seemingly unable to settle down into domestic bliss as a Conjunx. She does not mean any harm, but she has refused so many life-bonds in her youth that she has been left with little patience for such matters by now, preferring casual encounters with trusted individuals who know where they stand with her. Still, she can be a bit of a flirt, favouring femmes bearing large, powerful frames, and she is not always subtle about her interest.
Ariel must have noticed by now, that she is that very type. However, being so much older, lacking in social graces and unsuited to the anchor of a committed relationship due to her incurable condition of wanderlust and her peculiar obsession with organics rendering her something of an outcast among her own kind, she is clearly unavailable. As such, it would seem she has no such ulterior motives when she presents the recovering Windblade with a delicate living thing in a little clay pot.
Chromia still keeps a close optic on them, because even if Ariel is a gentlefemme with only good intentions, Windblade is stubborn when she wants her way.
“It’s beautiful! Chromia, come look!”
“Yes, that’s splendid. What a thoughtful gesture. Thank you, Ariel.”
“You’re welcome. Glad you like it.”
“Mm! And it smells sweet, but also spicy. Chromia, give it a sniff.”
“Yes, that’s… very interesting.”
“It smells a bit like you, Ariel.”
“Well, uh.”
“Wait, wait, wait. I’m sorry. Lemme back that up real quick.” Windblade giggles, offering one of her rare silly smiles. “Please don’t get me wrong. It’s not that I’ve been sniffing you or, um, anything like that. Oh, dear. That sounded very strange. Sorry! Guess I’m already going crazy from being cooped up indoors all day.”
“No, I’ve been told I have a certain smell.” Ariel chuckles, rubbing her tattooed bicep shyly, the armoured casing flexing as her powerful protoform shifts under the protective pink sheets, edged in gold. “You’re fine.” She works out so much that she is almost outgrowing her own shell. “It’s because of my contact with the organics. They’ve rubbed off on me, so to speak.”
Chromia chuckles quietly, internally rolling her optics. She knows all too well what Windblade is like, but it helps that Ariel is clearly not up to something, and so the gift is not viewed with suspicion. It is a truly thoughtful gesture. Chromia quite likes Ariel, really. Respects her intelligence and dedication, yet feels a little sorry for her apparent isolation.
“I like it.” Still, Windblade is fluttering her shutters and up to no good. And even in her condition, with her sore modesty panels gradually reacclimatising to being restored and reset, she finds it prudent to flirt. And with a dear old friend of Orion Pax, no less. “The gift, too.” Her optics twinkle. She has huge, heavy ball-bearings on her.
Ariel flushes and clears her vents. She would be lying if she said she disliked the attention. She likes it a lot. It is very flattering. “Okay, that’s… great. I’d hate to be self-conscious about my stink. Hahaha.”
Windblade is about to say something very daring when Chromia silences her with a light pat on the thigh, to which the Cityspeaker giggles and snuggles up to her eternally patient and admirably protective Camien best friend.
To fill the space and recompose herself, Ariel explains more about the gift she has given so graciously.
The younger femmes already recognise the living thing in the clay pot, aesthetically, as a plant, although its construction differs from the silicon trees and mineral flower deposits they are familiar with. That is because this plant is organic. Soft to the touch, with petals of such brilliant blue that fold under pressure, it emits that curious aroma more strongly when agitated, and most appealingly it glows faintly from within, evidently naturally bioluminescent even in a well-lit room, charged by the light itself to hold its colours even in the dark.
Windblade sets the clay pot very gently in Chromia’s large, strong servos, then leans into Arial’s arms for a hug.
The High Councillor shyly rubs the Cityspeaker’s slender back strut whilst giving her fellow Camien a wonky grin.
Chromia sighs quietly, but finds herself smiling and letting Windblade be, choosing instead to fuss over the beautiful organic alien lifeform in a little clay pot in her palms.
Good intentions pave the way to the Pits, as they say, for Ariel knows she is in trouble when ruby dermas leave her with a little kiss to her cheek that sets her Spark on fire, only to be chilled over as those big blue optics flicker suggestively down, then up again. Oh, no.
“Having some difficulty walking, Sir?”
Shadow Striker stiffly shuffles about the cramped office in search of her datapad, which already makes her grumpy because she is annoyed at herself and the universe in general whenever she misplaces something she needs, which is surprisingly often. Hence why she prefers to keep her gear on her framework at all times, an incredible amount of hidden storage integrated throughout her body. She tosses Slipstream a glare in passing, instead of answering that.
The Seeker appears both proud of her own spike for being the reason for this jacked-up walking cycle, and concerned for the older femme’s well-being because it must be a symptom of lingering discomfort. But the sheer petulance in that glare has her giggling even as she tries to help the mercenary in her search, shuffling through drawers under the cluttered desk.
“You think this is funny?”
“I think you’re funny, Sir.”
Shadow Striker huffs and shuffles on, deliberately bumping pauldrons with the other large femme in the cramped office they share, passing by her closer than is strictly necessary on her way to the filing cabinets. The gesture is rude and yet playful, bordering on her peculiar brand of affection. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up.”
Since someone responsible and organised has to get the datawork done around here and none of the others want to deal with the nightmare that is Decepticon administration, that task falls to Slipstream. Therefore, she knows she is essential to the running of this operation. She can afford to get a little fresh with her boss. She giggles again.
“Where the frag did I put the stupid thing…”
“Shall I kiss your aft better, Sir?”
“You’d better kiss my aft.”
“Right away, Sir.”
Distractedly rummaging through an open drawer within a filing cabinet, the mercenary does not obviously react when she feels powerful servos brush along her aching spinal seam, setting on her hip joints momentarily before dipping down a little to cup her aft in large, callused palms, sampling her heft and squeezing the curvature.
“Damn, Sir,” the Seeker mutters admiringly, “you got back.”
“That I do. If you’re going to be otherwise useless right now, at least get to kissing it already.”
After having some fun with groping the firm, supple shapeliness of this aft, Slipstream sinks to her knees before its glory as if in worship before an idol on the pedestal of shapely legs, licking her dermas to wet them, sucking in air to fill her vents, and diving right in to drag her glossa through the cleft and alight a kiss upon the waste port.
“Mm. You do learn quickly.” Shadow Striker grips the dull metallic edges of the filing cabinet for support, shuddering and sighing. “And I do appreciate that character trait, especially in my good girl.” She grins at the muffled, wet moan that praise provokes, then gasps as dentas very gently pinch her where she is so sensitive and vulnerable. “Ohhh!”
Encouraged, the Seeker huffs and puffs and blows hot air against the waste port, trying to blow inside of it.
It feels a little strange, but the mercenary does not complain. “You’re gonna be a real pain in my aft from now on, since Flamewar’s got you acting up.” As if it is all the bike’s fault. “Remind me to thank her.”
Slipstream reaches around and cups Shadow Striker’s codpiece in one servo, caressing her modesty panels for added stimulation moments before the hot, slick glossa worms its way within the aft.
Shadow Striker groans, clinging to the filing cabinet as she turns her helm to gaze back at the kneeling femme from over her pauldron, smiling lewdly, but also fondly, down at her. “Bet you never did this for Scream.”
The Seeker shakes her helm, face plate buried in the mercenary’s generous aft.
“Damn. I gotta be the best boss ever. Get me a mug and have that printed on it, I’ll sip outta it every staff meeting with the other Decepticon higher-ups, let them know I got it right.”
Slipstream giggles at that, the reverberations of which travel from her intake and writhing glossa straight into Shadow Striker’s aft.
“Okay, that’s it. You’re not gonna get promoted or poached into another department, because you’re stuck with me as my subordinate and this is officially part of your job description, working under me. Understood?”
The Seeker does not reply, as her intake is rather busy, but she does give the mercenary’s codpiece a particularly emphatic squeeze, large digits scraping over sensitive modesty panels.
“Mmyeah. Good girl. I like that.”
“I bet you do.”
Slipstream squeaks at the interruption, attempting to pull her face plate out that aft, only for a palm to cuff her behind the helm and roughly steer her back in, pinning her in place.
“Do your job.”
She moans, eagerly complying, wings fluttering.
Shadow Striker looks over at the door, where Thunderblast now lingers. As per the open-door policy intended to cater to possible disaster scenarios, she can see into the office from the outside. “Need something?”
“I’m just returning this,” the boat says huskily, waving a datapad back and forth. “I borrowed it for a bit.”
“You forgot to ask, therefore you stole it.”
“Whatever!”
Sliding the drawer to the filing cabinet shut and resorting to clinging to the greater frame for support, since the search is over but the knee joints are trembling, the mercenary chuckles, then whines as the Seeker evidently does something particularly pleasant, back there.
“Can I borrow her, when you’re done?”
“You promise to give her back? She has reports to write for me.”
“Hey, I returned your stupid datapad, I can totally be trusted.”
“What did you pinch that for, anyway? It has no games installed on it.”
“Checked my socials, duh, what else. Primus, you’re so old! I was being responsible and clever, Sir. It’s got all that built-in encryption and however many security layers, so it’s the only safe way for me to do so without compromising all this privacy nonsense we got going on.”
“You’ve got your own damn datapad.”
“The battery died. It’s charging.”
“I will start locking that in my desk if you keep stealing it. I need it for work.”
“Work,” Thunderblast echoes mockingly as she tosses the datapad upon the desk. “Riiight. Sure, sure. I bet you just watch porn when you’re alone in your office, ’cause you know it’ll dump the data automatically, so nobody else will have proof.”
“I do like perusing the hot pieces in the latest weaponry catalogue.” Shadow Striker sighs and strokes Slipstream’s helm. “Hey, good girl, don’t be a hero, now. You need some air?” Said whilst physically preventing a retreat with that servo upon the helm.
“If she dies, she dies.” The boat shrugs. “Whatcha gonna do?”
“I’d prefer her alive,” the mercenary murmurs. “Buuut, agreed.”
“She needs to be strong.”
“I think she’ll be okay.”
The Seeker hears all of this and begins to rock her hips upon her knees, despite having nothing to mate with, modesty panels sealed, thrusting into the cold, stale air of the office. This is so exciting!
Thunderblast saunters on over to kiss Shadow Striker right on the dermas, sliding slender arms about her handsome neck and pauldrons, pressing against her breastplate. “Oh, Sir, is she better at this, than me?”
“Is that a trick question?”
“Nope. Genuinely curious.”
“Just seems strange of you to ask me that.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve done some self-reflection lately.”
“That’s dangerous.”
“Just answer the fragging question, Sir.”
“Hmm. She’s got some technique, I’m enjoying what she’s offering me, but my good girl is a little inexperienced and I can feel it.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. So, no.”
“No?”
“No. She’s not better at this, than you. If anything, I admire the enthusiasm. But you do know what you’re doing and you would’ve got me blowing my ’load by now.”
Slipstream could take offence, but she just tries even harder to please, accepting that she cannot compete with a master of eating aft, but she can still do her best and be appreciated for it.
The mercenary whimpers, despite herself. “She’s also willing to go deeper than you are, by the way.”
“Getting all up in that aft, huh.” The boat giggles, reaching over to playfully pinch the Seeker’s wing. It jerks at the stimulation.
“Gently! That’s sensitive.”
“Oh, relax. I won’t break your shiny new toy.”
“Are you being passive aggressive? It’s usually easy to tell, but right now, I’m unsure. Are you mad?”
“I’ve got a lotta questions I’m currently asking myself, Sir. Doing some Spark-searching.”
“Oh?”
“I know you fragged both of them without me. And I wanna be mad about it, but…”
“Oh.”
Thunderblast narrows her gorgeous golden optics as Shadow Striker sneers down at her.
“Are you a cuck?”
“Humph! Maybe.”
“We awoke that in you, huh.”
“I’m just so used to being the centre of attention, Sir, I guess it feels kinda fresh to finally not be that any more. At least, I think I’ll like it in, like, small doses. Keep it kinky, ya know?”
“You saying you wanna watch us frag?”
“Sometimes. Other times, it might be hot to just know you’re with them, but I’m not invited. Just don’t leave me to do all your work!”
Slipstream grunts as her wing is lightly slapped, which does hurt, but in a way that has her humping on air and digging her glossa even deeper within the aft that devours her whole face plate in return.
Shadow Striker’s optic rolls back, jaw falling open to let out a shaky mewl, scope focused on Thunderblast’s shrewd little smirk.
“Is it really so bad? Being a cuck, enjoying the cuckolding. I mean, I love a good group orgy just as much as the next girl, but I know how possessive and territorial I can be, if I feel like some glitch is on my turf, playing with my toy, and I didn’t allow it.” The boat runs a pretty digit slowly down the mercenary’s breastplate, prodding her in the Deceptibrand until she winces. “But since I sorta own you and everybody else stuck down here with me, anyway, I guess I don’t feel bothered by it as much. This is a safe space.”
“You’re a little twisted, not gonna lie, but you fit right in with the rest of us.”
“Yeah. It’s all so much to consider, but I kinda wanna explore this side of me, in a safe space. Here, with you guys. I wanna fantasize that my property is being passed about and shared, like you’re just so cheap, but I also know it’s safe for me here since you’re all my glitches anyway, so basically I’ve already got my consortium. That includes you, Slipstream, hear me?”
The Seeker moans like a starved slag in reply, pistoning her hip joints, not even touching herself.
“Lemme try this real quick. Ahem. Good girl!”
She overloads with her panels shut, swooning with a faceful of hot, slick aft, clenching muscularly over her.
“Hahaha! So easy.”
“Be nice.”
“I am nice. Kiss me, Sir.”
“Kinky glitch.”
Thunderblast sighs as Shadow Striker kisses her with passion, permissive of having her headlights roughly groped, in turn applying her free servo to the task of reaching up to find and fondle a sensory spire, as if jerking off a spike.
The Seeker cannot see what the other femmes are doing to each other, she can only hear it and feel how it affects the bearer of the aft she is making out with.
“Hnnngh!” The boat will not last, not with her sensory spire being stimulated. “Roleplay with me! Quick!”
“Primus, again?”
“Pretend I’m your Conjunx a-and I just got home, ohhh, only to find you with her, haaahhh, just some random glitch you dragged, mmm, outta the gutter into our home, yes, into our berth–”
“However do you come up with these things?”
“Do it! Now!”
“Okay, okay! Fine! Uh. Hi, darling. You’re home early.”
“You cheating, no-good slag! Frag, frag, frag! Who’s that? Huh? Mmmyeah! Who’s eating your aft right now? My aft, right now! Gahhh! This? Is mine! Mine, mine, mine, yes! Gimme that back!”
Slipstream actually growls when slender servos attempt to shove her out of Shadow Striker’s aft, Thunderblast’s lithe digits laying claim to this feast.
“Glitch! Don’t you growl at me! Ah, ah, ah, Primus! Eating my w-wife’s aft, after I come home from a long day at work, ohh, how dare you, that’s so hot! I’m close!”
“Sorry, dearest. I just wanted something different. Someone fresh. It’s all that extra weight you’re carrying.”
“Whaaat?!”
“Lay off the Energon goodies and I’ll be loyal. I need me a lean, mean glitch, not a fat one. That mom bod you got going on just isn’t working out for me. Geddit? Working out. Ha! I’m so clever.”
“I want a divorce!”
“I’m keeping the habsuite. So’s I got a place to frag my new glitch.”
The Seeker does not normally approve of frame-shaming, but in this context, this scenario, even if it was not expressly agreed upon, she gets a sick thrill out of it.
“Yes, yes, yes! Ohhh, yes! You’re lucky I’m boutta blow my ’load, or I’d kill you both!”
“Do it. Overload for me. For us. I’m the boss, I’m telling you, you’d better blow right now, or I’ll punish you. Snookums.”
“Snookums?! Aaaaaaargh!” The boat makes a truly scary noise, overloading in the mercenary’s arms as commanded, collapsing against her and cursing under kisses.
“There you go. Good girl. Not as good as this other girl I got, though.”
“Yeah?! She’s better than me?! You like her better than me?!”
“Yup. Her valve’s tighter, her spike’s bigger, and she’s built like a statue of Primus. Can’t be helped, toots.”
“Raaaargh! That’s it!”
Slipstream’s role is simple. She is the other femme in this domestic dispute, eating this aft, making love to nothing. Until she is wrenched out of the humid sanctity of Shadow Striker’s aft and hoisted to her feet, astounded by Thunderblast’s brute strength, especially so soon after an overload.
“You!”
“Aaah!”
The mercenary watches bemusedly as the Seeker is dragged across the office by her wing tip, the boat clearly in some sort of mood.
“That’s my wife!”
“I’m sorry! I didn’t know!”
Thunderblast seizes Slipstream by her hips and lifts her, then sets her down again with some force, easily sitting her upon Shadow Striker’s desk with a thud, scattering stationary.
“You’re so strong,” the Seeker manages a little shyly, adorably sincere, quite frightened, but also strangely turned on.
“She’s all over you.” The boat admires the other femme’s slick jaw, the pump dermas glistening. “I bet you’ll taste like her, you slag.”
The mercenary watches on, kinda into it, curious to see where this is going, but there to intervene if things get too intense.
“Uhhh.”
“Say something.”
“She… didn’t mention you? Um, at all?”
“So, you really don’t know she’s got a wife. She’s got me.”
“No? Please don’t hurt me?”
“Why shouldn’t I?”
“Because… I will do… favours, for you… if you let me live?”
“Favours, huh?”
“Yes?”
“You really are desperate. That tired old slag of mine, she really knows how to pick ’em.”
“Oi,” Shadow Striker interjects, “it’s not my fault you’re getting fat and ugly.”
“Shuddup, you! Mommy will deal with you, later.”
Slipstream squeaks as Thunderblast leans in and licks her, a quick swipe of the glossa over the dermas that had been eating aft.
“Dirty glitch,” the mercenary mutters, readjusting her codpiece.
“You do taste like her,” the boat purrs, laying her palms over the Seeker’s cockpit and easily pushing her down, down, down, into a recline over the cluttered desk, sending various items careening over the edges and onto the floor below.
Slipstream cannot believe that this is happening. This is her life now. What would her friends think? What would Windblade think?
“Did she make you overload?” murmurs Thunderblast as she pushes between her hapless target’s thighs and rubs their modesty panels together with a shaky sigh. “Did you make her overload, at least?”
“I did, but… she didn’t, I think?”
“You’re clearly not even good at your one purpose. It’s so easy to get her there.”
Shadow Striker smirks.
“Girls like you are just too simple, too quick to be tricked. How’d she convince you to come home with her, huh? What’d she tell you? Lies, I’m sure.”
“She… offered to take me in the public restroom, but, um… I said it was gross and dirty in there?”
“You would’ve deserved it, getting a harsh fragging in a grungy little stall with a stranger you don’t even realise is someone else’s wife, like a common slag. I bet she picked you up in some dive down-town and got you just by buying you a cheap drink. Real low-grade. Right?”
“It’s… what I… deserve?”
The boat dips her helm to softly and sweetly kiss the Seeker.
The mercenary pulls out a chair and falls into it.
“You taste like her,” Thunderblast murmurs into Slipstream’s trembling, slick dermas. “I can taste her on you. So cheap. But you owe me some of those favours, remember?”
“Yes, ma’am.” The Seeker dares to chase another kiss, timid but eager, and the boat indulges her, tasting the mercenary’s aft.
“Mommy,” is murmured into another intake, another kiss. “You will call me mommy.”
“Holy scrap.”
“You really don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Shadow Striker interjects yet again, only to raise her palms peaceably at the glare this gets her. “Damn, sorry, I’ll just shuddup and let my wife deal with my slag, I guess. Mommy it is, then.”
The poor Seeker looks like she might explode as the boat smiles spookily down at her, thus dismissing the mercenary who watches on from her seat.
“Mommy is going to be wanting those special favours now, sweetie.”
“Yes, mommy.”
“Good girl. Where is mommy gonna get those favours from you?”
Slipstream quickly opens one of her modesty panels to reveal only her sopping wet valve, dousing the floor with a downpour of released lubricant that forms a puddle, leaving her swollen spike enclosed separately, denying prompts for full pressurisation.
Thunderblast moans as her codpiece rubs insistently against whatever she is being offered, smearing wet heat without looking down. “Your valve? Mm. Mommy likes.” And then a spike surges forth, its swelling curve nestling snugly within the wet trough of plump mesh, heavy and hardening.
“Oh, dear. You’re so big!”
“I am, yes. Is mommy too big for you? Should I stop?”
“I’m gonna die. Please don’t stop.”
“Mm. You’ll die, but only if mommy gets bored. Don’t disappoint me, now.”
“Okay. But, um, if you do kill me, I won’t mind.”
“Worse ways to go, I suppose.” Shadow Striker hums her approval. “Frag my side glitch, snookums.”
“Don’t call me snookums. It’s ridiculous, sweetie.”
“But I like it. It suits you, love of my life, light of my life.”
A sidelong glare.
A grin. “Laying it on too thick, there?”
“I’m ignoring you.”
“Uh-huh.”
“As for you, my darling.”
"Me?”
"Yes, you.” Simpering, yet sinister, the boat rises a little as she coos over the reclining Seeker, “Such a little tease. You’ve got a pretty face.”
“Pretty? I don’t usually get called that.”
“Aw, that’s a little sad.” Thunderblast frowns, momentarily breaking character. "You’re very handsome, true, but sometimes a girl just wants to be told she’s pretty, even macho girls like you. And you are pretty, sweetie, okay.”
“Thank you. You’re one of the, um, prettiest femmes I’ve ever seen. Well, you’re gorgeous, really. But, uh, you must get told that all the time.”
“Yeah, I know. Anyway! Ahem-hem-hem. How’s that valve, sugar glider? Ready for mommy to frag?”
“Um. Standard-issue," Slipstream confesses, quite aware that she is not only the least experienced, but also without any performance mods that might compensate. She hopes Thunderblast likes her femmes natural, in spite of being quite augmented herself. “Also, that’s one of the cutest petnames I’ve ever had, so feel free to call me that again, like, if you want to. Just putting that out there.”
“I’ll remember that. Now, then, you hot slag!”
“Oh, right back to it, then.”
“Show me just what makes your valve so much better than mine, that you would lead my Conjunx astray,” the boat coos as she eases back her hips, one servo resting on the Seeker's cheek to console her, the other plunging below and testing the stretch of her valve with spread digits, gathering lubricant to briefly smear upon the ready spike, rendering it slick. “Can you do that?” The digits withdraw. “You’d better, slag, ’cause I want you to. I want that, okay. I want you.”
“I want you, too, and I’m kinda scared, but I like it?”
“You should be scared. Mommy is gonna make you very, very sorry for being such a bad, bad girl.”
“Ohhh-kay. Wow.”
After the pause for dramatic effect has gone on long enough, those gleaming, curvy hips swing forward, plunging spike-first within the valve in a smooth, swift, practiced motion that would hurt if an amateur tried it, but this squeal is one of pleasure and not pain.
The mercenary winces all the same. “Primus, take it easy. She’s new to all this.”
“She’s fiiine, I know what I’m doing. I got it all under control.”
“Yes! Ohh, yes! Frag me, ahhh, I’m a slag, show me my place!” Slipstream bellows, to the other femmes’ mutual surprise. “Mommy!”
Thunderblast gives Shadow Striker a sidelong look, optics wide, ridges arched.
“Well? Do what she says.”
“I’m just surprised how quick she’s catching on. Damn.”
“Gimme it! Please!”
“Yeah? Okay. Show me a good time, little slag, like you showed my wife, and I’ll let you leave this berth alive, okay?"
“Okay! Okay! Okay! Frag me, mommy! Pleeeaaase!”
“M’kay. Glad we understand each other. You’re a silly little slag, but at least you have basic comprehension skills.”
The Seeker throws her legs around the boat’s hips, hooked together at the ankle joints, hugging her close with another less than masculine squeal of delight as the thrusts go on and on just as smoothly, swiftly, skilled yet relentless.
“Show me a really good time and I just might keep you, though. Because she’s onto something. You’re real tight for a cheap little slag, y’know. Primus. Ah, damn, you're tight. Yes, yes, yes. Mommy likes.” Thunderblast kisses Slipstream’s chin, the underside of her jaw, her throat. “Mommy... likes.”
“Frag me hard, mommy, I’m so bad! I’m such a little slag! Do it for your wife!”
“You’re really getting into it now, huh? I thought this cuckold's fantasy was for me.”
“Do it for your wife, snookums.”
“Sweetie, shuddup.”
“Fine by me.” The mercenary is enjoying herself. She might actually get some datawork done, if she gets to divert her attention to something so fun, on occasion. She grabs her datapad and begins typing away, glancing up every so often, smirking.
The Seeker goes on making noise, much higher-pitched than usual, needy. She is no stranger to submission, but due to the way she is built, big and strong and masculine, she has never been made to feel like such a dainty femme, before. She claws at the desk and throws back her helm, dissolving in ecstasy, large boxy frame flung and bouncing with the boat’s thrusts, hastening them both toward an inevitable climax, impatient.
“So tight, ohhh, yeah, mommy might break something deep inside of you if I have too much fun. Do you like it a little rough, like this?”
“Suuuh-sometimes! Gnnnph!”
“Or should I slow down and be gentler? Answer mommy.”
“No! Don’t slow down! Don’t be gentle!”
“You don’t wanna be treated nicely?”
“Nuuuh-uuuh!”
“That’s right. Because you’ve been so naughty, I’ll frag you nasty. You know your place. That’s what you deserve, for stealing her from me. A nice harsh fragging. Now, you're gonna be my glitch, and she’s gonna watch me work, then eat me outta you when I’m done, and she’s definitely not keeping the habsuit when I divorce her and take everything for myself.”
“Wow, okay, throw my aft out on the street, then.”
“If I let you survive this, I could keep you, of course. Nice little pet, mm? Always wanted a flier of my own. Well, to be fair, I dated a shuttle once, but it didn’t work out. A shame, really. She was hot, built bulky, kinda like you. Just a bit smarter. No shade.” Spacewarp, Thunderblast recalls fondly whilst pounding the scrap out of Slipstream. “Ahh. I was crazy, back then.”
The shuttle's name is Spacewarp. One of the few to survive Thunderblast, but the shuttle had to flee into space, as per her namesake, to do so, leaving her ex stranded on a colony world until catching a ride back to Cybertron. Despite that, the boat harbours no resentment. They have hooked up a few times since then, whenever they randomly bump into each other on their travels, their adventurous streaks and love for telling stories causing them to cross paths at random, but they keep it strictly casual to avoid any hurt feelings or attempted murders. Fun times have been had.
“I wonder how she’s doing.”
“Mommy, I’m gonna-”
Shadow Striker hears the onset of vibrations, muffled and wet, shaking her helm and typing away at the report she had refused to write herself.
Thunderblast's modified spike rapidly pulses in a rhythm she has carefully tuned, after much experimentation to see what works best for herself and most partners, and she knows very well that the average spike cannot do what hers can, because her spike is amazing.
Slipstream sees static. The romantic side of her would say she sees stars. Alas, that is definitely static she is seeing. When her vision clears, she sees Thunderblast pull out her drooling spike so as to stroke herself, spurting ropes of transfluid over her conquest's chiselled abdominal plating.
“You done?”
“I’m done.”
“She was tighter than you, huh.”
“Mmm. Why is it hot, when you prod at my insecurities?”
“You’re a complicated femme. I try not to ask too many questions.”
“Whatever! Wife, come clean this mess. The glitch gets to live, for now. She’s ours, until she bores me. I’ll kill you and whatever other slag you snag for yourself, next time you get the dumbaft notion to go sleeping around behind my back.”
“Yes, snookums.” Shadow Striker sets her unfinished report aside, glad for the productivity in what would otherwise be a fun little waste of time, then rises from her chair and moves to stand over the femme collapsed over the desk, covered in transfluid and perspired coolant.
“I’mma let that one pass.” The boat falls into the chair in turn, thighs spread rudely, semi-pressurised spike hung heavily over the edge of the seat. “Whew.”
“Primus, look at her. You made a damn mess of my good girl.”
“Yup. She asked for it.”
“You okay, Slipstream?”
“Golden.”
“Attagirl. Here.” The mercenary stoops to lick the transfluid off of the Seeker's firm, handsome belly.
Slipstream manages to lift her helm to peer down the length of her body, optics foggy, face plate flushed. “That’s so hot.”
Shadow Striker grunts agreeably, lapping up Thunderblast’s transfluid, permitting a sweaty palm to offer fond pats to the helm.
The boat watches this with delight for some moments more, plased with her work, then produces a holomirror from a compartment in her kit so as to quickly check her reflection, smirking. “Makeup is still on point. Skin looks radiant, as always. Perfection.” She blows herself a kiss. “Mwah!”
The mercenary works her way downward, licking clean the impressive array of abdominal plates until she nuzzles her way into hot, wet mesh, dragging her glossa against the swollen anterior node whilst gently settling betwixt wet thighs fragrant with a rich feminine musk, slinging these open legs over her pauldrons and cupping her subordinate under the aft to make this position more comfortable for her, astonishingly considerate.
The Seeker mewls, low and wounded, more familiar to her own audials and not that high-pitched performance from earlier. Being eaten out with such skill is a real balm after taking such a big spike so hard and fast, and after such a prolonged dry spell.
“Clean our toy out. Do it right, or mommy will know, and then I’mma have to spank you.”
Shadow Striker grumbles a reply, taking her time, enjoying herself just as much as she gifts enjoyment, contentedly eating another femme’s transfluid out of Slipstream’s twitching, oozing valve, the plump mesh a little stretched and thus quite accepting of the worming glossa, although the valve walls will tighten again when the arousal subsides and engorgement is no longer necessary, thus the flow of inner Energon will be redirected so as to alleviate pressure to sensory nodes buried within and the anterior node that proudly crowns this interface array, spike kept contained within its compartment despite its protestations.
The Seeker is going to overload again, but she is grateful to the mercenary for doing this so carefully. “Thank you, Sir. Ohh, that’s wonderful. Mmm!”
The boat smirks. “You took me well, sugar glider. I’m thinking of doing you again, sometime soon. Would you want that?”
“Yes, please! You were awesome!”
“Ah, hahaha! I do like you.”
“I like you tooouuugh!”
“There you go, sweetie, that’s a good girl.”
The mercenary keeps swallowing transfluid to avoid choking on it, snorting wetly as she gets a little up her enstrils which burns unpleasantly but does not deter her from her mission, as she is a professional. When the overload hits, the valve spasms and ejects its payload that her glossa cannot reach, thus she gets a hot slop of transfluid diluted with lubricant to the jaw and a spattering hits her in the optic, forcing it shut, scope upcast to peer at the expression of anguished ecstasy upon the handsome facial rigging of her subordinate.
“I think that’ll do it, Sir. Don’t break her, now.”
Slipstream really wants a cuddle, writhing upon the table as the wave crashes over her, reaching for Thunderblast who takes her servo and kisses the large, blunt digits like a gentlefemme.
Shadow Striker untangles the legs from her pauldrons and rises with a wet cough, optic squeezed shut and mandible dripping wet, scope whirring.
“Wow, Sir. You look so beautiful like that.”
“Yes, good girl, I bet I do.” The mercenary smiles down at the Seeker, glancing aside at the boat with amusement, who winks back.
“Come cuddle.”
“No.”
“Please?”
“No.”
“Pretty please?”
“No.”
“But Sir.” The Seeker pulls an adorable face. “Wanna cuddle.” Few would be able to refuse.
The mercenary pulls out a textile from her kit and mops her face plate with it, in turn hiding away from that adorable expression, because it is having an effect on her despite herself.
“Sorry, sweetie.” The boat sighs, kissing those digits again. “The boss doesn't do cuddles. You know what she's like.”
“But I want cuddles.”
“Aw, sugar glider, I know you do.”
“Cuddle me?”
“Sure, sweetie. Here. Let's cuddle.”
Shadow Striker lowers the makeshift overload rag and marvels at how Thunderblast perches on the edge of the rather overburdened desk and draws Slipstream's helm atop her lap, stroking sweaty brows and tracing angular cheeks, smiling down on her.
“You're so nice. Scary. But nice.”
“You don't have to be scared of me, sweetie. I hope you know that.”
And for a while, nothing more is said, the femmes gazing at each other with affection and a warm, glowing sensation of closeness.
“You ladies wanna get off my desk and help me clean your mess, or what?”
“Way to ruin our little moment, Sir!”
“It stinks like a brothel in here.”
“Nice.”
“Finally, you’re reporting in! I was getting anxious.”
“My reports have been regularly scheduled. I am neither late, nor early,” Shockwave intones, appearing to Starscream as a holographic bust, frowning over a singular optic. “It is you who does not answer my calls timeously, Captain.”
“Fine, fine. Tell me! How goes mass production of my new Seekers? I trust all is well.”
Before the lead scientist can answer, the Captain interrupts with a melodramatic flourish.
“Please tell me you have good news! For I have had a difficult day and I need the positive energy right now. Things are so strenuous. Darling, you would not believe the day I’ve had!”
“…Duly noted.”
“…Well! Good news, then?”
“Affirmative. Acid Storm and I have had ongoing success in replicating the cold forging process. Skywarp has established a reliable proof of concept for Seeker mass-production.”
“Brilliant!”
“I am pleased to report that with this current generation, we have refined our methodology of cold production and devised measures to expedite the process. Moreover, I have proposals for certain design improvements I would propose to you, as your approval is required.”
“Design improvements? But the Seeker mould is a classic! We are a handsome people, graceful and strong!”
“Standard Seeker models are woefully outdated. Acid Storm confirmed my assessment.”
“Mm. Well, if Acid says so, it must be true. I am rather superior, after all.” Starscream sighs, waving the notion aside. “Fine, fine. Tell me about these proposals of yours.”
“The design schematics are being sent to you now. I propose heavily armoured, heavily armed Seeker alternatives, intended to support the standard models.”
“Why not just replace the old ones with these new ones?”
“Construction costs.”
“Ah, of course.”
“Acid Storm proposes that we designate these Seeker alternatives…” Shockwave pauses for what almost sounds like a chuckle. “…Coneheads.”
“I’m unsurprised, really.” Starscream quirks an optic ridge, lounging back in his chair. “Acid always does come up with the daftest titles for their projects.”
“Review the schematics. I expect to receive confirmation of your approval within the hour.”
“I’ll approve your proposal right now. Go ahead and make me those Coneheads.”
“You are certain?”
“Yup.”
“Oh. We worked very hard on those schematics.”
“I’m sure you did, darling. I trust Acid. Besides, you did a fine job on rebuilding me, so I’m sure it’ll be fine. We can talk costs later on. Also, how are they doing? Are they having fun?”
“My assistant has exceeded my expectations as to Seeker intelligence.”
“And do tell me what your expectations were.”
“Minimal.”
“Ah.”
“Acid Storm is attentive to their tasks, generally patient, and does not require much supervision. It is my assessment that they pose great potential. Assuming they continue along this trajectory, I will sponsor their future career prospects.”
“That’s rather sweet of you. As their Captain, I thank you.”
“No, Captain. You have my thanks.”
“Your old co-workers came looking for you here. They wanted to bring you in for questioning. That was an unpleasant surprise. Told me you lost your job, when you abandoned your post by climbing out a window and fleeing the High Council chambers. I told them I didn’t know where to find you, that you hadn’t come home to me for a few days by then, which was the truth. I reported you missing at the station, of course. But when you don’t wanna be found, you won’t be. I assumed you’d already fled town, figured you’d be long gone. And now, you’re back.”
“Regs, I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah. Me too.”
“I just… I got involved in stuff. Big stuff. Serious stuff. But lucrative! They were paying real good, with more paydays incoming if I keep pulling a few jobs here and there, and it’s way more than I could ever hope for with some stupid conventional job. I figured if I played my cards right, I could get us set up real nice. Regs, I did it for us.”
“Did what?”
“You know what.”
“Primus, Nightra. You planted that drone in High Councillor Ariel’s office. You’re the hidden agent working with the Decepticons. Of all the things you could’ve done to me, to really screw me over after I let myself fall in love with you again, and that’s what you picked.”
“I took a risk, for us. I didn’t leave you, okay? Not this time.”
“You’ll ruin my life.”
“Frag you, Regs! I did it to get us a better life! You hate your job, it makes you miserable, you’re not even half the femme I once knew! You used to be fun, and bright, and smart, and you drove me crazy, I was on top of the world when I was with you! But now, you’re just existing! I hate seeing you so sad all the time! Primus knows, I’ve lived like that too! Life’s too damn short to be wasting away, doing what we hate, being unhappy! So, I chose different, Regs. I chose us. This is our chance! I’mma get us in.”
“I really thought you’d changed. I really thought you meant it this time.”
“Uuugh! You’re not listening to me, Regs! This is a good thing! I want you with me when I’ve made something of myself!”
“I can’t do this again.”
“Fine, be like that! We’ll talk more later, we don’t have time for this right now. Help me pack. You gotta take the essentials only, okay. We’re travelling light.”
Strongarm sits on the end of their berth, helm bowed upon her broad pauldrons, sagging in place.
Nightra is hastily stuffing a few key things in a small case, darting about the berthroom.
“I can’t leave. I can’t uproot my whole life for you.”
“You can. You will. You’re just freaking out a little. I get that. We’ll be fine. Just focus on packing what you need and I’ll do the rest. Trust me.”
“That’s just it, Nightra. I don’t.”
The flurry of motion suddenly stills with a sigh. “So, what? We’re done? That’s it? It’s all over?”
“I feel so stupid.” A sound, not quite a sob, soft and stifled, but the tears do not come. “Stupid, stupid, stupid femme.”
“Regs, don’t let me go again. I love you. It’s not like last time, I promise. It’s not like last time. It’s not. I came back for you. Here I am. Touch me. Keep me.”
The officer offers no resistance when her girlfriend nestles atop her lap, seeking affection and reassurance mostly for herself.
“Please. Believe me. Be with me. We’ll run away together, make it out of here together. I’m your girl. I love you. I took a chance on a fresh start, but not just for me, not this time. I hid those few days, I’m sorry, Regs, but I came back for you, ’cause I knew I’d come back to get you, no matter what. Not like last time. I was a coward, last time. But this time, I’mma be your hero. I’m gonna take you away with me.”
Strongarm wraps herself around Nightra as if terrified she might evaporate, pulling her in close, face plate buried in her neck to smother the dry sobs, trying to cry but unable to will into existence the tears, probably too tired to cry by this stage.
“We’ll get hitched, even. I’ll have the financials to spoil you rotten, girl. Only the best for ya, Regs. Believe me.”
“I’m sorry, Nightra. I just don’t.”
“I’m not lying. Honest.”
Notes:
Windblade was quite the flirt in RID 2015, a hint of which I thought I'd include here even though her Cyberverse incarnation is the primary basis for my rendition of the character. If Windblade's tensions with the brawny but short Cadet Strongarm and the hunky yet awkward Seeker Slipstream are to be interpreted as at least somewhat gay (which clearly is correct), then Windblade seems to like her femmes fun-sized. To further corroborate my claim, bestie Chromia has some muscle too. Anyway, this is related, but have you seen how big Elita (Ariel) is in some of the comics, especially when stood next to Optimus? Logic dictates, step on me please.
Chapter 30: Quiver*
Summary:
Alpha Trion consoles Sentinel as he reluctantly ingratiates himself with the Functionist faith, old allies of the former Senate who could save a mech's ailing career if he only sells his soul in exchange. Flamewar's idea of a date is target practice, showing off her bow to the very impressed Shadow Striker. Ariel butts helms with Sentinel again and Orion Pax tries to keep the peace, dismayed to see their High Council resembling another Senate. For reasons the enigmatic and wise Alpha Trion may never disclose, only he seems to accept the Functionists as a necessary evil, lending support to Sentinel's schemes. Windblade contacts Slipstream after some silence, admitting that needing help is hard. Given the chance to try a bow for the first time, Shadow Striker falls in love and Flamewar is happy to make someone else happy. Starscream's actions are reluctantly disclosed and Slipstream finally hates him, Windblade losing control of the dialogue. Flamewar shoots Shadow Striker and somehow this leads to getting laid, which is a little weird but alright. Returning to the office with telling scratches, Slipstream reports damages in the storage unit and Shadow Striker gets tender ideas she is too smart to entertain, surely.
Notes:
Possible trigger warnings: autoerotic asphyxiation (choking oneself for sexual pleasure), very brief hint at the erotic use of a weapon (non-lethal), I am generally quite critical of organised religion where it influences government oversight (represented here via Functionist belief sponsoring the Autobot High Council) and my writing reflects this critical lens without actually intending to offend anyone - I fully acknowledge that religion can be used for great good and can be a source of much comfort for many people (Functionism, however, is not good, nor is it comforting, thus it will not be depicted positively) - but I thought it prudent to warn you now because this will be a recurring plot thread henceforth.
Featured sex scene: Shadow Striker/Flamewar with Slipstream and Thunderblast mentioned (weaponry as foreplay, rough sex, on the floor, filthy, smaller femme on top of bigger femme, smaller femme spikes bigger femme, vaginal, grinding, making out, size difference, valve modifications, spanking, ass grabbing, touching exposed protoform, claws, back pain, sensitive headlights as breasts, bouncing breastplates, biting, fangs, engine noises, praise, switched positions, bigger femme tops smaller femme, weight difference, risk of damage, structural integrity compromised, desire to be pinned down and squeezed/crushed, fantasy about being fucked to death, dangerous sex, squeezing own neck cables as robot equivalent of autoerotic asphyxiation, cumming inside, face-sitting, fingering, self-service, masturbating valve onto breasts, reference to sucking of breastplate, reference to fainting smothered in breastplate, licking own breastplate, spinning tyres as expressions of excitement, brief and joking discussion of gore, agreement on signal for safety as alternative to safe word, cunnilingus, cum eating, fangs on valve, self-service whilst servicing, handjob)
Chapter Text
“Oh, scrap, I gotta go to work. Scouts can’t be late.” Bumblebee kisses Windblade’s cheek, murmuring against it, “Give her a call. Today. Okay?”
“Okay. I will.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
“That’s my girl. And your girl’s gonna cheer you right up, put some pep in your step.” He playfully punches her pauldron, doing absolutely no damage, instead hurting himself. “Ow! What are you made of, actually?”
“Badaft vibes.”
“Damn!”
“And anxiety.”
“Aw, bestie.”
“I’m just worried I’ll drag her down. All the stuff I’m thinking and feeling, I can’t filter it all out, and when our minds connect, she’ll sense it, at least some of it. And there’s all that mess with Starscream that just goes on and on my helm–”
“Windblade. We talked about this. Don’t neglect Slip. You gotta invest into your relationships. You gotta try. Even when it’s hard, do your best for your people. She loves you.”
“Sorry. You’re right. As usual. I’m being dumb.”
“Hey. You’re the best. Like Rod says, think your thoughts and feel your feelings, you’re valid. But don’t let this stuff make you doubt yourself. Trust me.”
“I do. You believe in me. That means everything, Bee.”
“Dude. I hate leaving you like this. You want me to call in, take a day off and hang? We should hang. Let’s hang. Lemme just call–”
“Go on, Bee. You’re the one telling me to honour my commitments. Get out there and save the world, my little ray of sunshine. I’ll see you later.”
“You’ll be okay, ’til then?”
“Chromia’s got me. I’ll be fine.”
“Okay, then I’m off. Call me if you need me, I’ll come home straight away. Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“See ya!”
Chromia returns with a laden try, smiling fondly down at the smaller mech as Bumblebee slaps her lightly on her powerful blue arm.
“Ow! You too, huh.”
“I suppose?”
“Hey. Don’t take any of her nonsense, yeah? Give her loads of love, but take none of her nonsense.”
“Oh, she knows not to misbehave under my watch.”
“Wow, you guys.”
“Awesome. Love you.”
"Love you, too."
"Kiss?"
The bike flushes and shyly stoops, accepting a peck on the cheek whilst balancing the tray, smiling after the buzzing yellow mech who hurries off and waves over his pauldron at the Cityspeaker.
“Love you, Bee.”
“Love you too! Later!” Bumblebee thus lets himself out.
“You know…”
Windblade accepts the tray with a nuzzle against Chromia’s helm. “I know?”
“He’s got a great aft.”
“Oh, you.”
“We should not repeat the sins of the Senate,” Alpha Trion intones wearily, laying his palm upon Sentinel’s broad, gleaming pauldron and squeezing. “I must protest, for I dislike allying with them and I know the way they think. Yet I trust you to do what is right.”
“You surely know I dislike this alliance, also. I’m no fool. They serve themselves, not Primus.”
“Yes, and I sympathise with your position. It is a difficult place you occupy.”
“I wish I could get a little more sympathy from Orion and Ariel,” comes out lowly, resentfully, heavy with hurt. “They must laugh at me whenever my back is turned.”
“They love you.”
“Yes, so you say.”
“You should try talking to them, as a friend.”
“All I ever do is talk, as a leader. They don’t listen. A leader is what they need, let them cling to each other for the rest.”
Before Alpha Trion can go on, Sentinel interrupts with a sidelong look, his chiselled chin prominent from this angle and alight with extra polish even compared to the shininess of his flawless frame overall.
“Let them begrudge my company and tolerate my control. I’m the most qualified here to save our world, not salvage old bonds.”
A soft sigh. “I understand.”
“You say you trust me. But do I have your support?”
“Of course you do.”
“Good.”
The High Councillors watch from a viewing port as the gleaming procession of Functionists neatly file altogether to be greeted by the elite guard at the gate, deferring their entrance briefly.
“I must go address them now. Being late would be uncouth. They’ll chastise me.”
“But do remember.” Alpha Trion offers Sentinel a kiss on the cheek and a brief hug. “Let us try to do better, better than what has been done before us. This is, in a bizarre, cruel twist of fate, a second chance for all of Cybertron. It starts here, in Iacon City, within our High Council – within all of us, and within you.”
Sentinel inhales sharply within the embrace, his ample framework expanding beneath gleaming ornamental plates of armour boasting of his elite station in life, a rank he earned through strenuous study and long labour and only obedience to his superiors who taught him to recognise those beneath himself. He played his part and he towed his line. When will he ever be permitted to feel perfect, in all his power and pride? When he is in the arms of a lowly prostitute, perhaps, paid to whisper all the positive affirmations and other such sweet nothings in his lonely audials. “I’ll remember.”
Alpha Trion squeezes a little tighter, then releases and steps back, brushing a thumb across a handsome cheek, smearing over a single tear to erase it gently out of existence. “Remember, also, you are never alone.” He has known this other, younger mech for a long, long time, almost as long as Orion Pax and Ariel and even Megatron. Alpha Trion feels a fatherly sort of pride for all of Sentinel’s achievements, but also pity for his apparent unhappiness. What is a career if it only brings misery? If success cannot compensate for solitude, or hide what is imperfect, then one must wonder what the point of striving for success really is, beyond earning the right to call oneself better than the miserable multitude. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
“Now, compose yourself to do what you feel you must. I’ve delayed you enough. Go to them with my blessings.”
“Better yours, than theirs.”
“As much as I love blowing stuff up and impaling stuff, I’mma fire a blank for the sake of safety and discretion. Okay?”
“That would be wise, unfortunately.”
“But don’t worry. You won’t be bored.” Flamewar reaches within her own small, curvaceous framework and retrieves something dark and sharp and folded in on itself. “My arrows won’t do damage and won’t make noise, sure, but they’ll be real bright, real pretty.” With a mere motion she effortlessly unfurls her compound bow, almost as long as she is tall, yet when stowed on her person, it had simply slotted into her so seamlessly so as to integrate within the rest of her body. “The Energon cell is charged and distilled cold, so it won’t trigger your heat sensors, and these arrows will fly so fast, I’ll be real impressed if your motion sensors can track any of ’em. I know I don’t look it, or act the part, but I’m actually an ambush predator. Same as you, boss bot. My bow, to your rifle.”
“Beautiful.”
“Glad you like it. I want this date to be something special, yeah? Lemme show you how it works, then I’ll pass my bow over to you, so’s you can give it a try yourself. If you like how it looks, you’ll love how it feels.”
“It looks…” Shadow Striker runs her digits along the dark, sharp, curvaceous compound bow, exhaling shakily, excited. “A lot like you.”
“Well, thanks! That makes me beautiful by extension.”
“You certainly are. I’ve felt you. If this bow feels half as good as your valve, I’m gonna be borrowing it half as often as I intend to borrow you. With your permission, of course.”
The bike flushes, her handsome fanged grin turning crooked. “Damn. I wish I’d lit a few scented candles. Really set the mood.”
“Nah, no need.” The mercenary chuckles at that, reaching past the bow to caress the claws, the inner wrist, the rest of that powerful arm that wields the bow, proving that her interest is sincere and does genuinely go beyond. Soon, she’s caressing the pauldron, the fiery breastplate, the firm abdominal plates, leaning into a sigh against the neck as she cups the modesty panels and squeezes. “Mood’s already pretty set.”
Flamewar giggle-snorts in her adorable, unstable way, shuddering at the stimulation. “Aw, boss bot, you’ll get me all flustered, then I won’t shoot straight.”
Shadow Striker’s twisted, traumatised Spark gives off a delightful little flutter as her silver glossa licks the cords of that slender neck. She blows hot air onto the slick trail, then rises a little and nuzzles into a kiss softly placed upon a flushed cheek littered with scars and scuff marks. She feels such a surge of affection, it surely is making her soft, making her weak. And yet, maybe that is not such a terrible burden.
“Hey, seriously. Boss bot, if you keep this up, I'mma put my bow away and get my spike out.”
“In a little while, yes. Not just yet, though. Be patient.”
“Tease.”
“Guilty.” Finally, she steps back, giving the smaller femme space to operate without the distraction of touch. “I want a show first.”
“Kinky.”
“Go on, then. Seduce me.”
“Oooh! Is that an order?”
“It is now.”
“Sure thing, boss bot.” The bike’s engine gives off a flirtatious, throaty bark as she winks up at the mercenary, then assumes a combat-ready position. “Prepare that aft. I’mma have it later. You’ll be seduced so hard, trust.”
Shadow Striker stands out of the way, arms folded and scope zoomed in on the target whilst her optic follows the bow. She beholds an Energon-laced arrow as it materialises into existence, manifesting its full length with the gradual pull on the bowstring, done slowly for show. She is astonished by how no physical strain is indicated by the braced arm that holds the bow aloft, or the bend within the other elbow as claws cling neatly and securely to the string, flickering with residual Energon.
“Shoot?”
“Shoot.”
Flamewar releases. The glowing arrow seems to flicker out of existence for a split instant, then sizzles harmlessly against the makeshift target, sending a tin cup careening off the stacked storage crates with a tinkle.
“Nice shot.”
“I know I’m outta practice. I used to be way better than this. I can’t remember, but I just know it.”
“Lemme go get cup that real quick. I wanna take a look.”
“Sure!” Despite firing harmless blank arrows, the bike lowers her compound bow as she was obviously trained to do so by a strict instructor at some point in her past, taking the opportunity to sip from a canister of coolant.
The mercenary thus crosses into the line of fire without any threat of harm. She soon finds and retrieves the overturned tin cup, inspecting it. Despite the force that had been applied, she detects no damage, whether it be a puncture or at least some dented impression of impact, not even a scorch mark.
“Was that cool, boss bot?”
“That was fragging awesome.”
Flamewar looks delighted. “Really?” She bounces on her sharp heel struts, wheels spinning excitedly, engine roaring with an echo. “You liked it, for real?”
“Yeah. You’re a badaft, not gonna lie.” Smirking, Shadow Striker sets the cup upon the stacked storage crates and ponders the assortment of other miscellaneous items that have been arranged strategically to act as markers for aim, nothing that would be missed. It is a rather adorable excuse for a firing range, but one must make do, she supposes, and she does admire initiative and creativity when making use of the most modest of means. “You don’t have a scope on your rig, but you nailed a small target from that distance, first try. And yet you say you’re out of practice.”
“I am outta practice! When I was living civilian, it was hard to whip out my bow and shoot stuff. I’d find dark, dingy alleyways and knock cans off of the wall, stuff like that, but I also had to make a living somehow, so a lotta the time I was distracted just tryna survive.”
“I know that feeling.”
“I bet you do, boss bot. We got that kinship thing going, us two. Two fragged-up femmes in a big, bad world, just tryna make it through the day so’s we get to see tomorrow.”
The mercenary returns to the bike, gazing down at her, gazing up.
“Although, I doubt you’ve been in too much trouble with the law, boss bot, since mercs operate with law enforcement all the time. Right?”
“Some do. Not me. I hate cops. Never worked with them. I’m not some bounty hunter, paid to capture the criminals cops can’t. I’m licensed, so I am - rather, I was - Senate-approved, but I've always worked lucrative contracts for private clients, and I only ever serve myself.”
“Nice! I dunno if I’m even licenced. You’ve at least got that. Me, I didn’t wanna risk getting arrested. Cops always have it out for the little guy, the loud and proud troublemakers like me, rejecting the system that chews us to bits and spits us out worse and worse every time we gotta get into that maw. They’d have to confiscate my bow because it goes against the rules, even if I’m just firing blanks for fun. I know weapon regulations, so that implies I gotta license to carry, right? Right.”
“Fools,” Shadow Striker mutters, then leans in and kisses Flamewar on the forehelm. “Show me again, but faster. I wanna see more of you, what you can do.”
“Whew! Your wish is my command, m’lady.”
“Hey, I’m no lady.”
“You’re totes a lady, boss bot!”
“Humph. If you say so.”
“Well, I mean, you’re more of a lady than I am, that’s for sure.”
The mercenary ruffles the bike’s helm, then moves aside, getting out of the way.
“Try to be sensible.”
“My lived experiences tell me this is madness.”
“You’ve been gone for so long, Ariel, you’re hardly even concerned with Cybertronian politics! Why can’t you just let it go already?”
“I was forged here. It does concern me.”
“You hate this planet. You got your big break, you got out! You left me and you went out there on your grand adventures, poking and prodding and cutting open those creatures.”
“Some people don’t get to escape. Some people love this world and wouldn’t leave even if given a way out. I don’t want any Cybertronian, or any of the colonists influenced by our politics, to suffer what I suffered for so long. It all but drove me out with my own misery, whilst contractually imprisoning me here. It was hellish.” Ariel has not raised her voice. Her bright optics are burning. “If you endorse Functionism, our High Council will facilitate – if not outright impose – such suffering on the people who believe, and the people who don’t. You’ll empower the faith to further its own ends, and for what? To appease the faithful, so you’ll have their support, frag the consequences?”
“You sound so much like Megatron!”
“That really says something, doesn’t it, Sentinel.”
“Oof,” intones Orion very quietly, rubbing his face plate.
“Agreed,” murmurs Alpha Trion, stroking his beard with an expression of ancient fatigue.
These two reasonable, patient mechs do tend to intervene to stop the endless infighting or at least mediate the arguments, for what little they can do. But some things do need to be said, and heard.
“See the sense in this madness. The greater good of it. Stop being so selfish, Ariel.”
“Selfish. They call me an abomination, they vilify my way of life, and you say I’m selfish?”
“Yes! We need their sponsorship for the good of the whole! Stop thinking of only yourself!”
“Myself, and Orion’s self, and Megatron’s self, and all the other selves that just don’t fit the Functionist world-view. How’s that selfish, to you?"
“I’m doing my best! Why can you never see that! You’ve never seen me!”
“Oh, I see it, alright, and I for sure see you. You’re selling us out, to make it easier on yourself.” Ariel looks genuinely hurt. “Again.” Hurt, and angry. “Just like before. You’re going down that same old road and you know I can’t walk it with you, you know it’s cruel to shove Orion down your path.”
“Then go. Leave. You’re bound to depart for some primitive alien organic mud-ball of a planet eventually, anyway. You’ll never be happy here, not with me, or with any of us.”
“Sentinel, please. Cybertron is still my home, or one of my homes. That’s why I came back. It’s why I’m staying. I’m gonna fight for it, like Windblade.”
“Our honoured Cityspeaker has rather complicated matters, assaulting Megatron’s favourite!”
“Hey. Watch what you say about her.”
“It’s not just her! None of you has made this any easier for me! All this talk, all this deliberation, all this inaction! We are a laughing stock! We appear impotent and afraid! I am none of those things! Ugh. My helm aches. Go away. Take Orion with you, for all I care.”
“Sentinel, c’mon.”
“I’ll be fine, Ariel, as always! I’ll do this by myself, with Alpha Trion’s wisdom as my guide. Notice how he’s not against me. It’s always you two!”
“Nobody is against you, old friend,” Orion says with some strain, reaching for Sentinel’s servo, only for it to yank out of reach.
“Don’t. Not now.”
“My apologies. Forgive me. I grow tired of our squabbling.”
“Then help me! Stop hindering me!”
“I am trying to help. But I do have principles I wish to uphold.”
“Well, I’m sorry, but we can’t do things your way because your way doesn’t work, so we’ll do things my way! The Senate’s way! Because it works! It worked, until Megatron ruined everything!”
“Hardly. You know how the Functionists feel about people like Orion.” Ariel grunts, drumming her digits over the table. “People like me. And you know how that makes us feel. It’s all been said before. Don’t you care, at all? We’re your friends.”
“Listen here, my friends! You’re with me, or against me. You can choose that much. With you, or without you. That’s my choice. Understood?”
“I’m just saying. You finally have a real shot at breaking free of their influence, and yet all I’m seeing is you, surrendering yourself and the rest of us to it. Why do you want to return to the past?”
Sentinel wants to yell out his frustration into the void. No words. Just yelling. But he just sighs, folding his servos upon the tabletop. “I’m securing our future.”
“What sort of future would that be, for someone like me?”
“You’ll be gone by then, anyway.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It is. Besides, the alternative is Megatron, and I will be ruined if he ever takes control. I cannot stand it. I won’t”
“Then you’re the selfish one. Always did put your career and public image before your friends. Before me.”
“Selfish?! I’m the hero here! I represent the High Council, law and order and morality and socio-economic success! The Senate wasn’t perfect, Functionism isn’t ideal, but the union worked before and it’ll work again! Do you have any idea the pressure and stress I’m under, all the time? Of course you don’t! None of you could possibly get it! I have to make things make sense again, I have a whole world to save, and my options are limited!"
“Wow.”
“Functionists have the resources and sway of public opinion needed to go up against Megatron's alternative future. Since you cannot solve all the world's problems, I ask you to please co-operate with me, or frag off.”
“So, that’s it, then. Frag me, huh.”
“Yes! Frag you!”
Ariel nods once, rises from her chair, turns and walks out without seeking Alpha Trion's dismissal, but he does not protest regardless.
Orion's optics follow the upset femme as she departs, then swivel down into his own lap. He knows Ariel. He knows she is not actually going to go off-world, at least not yet. Inevitably, yes, she will leave them all behind. But for now, she is likely to go to the makeshift gym or her office to ease her temper and distract her mind, seeking sanctuary in maintaining a strict exercise regime or through tending to her organic obsession. He opts to give her some distance, sat contemplating his utter inability to be the leader Cybertron needs.
Sentinel scoffs. “Always was a coward, that one.” And he is not entirely wrong, either. “Now, then. We have matters to discuss. Let us be productive in her absence.” For he knows her, too.
Slipstream is quite distracted with taking inventory and double-checking the actual stock in storage against the listed itinerary upon her datapad to make sure the estimations are correct, because she is a lot less sloppy about this sort of thing than Thunderblast and Flamewar tend to be, due to their own boredom. So distracted, in fact, that Windblade’s oddly evasive, timid presence goes unnoticed until she speaks.
“Slip?”
Startled by the Cityspeaker’s soft voice in her helm, the Seeker squeaks, a less than masculine utterance, and almost drops her datapad, scrambling to catch it.
“Sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you there. I’m so… Ugh! I can’t do anything right any more.”
“Windblade,” Slipstream utters with a fluttering of the Spark and wings alike, as fright turns to joy in an instant. “Hi,” she whispers eagerly, bouncing on her pedes, doing a little dance of delight betwixt stacked shelves. “You’re here. Hi, hi, hi.” Windblade would love that ridiculous expression of emotion, trying to keep itself quiet in case anyone else were to criticise it just for expressing itself, like love is a crime.
“Hey, sweet Spark.”
“Missed you.”
“I missed you, too. Is this a bad time? Can we talk? I can call you back, if–”
“Don’t go. Please stay. I like talking to you.”
“I like that you listen. You never judge what I say. You don’t offer unsolicited advice. And when I’ve said my piece and you’ve heard me out, you’re always ready and willing to give me the best hugs ever.”
The Seeker’s mind is, indeed, offering a big hug with lots of nuzzles. But she soon discovers that the Cityspeaker is a little limp, flinching as if in pain, yet also stung with guilt. “Windblade, what’s wrong? I sense… you’re hurting. And hiding.”
“I’m doing okay. Getting better. Just realised I’m not as invincible as I thought I was. Humbled.”
“What happened?”
“I did something dumb. Ratchet patched me up, though, and I’m just resting at the moment as I recover. Bee and Chromia are taking care of me, so are all our other friends. I’m never alone for long. The High Council is, uh, very busy without me. I’m hardly needed, really. Yeah, humbled.”
“I feel like you’re not telling me something I ought to know.”
“Not a mind-reader, perhaps.” Windblade sighs over their connected minds. “But you are perceptive.”
“I love you,” Slipstream replies, abandoning the inventory and taking a seat on something that can bear her weight, helm in her palm and optics shut to focus on the presence sharing her mind, taking up a small space whereas the Cityspeaker usually expands to fill this space with her own passion and consumes the Seeker whole from within. “I know you. Now, please tell me what’s actually wrong, what actually happened. Trust me with the truth.”
Windblade does not want to. But she did come here, hoping for closure. She is just so strangely afraid, so bizarrely uncertain, and she conveys impressions of her mental state through this mental link. “I don’t really feel much like myself.”
The Seeker listens, allowing the Cityspeaker the space to speak.
“All that’s really stayed the same is my libido, according to Chromia,” Windblade says with a chuckle, only to sigh. “And I can’t even… I mean, I could, there are other ways, like cables and tactile stuff, but that’s not the point.”
Slipstream feels Windblade rest herself some place comfy and comforting, deep inside.
“But I know she’s worried because of the way I’m acting up. They all are. Bee kept telling me to just mech up and call you already, and I know it’s awful to admit it, but I didn’t want to speak with you. Not like this. Not after…”
“If I’d loaded a live cell in there and not a practice blank for show, you’d melt your digits a little bit on that Energon dispersion as you ready an arrow.”
“Hence your claws.”
“Yup. I can’t cut the string, and it can’t cut me.”
Shadow Striker watches the flickering of Energon dance about her digits as she draws back a charge with a slow, steady pull on the bowstring, forming an arrow. She detects a tingling feedback in her sensory network that does not impede her ability to aim, but she soon discovers that the process of actually determining the accuracy of her shot is a little impeded due to never having wielded a compound bow before, even though she has her ocular scope to compensate. It is not a rifle, after all, or any sort of conventional firearm over which she can claim familiarity. She is so excited, she is almost giddy.
“Your form’s good. If you feel ready, take the shot.”
“Okay. Don’t laugh if I miss.”
The bike winks. “I’ll try real hard not to, boss bot. But I might laugh on the inside.”
“Comforting,” mutters the mercenary.
“You’ll do fine. Go for it.”
“Yeah, just…”
Energon is not only sustenance for their kind, but also fuel for their vessels and their weaponry. Were aliens to encounter these autonomous robotic organisms, such dependency upon a singular resource coupled with cross-contamination of interests as to its applications would probably seem very strange.
Flamewar claps, smiling lazily from her perch, rudely slouched on an overturned storage crate. “Nice! You goddit!”
Shadow Striker slowly lowers the bow, exhaling from her vents as the tin cup rolls across the floor.
“First try, too. Not too shabby, boss bot. Score!”
“Thanks. This bow is astonishingly cooperative.”
“It looks like me, so you assume it’s got a bit of an attitude, huh.”
“Well, yeah, actually. That’s pretty much what I was expecting.”
The bike giggle-snorts.
“Can I go again?”
“You can go as much as that Energon cell will allow.”
The mercenary readies another arrow, smiling broadly and totally unaware of it.
Flamewar is just happy to give Shadow Striker something. Anything.
“He did what?!”
“Slip, easy. Don’t draw unwanted attention to yourself right now, not like this. They’ll think you’re–”
“Crazy,” Slipstream snarls, kicking over something with a very satisfying clang. “Sure feels like it!”
“Talking to yourself,” Windblade finishes firmly. “Not crazy. Never crazy.”
“That fragging afthole!”
“Slip, please. Don’t take this on.”
“How could I do anything else? I love you!”
“And that’s just it. These calls are meant to help you, not hurt you too. I only told you because I can’t hide it when I’m in your mind, but that doesn’t change the fact that I screwed up, and it’s not your responsibility.”
“Yeah, so you’d planned to just lie! Because that’s so much better!”
“Only to spare you all of... this.”
“Spare me nothing! He hurt you, because of me!”
“No. That’s not what happened. That wasn’t – this isn’t your fault.”
“Does it even matter if it’s not?” The Seeker stumbles to catch herself on a shelf, gripping it hard enough to leave a dent in the dull metal. “I can’t even do anything about any of what’s happening with you on the surface, because I’m stuck down here, trapped in the Pits, because of him! He threw me aside like… like trash, then assaulted my girlfriend!”
The Cityspeaker hugs herself in another’s mind.
“Are you my girlfriend? Sorry, that’s not the point right now, is it? I’m being dumb again, dammit! Dumb and useless!”
“You’re not dumb. Or useless.”
“I just… I feel so…”
“Slip.”
“…Windblade.”
“We can be girlfriends, if you want to?”
“Yes! I want that more than anything!”
“Okay. Then we’re girlfriends.”
“He can’t take that from me!”
“Nobody can take me from you. Because they’ll have to take you from me, first, and I’ll never allow it.”
“I’m yours? Always? Right?”
“Mine. Always.”
“Ohh, Windblade, I love you.”
“I love you too, Slip.”
“And I don’t understand. I love him too, isn’t it enough? I’ve loved him my whole life, tolerated every one of his moods, and the one time I want someone for myself, someone who’s mine and wants me back, someone who isn’t him–”
Windblade winces as something is thrown with force against the wall.
“I’ve gotta get outta here, or I’m bound to break something important.”
“Shall I go?”
Slipstream sobs.
“Shoot me.”
“What, now?”
“Shoot me.”
Flamewar gives Shadow Striker a look.
“I’m curious.”
“Girl, please.”
“Shoot me,” the mercenary repeats.
“I heard you,” mutters the bike.
“C’mon. It won’t do any damage. Right here.” Shadow Striker taps herself on the breastplate, just above her Deceptibrand that still aches. “Shoot me, just once. I won’t ask again.”
“That’s awfully trusting of you. How do you know I won’t upset the beat of your Spark, hitting you with weaponised Energon so close to your chamber?”
“You’re firing blanks. The Energon output is very low.”
“Yeah, well, you’ve never been shot by a compound bow’s arrow before, have ya?”
“No.”
“Thought so!” Flamewar snaps her claws to punctuate. “You don’t really get to call my shots here, boss bot, because I’m the expert of matters regarding this weapon, you’re not. Blank arrows can still hurt. I shot myself in the pede once. Don’t ask me how that happened, it’s embarrassing.”
“Oh, fine.” The mercenary sighs, seated on a crate, sipping from the canteen, looking really good whilst doing it. “Fine, fine.” She does something sultry with her face plate. Obviously done on purpose, with specific intended effects. “Even if it could be fun.”
“Ugh! Stoppit.”
“Stop what?”
“That.”
“This?”
“Yeah, that!”
“You don’t like this?”
“I do. Brat. It’s manipulative as scrap.”
“Aw. It’s just my face.”
“Now you’re making it worse, somehow! Stahp.”
“Can’t. Sorry.”
The bike seethes, bristling. “Fine!” She swiftly readies her bow. “If you insist.”
“Cool.”
“Might wanna hold onto something.”
“Gimme your best-" Shadow Striker gasps as a bolt of light hits her right in the upper chassis, between her headlights. She sags where she sits, then careens, falling off of her crate and landing upon her aching back strut with a clamour of impact. The canteen is flung away in the process and goes sailing on by, airborne, forgotten even as it bounces off of something and spills coolant, wasteful.
“Boss bot? Boss bot!”
“Ouch.”
“Dumbaft!” Flamewar hastily sets her bow to rest against the wall, then hurries over to kneel beside Shadow Striker’s collapsed form, checking her neck cables with a knuckle to avoid claws touching anything they might cut, measuring the beats of her spark, the pulse of her working fuel pump. “Primus, why did I do that? Don’t die. Please.”
Laid out like a drunkard, mercenary simply laughs, delighted.
The bike scowls. “Afthole, I was worried!” Then giggle-snorts, scowl dissolving into a wonky grin. “You’re okay. Of course you’re okay. It was just a blank.”
“Damn! Got some oomph!”
“Yeah, well, this isn’t quite where I saw this date going, but you seem real happy about it, so… Yay?”
Shadow Striker pulls Flamewar down, down, down, laughing even into a kiss.
The bike’s bright optics flutter shut as she brushes her palms softly over the mercenary’s bosom, testing the place the arrow had struck, running a damage assessment of the bigger femme just in case.
Large servos wrap about shapely hips and lift the smaller body easily, then lower Flamewar again so that she is laid atop Shadow Striker’s chassis, without breaking the kiss.
“Mmm?”
“Mmm.”
Thus receiving verbal confirmation, the bike opens her spike chute and emerges hard and swollen and wet. She is so glad for this. She is grateful to be wanted, to be kept.
The mercenary releases her valve and swings her knee joints far apart, tilting upon her hips to insistently grind her erect and glowing anterior node up and against her subordinate’s throbbing curve, bending the spinal strut a bit to compensate for their differences in stature.
Shooting someone with a blank arrow is possibly on the list of weirdest foreplay tactics ever, Flamewar figures, but she enthusiastically rolls with the punches anyway. She reaches down to grip herself by the shaft and steers herself, then eases her spike, which is much more generously endowed than most would expect based on her general scale, into Shadow Striker’s hot, slick valve with a mutual quiver of anticipation, finding the large femme a comfortably snug fit and boasting internal modifications that allow for her calipers to be more flexible, more receptive to different spike sizes, adjusting accordingly to maximise mutual pleasure.
Groaning needily into the kiss, the mercenary digs her heels into the cold, hard, filthy floor and roughly slaps her palms over the bike’s plump aft before squeezing hard enough to drive the digits into gaps where the tender protoform is exposed, painfully inciting her passion, urging her on without worry of gentleness, braced to get fragged hard and demanding it.
Flamewar does not disappoint. She thrusts harshly, plunging in and out with a wet slapping applause of their interface arrays slamming together at regular intervals, raking her claws over her commanding officer’s headlights and snagging a derma between her fangs to tug on it whilst retreating, forcing Shadow Striker to contort herself further in order to chase another kiss.
When getting fragged into the discomfort of the floor causes a rather nasty twinge to the spinal strut that cannot be irritably dismissed, the bigger femme takes advantage of her weight and throws it aside, easily rolling them both over and rising atop with a hum of the engine, thus the mercenary assumes control and mounts the bike, kissing her into submission beneath whilst bouncing atop her spike hard enough to force wind from her panting vents, metal creaking with strain amidst the wet cacophony of mesh slapping against panels.
Flamewar has often bragged about how badly she wants to be crushed under bigger bodies. Now, she is getting exactly that. She kicks and scrapes her heels, engine snarling, vocalizer keening as the change in orientation forces her spike in deeper, alighting upon additional interior nodes that brush slick against her engorged ridges. She grabs Shadow Striker by the thighs and pulls on her, coaxing her to sit more heavily with each downward motion. Kissing her becomes a bit difficult, under these conditions. It is awesome. Dying like this would kick so much aft. Frag, yeah.
The mercenary pries their intakes apart, heedless of fangs, and sits back on her haunches with a wondrously feminine moan, smugly glaring down the length of her handsome olfactory sensory at the bike splayed beneath, clenching over her spike, cooling fans whirring a little less inconspicuously at the alluring sight of a jostled breastplate licked with coils of painted fire, dark panels glimmering with perspiration like scattered jewels. “You’re gorgeous, y’know?” It is confessed softly, fondly.
“Thanks! So I’ve been told. You, too, boss bot. Gah! Damn!”
“You could break a femme’s Spark. Mmm. You really could.”
“Ohhh, Primus, you’re gonna break me!”
“Yeah?”
“Please! Frag me ’til I can't move!”
“Try to survive me, okay?”
“No promises!”
“Aw. But I gotta return you to Slipstream, alive and intact, or she’ll be so upset.”
“Gnnnph! Slippy! Hahhh!”
Shadow Striker's scope rolls in its socket and her optic flutters shut as she feels hot spurts of transfluid flood the intake of her valve. It is enough to provoke her to overload, seizing rigidly atop Flamewar, scattering sweat with a potent lurch and dragging large blunt digits far too roughly over headlights for that bit of extra stimulation, bosom heaving with a cry of ecstasy.
The bike grabs herself by the neck and squeezes in a rather risky effort at choking herself, managing to coax another rope of transfluid from her twitching spike even as her overload begins to fade, spike equally choked within the mercenary’s clenched valve.
Finally, Shadow Striker sags, panting, dripping, drooling.
Flamewar is going fuzzy. She only releases her neck when a large servo grasps her own and gently pries her claws off of her fuel lines, setting her free.
“Little maniac,” the mercenary purrs, fond and disapproving at the same time. “You could’ve cut yourself.”
“Uh, yeah, that’s part of the appeal - the risk? Duh. Anyway!” The bike grins, fanged. “Sit on my face, boss bot? I’ll clean myself outta you.”
“Nice. Don’t bite me too hard down there, though. You can have a nibble, nothing more.”
“Sure, whatever. C’mon. Sit. Lemme take care of ya.”
Shadow Striker readjusts herself, sliding her drooling valve off of Flamewar's semi-pressurised spike with a wince of lingering pleasure. “Ohh, yeah, that's good.” A large digit gives the spike a fond caress, before probing for the anterior node, eliciting more winces and a whine.
“Gonna jerk off onto my lap, make yourself overload all over me, before you even get to my face?”
“Probably. Oooh.”
“Slag. Aim for my tits. I love it when glitches frag my tits.”
“But your wounds-”
“Are sealed. I’ve mostly stopped scratching anyway. I’m fine. You don't gotta grind on me if you’re worried you’ll hurt me.”
The mercenary does not argue further, shuffing forward to sit on the bike’s upper belly, digits delving into the valve, passing over the anterior node in bursts of excited motion, engaging in very enthusiastic self-pleasure protocols over her fiery breastplate.
“Holy scrap, look at that,” Flamewar coos, lifting her helm and peering past her bosom to watch, licking her own dermas hungrily. “Niiice!”
“The tits on you," Shadow Striker rumbles through bared dentas. "I wanna shove my face in them, get my intake all over you, suck the paint right off of you, smother myself ’til I pass out. Then you’ll have to rescue me from myself. Just try and pry my aft off.”
“The sealant’s really gross, though.”
“The frag do I care? They’re great tits.”
“Hahaha! Actually, you know what? You’re so bad, boss bot. But you’re right. These are great tits. Hey, here’s an idea. How ’bout I do the licking? Dump a hot ’load on my tits for me, like, right about... now?”
The mercenary sighs to completion, obedient, her spasmodic valve forcing out a spurt of its own lubricant and transfluid, spattering the bike’s fiery breastplate in an arc of release.
“Yeeeaaah! That's what I’m after! Thanks!” Flamewar sticks out her glossa, cupping her own bosom so as to lift the sheets of firm metal over flexible, soft protoform and draw the ample armour to her eager intake, bending her neck harshly and licking herself with wet slurps and happy grunts, wheels spinning hard enough to skid over the floor in a show of excitement.
Shadow Striker smiles drunkenly at her own excellence and her subordinate’s endearingly idiotic enthusiasm, aroused and amused all at once. She is so good in berth, and out of berth, as it were. And Flamewar is definitely pretty decent, too. This is fun. Why worry? Why feel so anxious over this? What’s the harm? Why does it seem too good to be true? Why is there always a bad omen overhelm?
The bike eventually polishes off the dregs of their mixed overloads, then flops back with a giggle-snort, followed by a sigh. “Gonna sit on my face now?”
“Only if you promise to signal if you need me to get off,” replies the mercenary mildly, ignoring her own misgivings and readying herself with a stern yet sultry downward glare. “Because all jokes aside, I am far bigger and heavier than you are and my fat thighs, aft and valve are actually at risk of crushing that pretty face plate and helm of yours.”
“Ohhh, dude, that sounds superb! I’d die smiling.”
“Flamewar. I’m serious. Please don’t die underneath me."
“Aw. Would you miss me, if you did sit on me too hard and I died, boss bot?”
“Yes. Though it’d be funny for a little while.”
“Heh, it would! For you, anyway. I wouldn’t be laughing, I guess. Being dead and all. Dead, but definitely smiling!”
“It’d also traumatise Slipstream forever and I’d hate to have to clean your brain module off of the floor and out from my aft-crack. Be a nightmare to explain in the report to Megatron, too.”
“Ugh, fiiiine. For Slippy, then, I’ll tap out three times, then hold up a fist so you don’t assume I’m just spanking you or cheering you on, okay?”
“Okay. That’ll do. Now, open. Watch the fangs.”
“Uh-huh,” answers the bike in a dumb, breathy undertone, slack jaw hanging in a shameless slag’s obedience, glossa exposed and beckoning with inviting little strokes over those dangerous fangs, optics dimmed and hooded, the lenses swollen to swallow the rest.
The mercenary smiles reassuringly down at the smaller femme, then moves assertively to claim her prize, taking the queen's seat over the throne of a handsome face plate with a soft sigh and a shudder at the sensations of scarred yet soft dermas tenderly kissing the soaked, plump folds of the valve, glossa worming within to seek out evidence of overloads like a cybermaggot seeking rot, and the fangs behave, barely scraping mesh. “Good girl. Very good girl.”
Flamewar grasps her own spike and strokes herself to provoke full pressurisation, pumping her fist roughly as she lays her free servo far more gently over Shadow Striker’s dark, ample curves, caressing her blindly and with roaming reverence from below rather than groping greedily.
“Ahh, get it in there, get it in deep. Mm. That’s right. Hey, good news or bad news, depending, but I bet you’ll be glad to know that Thunderblast is onto us. You like that, huh? She has plans for you, involving me, and of course your personal favourite, Slipstream, one at a time and all at once. Had her on my desk, the poor thing.”
A moan, muffled and wet, buried in the thick, supple interface array, could indicate pleasure or pain or perhaps both.
Demolishor does not mean to block Slipstream’s path, but she happens to be intercepting his patrol route without meaning to get in his way in turn, and they are both built to be large within these tunnels so tight, so they cannot squeeze past each other. Thus they are at an impasse.
“I’m your comrade, I'm here to help. Especially after all the times you’ve helped me. That's just what we soldiers do. We look out for each other."
“I don’t need help. Um, thank you. Can I just slip past, please?”
His old Spark aches at the sight of a femme in distress. “Here.” He lays his huge palm gently on Slipstream’s cheek. “Oh, you poor thing. You’re burning up.” Assessing the scuffs and scrapes, he notes superficial damage, nothing that would elicit these tears. He suspects something is wrong inside and makes a paternal sound as she trembles when touched, confirming his fatherly instincts as correct. “What’s wrong? What happened?”
She sniffles, rubbing an arm over her optics like a protoform freshly emerged from the Well, faced with a world of sensations and strange rules that can be so overwhelming. “Nothing. I’m fine. S’cuse me.”
“Don’t be ashamed or embarrassed.” He speaks to her very softly, very kindly, his voice distorted. “I’ve seen it all at my age. Nothing’s gonna shock me.”
“I fell,” is the softly spoken explanation. “In storage. Tripped over something. Damaged some stuff on my way down. I cleaned up. Clumsy me, huh.” Slipstream tries to smile, but it comes across as a grimace instead. “Please don’t tell on me. Let me report to Shadow Striker myself.”
Demolishor clearly does not believe it, frowning gently.
“I just need to get past you. Please.”
“Okay. But if you need someone to help you out, with anything, always trust in a comrade. We’re all in this together.”
“Right. Thank you.”
He removes his servo from her cheek, only for her to snatch it back and bury her face plate in his entire palm, as if to bury the onset of sobbing afresh. “Slipstream, I want to make this right. If all that means is just being here, with you, then I want to do that. You’ve seen me so vulnerable, too.”
She nods and allows him to pull her against himself, cradling her in his big, strong arm against the breadth of his bosom.
Kissing her atop her helm, he uselessly tries to wipe away her tears with his hollow digits, designed to kill and not to comfort.
Shadow Striker is freshly showered by the time she returns to her office, falling into her uncomfortable chair with a languid stretch and satisfied sigh, contemplating her desk, and then the other desk beyond.
Usually, Slipstream will process all the datawork over there, sitting quietly in her little nook. She should have finished inventory a while ago, and as a team player, upon completion of her share of the work, she will go off to help the others, or perhaps spend time goofing off with Flamewar who does get quite lonely and needs personal attention or she will wilt, and all else failing, Slipstream will return here and attempt to make herself useful within Shadow Striker’s office.
The old mercenary opts to do a little datawork herself, hates it, gives up on it, and decides to go and check on her team, aiding them where she can. By the time she reaches the door, however, the Seeker slouches through it, dragging her pedes, coming to a gentle stop against the older femme’s chassis.
“Sir.”
“You look like scrap.”
Slipstream opens and shuts her intake, then nods once. “Yeah.”
Shadow Striker gazes down at her subordinate, their bosoms pressed together. Concern is written in that scowl.
“Sir,” the Seeker says again, “I’m requesting formal permission to leave headquarters.”
“Why?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“To grant a formal request, I do need a reason justifying the possible breach of operational security. Such as that time we had that formal inquiry with Scream, after we got these Deceptibrands and I got a little crazy.”
“Never mind, then.”
The mercenary exhales. “Hey, now. Don’t shut down. Not after all the progress we’ve made, you and I. I like this… closeness, or whatever you’d call it, this thing I’ve got going on with you.”
“I like it, too.”
“Then let’s talk. Communicate. A little give, a little take.”
“I’d rather not, Sir.”
“Maybe I can help.”
“I don’t think you can, Sir.”
“Well, are you gonna at least lemme try?”
Slipstream keeps her gaze downcast.
“C’mon. I’m a mean old glitch, but I care. I don’t mean to seem cruel, with all these questions, even if I’ve gotta follow the rules.”
“I know. You’re just like this, sometimes.”
“Ouch.”
“Sorry. I’m not in the mood to talk.”
“Clearly not.”
“Requesting permission to go and lie down for an hour instead, Sir.”
“Did you finish your assigned tasks?”
“Yes.”
“Good girl, you’re always reliable. I trust you to get things done.”
“But I broke some stuff in storage.”
“Anything important?”
“A few important things. I’ve made a note of the damages, here.”
“Okay. Thorough, as always. Thanks.” Shadow Striker accepts the datapad as it is passed to her. “The other girls wouldn’t have bothered. They think I won’t notice stuff’s gone missing, if they don’t write it down and they trash the evidence. Pair of scraplets. So, how’d it happen?”
“I tripped and fell.”
“Officially? For the report, I mean.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“And that’s why you’re tearful, right now.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“I don’t believe you. You’re soft, but you’re not weak. What really happened?”
“Please let me go and take a nap, Sir.”
“You’ll tell me all about it when you’ve had some rest, yes?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Good girl. Granted.”
“Thank you.” The Seeker turns to leave, only for a servo to take her own and tug her back against the mercenary, who smells really good and feels even better.
“And one more thing. Because I’m really not intending to be cruel to you, even if I’m just like this, sometimes, as you said, and I do dread these dull rules taking my edge off.” Shadow Striker kisses Slipstream’s neck, wrapping an arm about her. “Here’s a hug.”
“You don’t do hugs, Sir.”
“Nope.”
The Seeker turns and nuzzles the mercenary’s cheek, sagging back against her.
“Take an hour and go get yourself rested. You can buffer out the scratches when you’re feeling better.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Off with you, now.”
“You need to release me first, Sir.”
Shadow Striker nods slowly, in turn brushing her cheek against Slipstream’s plump dermas. “Okay. Letting you go in three, two–” And she just does not count down to one, mostly because she realises how nice this feels, holding a femme who finds comfort in being held like this. There is something almost domestic, about this arrangement they are in. If all the sickness were scooped out, all the trauma allowed to heal, and there was not an impending war driving them together and threatening to tear them apart, then perhaps this could be such bliss. Does she ponder it, too?
Such a dangerous notion.
Chapter 31: Fist
Summary:
Arcee takes a keen interest in Ariel's controversial hobby - the study of organic alien life. Shadow Striker finds the storage unit in a damaged state and confronts Slipstream, leading to a most tender outcome and a mission to replace what is beyond repair. The street-smart and thrifty Thunderblast is assigned to the task and she happily takes Slipstream out on a shopping spree, granting the girls a chance to bond on the surface world. Budget blown, they end up in a crowded club, encountering the handsome and enigmatic Soundwave. Knock Out restores Empress to her ample glory, much to Megatron's pleasure and Starscream's agony. When Chromia answers the door, Slipstream is there, and Windblade is overcome.
Notes:
Thank you for the support thus far, I welcome engagement in whatever capacity you feel comfortable with. All the comments, kudos and bookmarks are especially appreciated, because I do seek feedback in order to assess your enjoyment of my writing. That being said, I hope you like this rather large and rather gay chapter.
Chapter Text
When Slipstream revives from her depression nap, her roused sensory network detects a familiar weight upon her chassis. Her optics flutter online and she blinks back the fog of lingering fatigue, then finally looks down.
Curled up neat and small like a cybercat asleep on a cushion, engine purring as it idles, bright optics wide and watchful, Flamewar lifts her helm and kneads her claws once acknowledged.
“Hi.”
“Hey.”
The Seeker groggily applies her servos to the bike, caressing her warm, shapely framework all over, vibrating with her purrs. A little scratch under the chin, a little scratch behind the audial, a little scratch down the curve of a spinal seam.
Flamewar enjoys the fuss, but she is evidently not here for her own sake only. She frowns with concern and opens her soft, scarred intake as if to question, fangs glinting like knives.
Slipstream neatly inserts a digit betwixt those fangs, as if provoking a bite.
The bike sighs and nibbles on the Seeker’s digit, leaving fine scratches behind.
“Did Shadow Striker send you?”
Flamewar nods, then shakes her helm.
“She asked, but she didn’t give you an order,” Slipstream surmises and smiles faintly. “She knew you were gonna come and check in on me anyway. Your mind was already made up the moment she told you I wasn’t feeling well.”
The bike blinks slowly, his big bright optics the envy of the sun.
“I’m sorry I’ve made you guys worry.” The Seeker removes her digit from her friend’s fangs, littered with harmless cosmetic scratches. “I really don’t mean to.”
“Don’t apologise because you got people here who care about you, Slippy.”
“Kiss me.”
“Something’s on your mind.” Flamewar finds Slipstream’s servo and kisses her upon the knuckles. “Wanna talk about it?”
“No. I think I’m just going insane, trapped down here.”
“Talking things over might help.”
“Shadow Striker said the same thing.”
“Boss bot’s right.” Flamewar rests her chin on her claws, sniffing. “I wanna help. I hate seeing you sad. You’re kinda sad all the time. I wanna keep it cool with you, keep it sorta sane even if I’m not sane and I can’t keep us sanitary for scrap, but it’d be nice, y’know. If I could help.”
Slipstream sits up slowly, scooping the smaller femme into a hug within her lap, showering her in kisses and nuzzles.
The bike does her best to smile, cuddled and kept like she craves.
“I miss my love.”
“Wimbles. You wanna see your girl again. Aw, Slippy. I’m sorry.”
The Seeker brushes her frowning dermas over a forehelm. It is not the whole truth. Lies can be told by omission too.
Arcee likes visiting Ariel’s office, having taken a liking to her as a person, as well as her organic collection, particularly the living specimens. At first, the older femme assumed it was just a passing curiosity like with the other open-minded friends, or perhaps an effort at keeping her company. But as the visits repeat with increasing frequency and the enthusiasm only grows, she begins to ponder the prospect of passing her informal knowledge onto a protégé of some sort. What an alluring notion.
“Oh! What does that mean?”
“That is a threat display.”
“Wow!” Arcee coos whilst taking pictures, careful not to disturb the writhing organic in its tank any more than her very presence already does. “Should I back off?”
“That depends.” Stood closely alongside, the larger and equally pink Ariel smiles playfully down at her. “Do you feel threatened?”
“Come here,” Shadow Striker says, standing betwixt storage shelves filled with stock. “And give my your servo.” She reaches out. “I wanna show you something.”
Slipstream meekly obeys, wings drooped, as if scolded. She already knows what she is bound to be shown.
“Good girl.” The mercenary is gentle, to her credit, and patient. “Here.” She guides the Seeker’s servo into a dent imbedded in the wall, coaxing her digits to map out the uneven concave. “You feel that?
“Yes, Sir.”
“Make a fist and slot it into place.”
Slipstream clenches her servo as instructed. Her fist trembles as it fills the dent.
“A perfect fit.”
“I’m sorry, Sir.”
“I’m not reprimanding you. I just want to understand, because you’re on my team and I’m your boss. You’re not in trouble, unless you make punching things you’re not supposed to into a habit.” Shadow Striker’s scope whirrs, darting aside from within its socket. “Tell me, why did you punch the wall? I’m sure it didn’t offend you somehow. You could’ve damaged your digits.”
“I got upset, Sir. I lashed out.”
“Rather out of character for you, showing your emotions through force. All the times we’ve sparred together, all the moves I’ve taught you and got you to practice under my watch – throughout our combat training, I could sense an unwilling but capable fighter within you. You never once struck me as violent by nature.”
“I’m not.”
The mercenary grunts as the Seeker turns suddenly and buries her face in her breastplate, as if to hide.
“It won’t happen again,” comes out very small and muffled. “I’ll fix it, Sir.”
“Gonna be tough to buffer this dent out, but I can forgive the damage, since you didn’t hurt anyone else and you didn’t injure yourself. It was just a bit senseless and stupid, but I’d be lying if I said I’ve never punched a glitch in a drunken brawl for barely any reason at all. I’m not a good guy, Slipstream. I’m just responsible for my team, which includes you. And you…”
Slipstream is engulfed in Shadow Striker’s big, strong arms.
“You are good. Bumblebee’s optics would light up every time he looked at you and Windblade hung on your arm like a lovesick idiot and all their other friends liked you. Clearly, you’re good enough for them. You just don’t think so. And you’re too good to be punching our stuff, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Attagirl. I’m not gonna punish you. I’d be glad just to talk.”
The Seeker peels her flushed, wet face plate out of the mercenary’s bosom, gazing adorably up at her. “You think you’re mean, Sir, but I think you’re capable of being so very kind.”
“Well, c’mon, now. Let’s not get into that.” Shadow Striker gruffly clears her vents, but she smiles one of her rare, genuine smiles. “Anybody asks you, you tell them I’m the meanest, that’s all there is to it. Got a reputation to maintain.”
“I understand, Sir.”
“So! Something serious must be bothering you. You said you’d talk to me after a nap. We have a little time to ourselves, alone together. Let’s talk.”
Slipstream looks to the dent in the wall, left by her fist in a fit of rage directed at Starscream, at Megatron, at herself, at life in general. “This isn’t like me, Sir. It’s just not.”
“I know that. As your boss, when any one of mine acts out, it bothers me.”
“Because you care about us.”
“Despite myself, yeah, somehow I do. But I’ve seen things escalate in good mechs and femmes before, seen them turn bad.”
“Other soldiers.”
“My war buddies. My comrades. You never really leave the battlefield. You take your war with you, inside, wherever you go.”
The Seeker throws her arms around the mercenary.
Shadow Striker sighs, astonished by her own tolerance to this vulnerability. She rests her sharp chin atop her subordinate’s pauldron. “I’m not being a gossip. I’m not getting into your business for the fun of it. I won’t weaponise anything you tell me in confidence.”
The Seeker rests her helm against her commanding officer’s.
“On the record, you’re welcome to your secrets, so long as they don’t interfere with our operation and my payday. And I’m sure there are enough unruly, traumatised Decepticons out there to justify this loss of temper and self-control, to the point that sometime in the near future, as our Decepticon culture develops and our numbers keep growing, punching a wall will be considered a minor incident in the grander scheme, just typical Decepticon dysfunction and misbehaviour.”
“And off the record, Sir?”
“Just between you and me, I’m worried about you. I like you. This isn’t you. That concerns me worst of all. And it worries you, too. So, can we talk? I’m not promising a cure and I’m not here to sell you salvation. It’s just us right now and I need you to work well with me. We’ve managed so far, mm?”
Slipstream is silent for some time.
Shadow Striker feels a stirring in her arms as the younger femme nestles a little deeper into dark, glossy panels of reinforced living metal, a combat-ready frame finding comfort in a body modified to destroy.
“I need to see her.”
“Your girl?”
“My girl.”
“You punched a wall out of, what, lovesickness?”
“I’m lonely. I’m frustrated. I miss her. I ache for her all the time. I know this hurts her too. She’s the sort of femme who’ll fight for me. But am I strong enough, brave enough, to fight for her?” The Seeker winces. “And just thinking about her, hurting, because she fought for me… I just can’t, Sir. I can’t do anything. I’m stuck down here, when I should be with her. At least then I could maybe put her rage at ease, appease her heroics, let her possess my mind and Spark and do whatever she wishes with my body.”
The mercenary grimaces. This romance hardly seems healthy, not even by her definition.
“Windblade is so fierce, but I’m so afraid.”
“She’s not stupid. She’s got Stormfall. I think she can assess threats and defend herself just fine.”
Slipstream dares not mention what Windblade had admitted about Starscream, a wound that shatters self-confidence and rattles resolve. This must be kept a secret. Were it to ever transpire that a Decepticon has shared in telepathic communications with an ally of the High Council, made a lover of an enemy…
“As for you.”
“Me, Sir?”
“Have our lessons not given you any courage? You can fight, Slipstream. I know you can, even if you doubt yourself. War is what you were forged to do. It’s instinct.”
“I hate that.”
“Me, too. But it’s life and death. I want you to survive. With some practice, some experience in real battles, you’ll finally acclimatise to your combat programming and you’ll get used to hurting people when you have to. Then you’ll be truly dangerous.”
Slipstream turns to the dent in the wall.
“I’ve seen what truly skilled Seekers can do,” Shadow Striker intones. “You don’t have much of a choice between war and peace and escape. You have no idea how much time’s left to you, to choose. All I can do is teach you, toughen you up a little, and help you prepare yourself for whatever is coming. The rest is up to you. But I believe you’ve got a fighter’s chance.”
“Thank you, Sir. Your confidence will have to do.”
“Just for now. You can learn to believe in yourself, as mushy as that sounds. And hey, if I have the honour of standing with you on the battlefield, you know I’ll have your back.”
“I’ll do my best to have yours, too.”
“Yeah. And even though I’m not gonna punish you for what you did, I know you’ve got a guilty conscience about the whole thing anyway. Here’s some absolution.” The mercenary kisses the Seeker’s cheek, then slaps her roughly on the back strut. “You know Flamewar’s rigged a firing range.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Something you can do to make this right, is help me cart over whatever’s irreparably broken. We’ll make target practice out of this junk, stuff for her to shoot at. She says she needs to practice with her bow, but I think she’s just being modest so I won’t feel inferior.” Shadow Striker winks and it is obvious this time.
“Aw, Sir.” Slipstream giggles, her wings perking despite her dishonesty. “That’s such a good idea. She’ll appreciate that.”
“And there’s another thing. Some of this scrap on your list of damages will need replacing, obviously. Smugglers can get us the illicit stuff with a little time. As for the rest…”
The Seeker pales when the mercenary smirks wickedly. “Sir?”
“You know how Thunderblast loves shopping. Why not take her along? She can haggle, plus she knows her way around. I can justify letting you both out of base with a supply run, y’know, to go on the report to Megatron.” The mercenary chuckles. “It’ll give you a chance to bond. Doesn’t that sound lovely?”
Slipstream sighs, but nods. “Yes, Sir. I do like her company. I just foresee her getting distracted along the way.”
“Keep her on task and I’m sure she’ll prove very useful. She’s got great people skills when she applies herself. You can manage as a team effort, I’m sure.”
“Sir, could I go see Windblade, while I’m out?”
“Of course. I don’t care what you do, so long as you don’t frag up this operation and you do get the stuff on the list.” Shadow Striker scoffs. “Giving you some much-needed alone time with your lady was part off the plan, strictly off the record.”
“Sir, I… That’s… Ohh, you’re being very good to me!”
“I’m the best boss ever, I know. The bar is so low. Complete your mission with Thunderblast’s help without getting into too much trouble or compromising my job, go see your girl and get your helm cleared so you can focus on your job, and promise me when you get back that you’ll avoid punching our stuff from here on out because I like you better when you’re gentle. We’ll call it even.”
“Yes! Thank you!” The Seeker lunges into another hug.
The mercenary accepts a kiss right on the corner of her wicked smirk. “And Slipstream?”
“Yes, Sir?”
“I would like you to come back to me. But if running away with her to Caminus to escape everything here on Cybertron turns out to be the way this ends, then just remember me with a little fondness from time to time, yeah? And know that I’ll do the same. I’ll be wishing you both the very best.”
Slipstream feels a terrifying plummet within her Spark, followed by a terrific rise. One extreme to another. Perhaps she falls in love, then reconsiders it and hastens out of that deep, dark pit of passion, because surely she is not that soft or stupid and outright insane so as to humour this tenderly toxic romance. Surely not.
“Hey, good girl. What’s with that look?” Instead of getting a verbal reply, Shadow Striker suddenly finds herself pushed against a laden shelf and pinned in place, clawing at brawny pauldrons as she is kissed until her brain module spins.
“Those Functionists are really out in force this time, huh,” Hot Rod notes over his internal comm link so as not to be drowned out by his engine. “They give me the creeps, even if Sentinel says they’re on our side. Brrr! Seems they’re getting bold.”
“Or desperate, more like,” replies Bumblebee from somewhere else in Iacon City. “Megatron really doesn’t like their ilk. He’s been saying it for ages, but they never took him seriously before. Now, they’re preaching that he’s, like, the anti-Primus or something.”
“…Ilk?”
“Yeah, ilk.”
“…What’s an ilk?”
“You’re so dumb, Rod. I love you.”
“And I’m pretty!”
“Enough chatter,” Sentinel suddenly booms over their internal comms, scaring the younger mechs half to death. “This is a secured line. Act like it. Radio discipline at all times, am I understood!”
“Oops! Sorry! Uh, reading you loud and clear.” Bumblebee huffs. “So loud and clear.”
“Yeah, like, won’t happen again. Over?” Hot Rod is not even sure what radio discipline actually refers to, but he has heard convincing radio chatter in movies and tries to emulate it.
“Good. See that it doesn’t.”
“Oh, uh, High Councillor, before you sign off, please define ‘ilk’ for me. I think he made that word up. Sounds fake. Over.”
“I so did not, I just read once in a while! And language is fake, anyway, when you think about it. Over.”
“Bee, you’re tripping. Over.”
“Think about it, Rod! We just all agree that our words mean something, but words change meaning over time. Language is just, like, a collective pretence of meaning, or whatever. Over.”
“Whoa. Deep. Over.”
“Hmm. Surprisingly so. Anyway, to answer your inane question, an ilk is a shared type within a group of people. Hence the Functionist ilk being creepy.”
“Thanks! So you agree with me, they are creepy. Uh, over.”
“Yes, but we require their aid. Now, do shut up unless you have suspicious Decepticon activity to report.”
"Roger?" intones Hot Rod, unsure if this is the correct response.
"Over and out!" answers Bumblebee with an audible grin, putting on a masculine edge to his voice.
"Ugh," utters Sentinel. He sounds so tired.
Thunderblast and Starscream might actually get on alright as friends, Slipstream figures, even if any hope of romance between them is futile. They both share a love for shiny things on display in store fronts, budget be damned, and they do not appreciate carrying the shopping, hence the strong and stoic Slipstream lugging all the goods along some paces behind, frowning handsomely over an armful of whatever without complaint beyond some masculine grumbling, already in something of a moody mindset. It all blurs together into aching pedes and overburdened arms and bright lights and jostling crowds and awful music blared over hidden speakers. Let it all be over soon, let this torment end.
“Ooh, I should pick up extra polish while we’re here! And I want to try some fresh ink on you, get you all reinvented and stuff!”
“But I like my makeup.”
“Listen, sweetie, you look great, but I don’t think you should limit your style to just one mode. Ya know?”
“Mode?”
“Experiment, girlfriend! Trying new things is good for you!”
“Oh, no, I’m very boring.”
“Nah, you’re just a bit conservative. Easy fix! I used to eat femmes like you for breakfast all the time. You just need a little feminine persuasion to motivate you to do what I like. Leave it to me, sweetie. You might resist me, but I’mma have you eating outta my palm in the end.”
“Sure, okay. I am inevitably swayed by dominant femmes. Though, I wasn’t aware that my mode of style needed fixing. I thought I had something classic. Silly me.”
“Aw, sugar glider. Would you let up already? Don’t sulk. Please.”
A low grumble.
“C’mon, don’t be like that. I’m trying here. I’ve been trying. I keep telling you, let’s have some fun with this! While we’re out and about, I wanna have an adventure, with you!”
“That’s great, Thunderblast, but we’re still on a mission. And all this walking around, carrying all this stuff, is making me kinda hungry.”
“Blah-blah-blah. I’ll feed you, don’t you fret about that. After I’m satisfied, I’ll make sure you are too!”
“There’s still some items left on the list. Shadow Striker needs us to focus on that.”
“Girl, please. That old grouch can wait. Fun is to be had this day!” Thunderblast’s aft sways back and forth with the swing in her hips as she saunters speedily ahead, leading the way from store front to store front, forcing the overburdened Slipstream to stumble to catch up every so often. But at least the view from behind is fantastic, almost hypnotic, allowing for the tired and anxious brain module to automate tasks more easily despite discomfort, riding on autopilot. “Besides, we’re almost done with your silly little list anyway, since you’ve been so fixated on doing such a good job. Work, work, work, that’s all it is with you! What’s the harm in indulging me a little, huh? Haven’t I got you everything you need so far, at only the best prices?”
“Yes, and I am grateful, but about half this stuff I’m carrying isn’t on the list. We’re gonna blow our budget and Shadow Striker will be mad at us.”
“Let her be mad. It’s justified expenditure! Morale must be boosted, sweetie. All that extra stuff isn’t just for me, of course! I had to get gifts for the gang we left back in that horrid hovel we call home. I told you. Essentials only!”
“But–”
“Don’t argue. Mommy knows best.”
“Thunderblast, we’re in public.”
“Mommy reiterates for all the world to hear! I know best!”
Slipstream flushes and cringes as helms turn their way with intrigue.
Thunderblast swaggers and giggles, gorgeous and unbothered.
“Oh, right. Of course. I’m sure Shadow Striker will accept that excuse when she calls us into a meeting later. I hate disappointing her.”
“Don’t be silly, she’ll just blame me. She never directs her ire at you. All her grouchiness aside, she treats you real nicely. Not that I’m, like, complaining or whatever. I’m not jealous. Nope. Not even a tiny bit.”
“Yeah, you’re right. She is good to me. I try to be good for her.”
“Her good girl.”
“Thunderblast, please, we’re in public.”
“Like I care! Well. The boss has got no choice in the matter, out here. This is my domain. You try too hard to please her, y’know, it’s usually really cute, but also concerning. Not to kink shame.”
“I mean, yeah, I can see that, actually. I am very invested in earning her approval.”
“What, you gonna let her disapproving phantom follow you around all day today? Seriously, you’re with me! Lucky girl.” Thunderblast tosses her helm prettily, sauntering ahead. “You should be worshipping my very presence. Someday soon, you will be. Just like everyone else.”
Slipstream stares at her swaying aft, following paces behind, carrying all the shopping. “Yeah.”
“We’re free right now! Lighten up and let me play! Play along, yeah? I desperately need this outing and so do you, clearly. Like, I wasn’t gonna say anything before, but seriously, you’ve been off this whole time, moodier than usual, more distracted. Got me worried, sugar glider.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to.”
“Sure you don’t. But we’re gal pals, your thoughts and feelings matter to me.”
All Slipstream really wants to do is get this chore over with so she can replace what she ruined and go to Windblade, and yet when Thunderblast smiles over her pauldron and pauses to allow her overburdened companion to catch up, the distant irritation subsides into something intimate and close.
“I hate making you worry for my sake.”
“Something is bothering you, though. And you’re on my crew, so that bothers me. I gave you some space to simmer, tried to be respectful of boundaries and discrete, now I’m annoyed by your attitude and so we’re talking about it.” Thunderblast folds her arms over her ample breastplate and ignores the crowd that parts way like a river of mercury to move around her. “Don’t make me interrogate you. Tell me what’s up already.”
Slipstream hesitates, then blurts out, “I miss her,” with a tremble to her wings. This is the truth. But not the whole truth. Just enough to obscure unspoken lies. “I miss my soulmate. She misses me too. I hate inflicting this on her. I hate hurting her. I hate that she hurts for me.”
“Oh, sweetie. I should’ve known.” The boat’s expression softens. “This is all to do with Sparkache! I’m so sorry. That stuff is rough! I’ve felt it too.”
“It’s okay. Thank you for empathising.”
“Hey, do you wanna go see your girl real quick? I can take over from here, finish up on my own.”
“No, that wouldn’t be fair to you. We were both assigned this mission. Besides, I broke this stuff, it’s on my list. I need to help procure it.”
“I gotta ask, sweetie. How did that happen, actually?”
“I, uh… fell?”
“You said that with a guilty pause and you didn’t look at me when you said it.” Thunderblast brings her optics closer to Slipstream’s evasive gaze, forcing contact. “Are you lying to me?”
“Okay, okay. You got me.” The Seeker hides her grimace behind an armful of shopping, peering up at the boat. “I lost my temper in storage and broke a few things. And the dent in the wall, uh, that’s me too. I punched it.”
“Oh. That’s not very… you.”
“I know. It won’t happen again. I promise, I’m safe.”
“Okay, first of all, I never told you you’re dangerous. I know you’re just a big, handsome, cuddly-wuddly hunk, who maybe had a little episode back in storage. Secondly, I can take care of myself. I know I’m a total baddie and an absolute badaft. Basically, you don’t scare me, since you’re like a Seeker-sized stuffed toy and I could totally destroy you if I wanted to. Be glad I don’t.”
“Um. Thank you? I guess that’s… almost reassuring. And you’re terrifying. Consider me glad.”
“What did I tell you before? Be not afraid.”
“But I be very afraid.”
“Mm. We’ll work on that, then.”
“Yeah, okay. I’d like that.”
“Now I get why you’ve been a bit off. You gotta get a spike appointment with Windblade.”
“Primus, Thunderblast, we’re in public.”
“Totes understandable! I get cranky when I’m feeling bereft of that one person I want, and nobody else will do. Of course, I’m not taking it out on our inventory or inanimate objects in general. But we all gotta cope!”
“I apologise. It won’t happen again. I just want to make this right with Shadow Striker and finish our list. My list. Then I’ll be a bit more, uh, fun. Okay? Windblade can wait a little while. Let me make this up to you.”
“Okay, sweetie. I accept that.”
“Thank you.”
“Just try to enjoy my company, won’t you? I’d like to enjoy yours.”
“I do enjoy your company. I didn’t mean to make it seem like I’m unhappy to be with you. I’m just unhappy in general.”
“Then I gotta cheer you up if I can. I can’t cure all that ails you, but I can at least be a friendly face in a sea of foreign faces. Yeah? We’ll finish up on that list, grab a few more trinkets for me and obviously for the guys back home, and then I’ll buy you a yummy Energon smoothie and some snacks to refuel and we’ll sit down some place scenic to have a nice chat about whatever. After all that, if you’re still feeling a bit tense, I’ll take you out with me some place boozy where the music’s good and hot bods gyrate.”
“You gonna get me drunk and ask me to dance?”
“I’d like to. We gotta deal?”
“Deal. But no dancing.”
“We’ll see about that! Huh, good girl.”
“Thunderblast, for Primus’ sake, not in public!”
“Did we make a mistake?” asks Clobber, gazing down at her Deceptibrand. “People seem kinda scared of us, I mean, more than they were before.”
“I dunno,” Lockdown replies, scratching his cheek with his hook and frowning as unmarked frames hurry to get out of his way. “It felt right at the time.”
“Okay, now that we’ve triple-checked the damn list, can we please confirm that’s all of it!”
“Yes. That’s all of it. Sorry.”
“Primus, you’re adorable. I can’t really get mad at you. Especially not when your Spark is aching for her! Ahhh! So romantic. To be young and lost to a whirlwind of passion!”
“You say that like you’re that much older than me. Um. How old are you, actually?”
“Let’s not touch upon that particular topic, mm?”
“Probably wise, yes.” Slipstream sags where she sits, surrounded by shopping. She is a bit tired, but noticeably less moody.
“I wanna go out later.” Thunderblast reaches over to fondly pinch a wing, making it jerk in reflex. “I’ll let you see your girl after I get you loosened up real nice for her, first.”
“Oh, dear. I am in trouble now.”
“Ha! I’ll take care of you, don’t you worry. But first, lemme refresh myself.”
“You’re beautiful. You don’t need to.”
The boat winks fondly at the Seeker whilst producing a little holomirror from within her kit, proceeding to inspect puckered dermas with a hum.
“See? You’re practically perfect.”
“Mmm. I suppose. I think I’ll put on another layer of ink, touch up my cheeks a bit too.”
Slipstream chuckles. “Alright, you do that then.” She noisily sips from a straw stabbed into her Energon smoothie, stained a vibrant artificial red that reminds her of Windblade, tasting just as sweet. The wheel-nuts with sprinkles went down a treat, even if a horrendously unhealthy treat. Some treats are just like that. The good things in life often come with a cost later on, coming to collect once the debt has been forgotten.
Thunderblast applies fresh ink to her dermas and brushes powder over her cheeks, unbothered by the hustle and bustle of the city that surrounds, perched on a park bench with a half-empty recyclable cup of a decidedly Decepticon shade of purple Energon smoothie set aside and out of the way, one long leg folded over the other.
The Seeker allows her mind to wander, as do her optics. She is people-watching. It is quite fascinating. All these lives. Names and personalities. Thoughts and feelings.
“Hey, look at me.”
Before she can turn her helm in compliance, slender digits brush over her jaw to capture her chin, gently directing her face plate toward her companion.
“Now, you.”
“Me?”
“It’s your turn.” The boat leans in close, as if for a kiss. “Put that down. Hold veeery still.”
Obediently, Slipstream takes one final noisy slurp and then sets the cup aside, allowing her face plate to serve as Thunderblast’s creative canvas.
“Frag me. You’re so handsome. The structure of your facial rigging is positively to die for. Windblade is a lucky girl.”
“Thank you. That’s sweet of you to say.”
“Oi. No talking. You’ll make me smudge.”
“Sorry.”
“Sweetie! Stahp!”
The Seeker giggles, but tries her best not to move, quite enjoying the intimacy of this moment which is somehow not all that terrifying, all things considered.
The boat makes soft, sensual sounds as she puts her mind’s vision into the reality of her optics, seeing what she believes come true. “Yeah, you hunk, work that colour. Brings out your optics, the angles of your cheeks, whilst also emphasising how kissable you are because your dermas are frankly sinful.”
Slipstream smiles demurely at the praise, flushed. She knows she is very good-looking, even compared to her beautiful Seeker kin. She just does not weaponise it. Besides, she has always considered Nova Storm the loveliest, although her searing optics are so cruel sometimes.
Thunderblast takes her time. Eventually, she puts the ink and powder away and eases back to take in her efforts with a sort of purr. “Damn, girl. ’Sup.”
“Hey, now. If I look even half as good as you do, I’ll call this a miracle. Thank you.”
“You’re so nice. You’re too nice. You’ve got this purity about you that kinda does it for me.”
“Purity?”
“Not like that! I mean a clarity of character. An inward goodness, that resonates outward.”
“Oh. Wow. That’s… a lot. Thank you.”
“Seriously, sugar glider, someone worthy needs to marry your hunky aft.”
“I hope so,” the Seeker mumbles, flushed and beautified. “May I see, please?”
“Sure, sweetie.” The boat passes the holomirror. “Tell me what you think. Yeah?”
“Ohhh!”
“You like?”
“I… I do. Whoa.”
“Whoa indeed.”
“Pardon me, but I’m gorgeous.”
“You sure are. Might have to borrow you for a bit, before letting Windblade have you.”
“I don’t even like myself, but… I like this. I like what you’ve done to me.”
“You deserve to feel beautiful, same as I do. You deserve to like who you are, just as I do. That’s your Primus-given right as a femme, sugar glider, okay?”
Slipstream flops over, snuggling into Thunderblast’s side as they sit upon the same bench with an assortment of shopping, surrounded by people going about their business, some of whom wear Megatron’s mark, some of whom do not.
“You seemed really upset, earlier. You’ll feel better when you’re with her, but I figure, hey, maybe a nice night out, with somebody who likes you, might help boost your confidence and set your mind at ease. Your mind is so obviously uneasy, all the time. You never get any rest up in here, do you.” A slender digit gently taps a forehelm.
“No.”
“It breaks my Spark.”
“Here.” A large servo gently settles over the Deceptibrand, above an ample breastplate. “Am I depressing to be around?”
“No. I just wish I could make it all better. But I can’t. Change starts within you, sweetie.”
“You’re so worldly. So very wise.”
“I’ve lived quite the life. I love it.”
“I want that, too. A life I live, and love.”
“Then why don’t you start by hitting a club with me? I’ll let you go to your girl after a couple drinks, nothing too heavy, just to work off some of this stress. I won’t force you. Please come with, we’ll have such fun, I promise.”
“I dunno, I’m not really into clubbing.”
“For me?”
“Oh, alright. For you.”
“That’s what I like to hear!”
Seated before a monitor littered with scrolling paragraphs of data, Acid Storm accepts a cup of something hot with a drowsy smile at Shockwave. His concoctions taste terrible, but they keep his laboratory assistant going all the same with minimal rest required to function. There is much work left to do.
Stowing away their haul in a rented locker for safekeeping, Slipstream’s servos are free and she feels so light, so unencumbered in the moment. She flexes her arms and stretches her spinal strut, her powerful protoform rippling muscularly under sheets of dark, boxy armour. It is a relief that instantly improves her mood tenfold. “Okay, let’s go.”
“Yass!” Thunderblast wastes no time capitalising on this fact, grabbing the Seeker by the servo and interweaving their digits, to be willingly pulled along wherever the boat opts to go. “I know just the place!”
The clubbing scene has never been Slipstream’s favourite, but perhaps that can mostly be attributed to her maternal responsibilities, because she had to monitor the behaviour of her fellow Seekers and could not really let loose and have as much fun, so as to avoid embarrassing Starscream if Nova Storm were to dance with Thrust on crowded tabletops amidst strangers’ drinks. But now, no such responsibility exists.
“Hi, sweeties! Did ya miss me?”
A sizeable chunk of the crowd roars. There is a chorus of rapture, overheard despite the throbbing beat. A name.
Thunderblast hears her name and preens at the attention. She clearly knows a lot of people, but how well they know her is debatable. Everybody wants to be friends with the hottie, but being objectified all the time means that her bonds tend to be tenuous and shallow. It is hardly her fault.
People cheer when she strides in, lifting their drinks in her wake to salute her passage as she waves to them with queenly supremacy and a swing in her hips that could make mechs and femmes alike do something stupid. She calls out to the few she actually likes. She has brought fresh optic candy on her arm, in the large and imposing form of a handsome Seeker who really needs to relax, but effectively keeps the creeps at bay.
Slipstream is a bit stiff, a bit intimidating, true, mostly because she does not exist as freely and easily within this space, or any space really. She makes flattering accompaniment to Thunderblast, a rare Seeker coveted by the universally desirable boat, and effectively wards off any idiots who might try their luck in unwanted ways.
Thunderblast chats with people, shares in laughter, and does not buy any of her own drinks, nor does she buy anybody else’s.
Slipstream is flattered when she finds herself getting far more attention than she is used to. A femme she has never met before pushes over something orange in a tall crystalline flute that tastes bitter after that Windblade-red smoothie. It is nice.
“What’s your name, handsome?” Hardly a creative pickup line, but still. It is attention, and it is pleasantly unexpected, and thus highly flattering.
The Seeker stumbles over her own designation.
The stranger giggles, apparently quite charmed.
Within the hour, Slipstream is met with an assortment of friendly femmes and a few hopeful mechs who misread her. She does not have to buy herself a single drink, for a change, but she very generously returns the gestures at her own expense, generally intending to be polite, honouring conversations no matter how inane, gently refusing invitations to go home with anyone. She is a bit tipsy by the time she realises Thunderblast has stepped back and made room.
The boat is watching, however, and offers a grin and a thumbs-up when the Seeker finds her in the crowd, dancing. “You’re doing great!”
Slipstream is flushed and leaning handsomely against a wall to look cool whilst getting support, offering an upturned thumb whilst cradling a green drink in her other servo that reminds her of Acid Storm. “Thanks! You too!”
Thunderblast laughs. She is thus reassured and returns to ogling the surrounding dancing bodies, dancing in a hungry circle around her own. But one body in particular catches her wandering optics, particularly when the mech saunters past her with barely a glance.
“Hello,” comes the dulcet, musical croon.
Slipstream perks in recognition. “Soundwave, hi.” She does not like him, but Shadow Striker clearly does, so he must be okay. At least make an effort to be pleasant. It is not so hard to do.
“Wouldn’t have expected to see you here, in a scene like this.”
“Uh, not really my thing, no, but Thunderblast likes it, so… Y’know.”
“That one. She’s trouble.”
“A bit, but I like her a lot.”
“Mind yourself.”
“What do you mean?”
“Exactly what it sounds like.” Soundwave settles beside Slipstream, bumping his drink against hers with a crystalline tinkle. “Cheers.” Music emanates from his handsome frame, causing him to vibrate.
“You know her?”
“She’s popular enough. Everybody knows me.”
“Wow, okay. I’m clearly out of my depth.”
“You are. She’s dangerous.”
“She’s been good to me.”
“So you think. She’ll make a fine Decepticon.”
“Hey, be nice.”
He laughs melodically at that.
“We’re the good guys. I mean, our core ideals are good, even if our methods make me feel a little sick.”
“Sure that’s not the high-grade?”
“This’ll be my last. Then I’ve got to go.”
“So soon?”
“I have someone I need to see.”
“A femme?”
“The femme.”
“Must be quite the lady.”
“She’s a demigoddess.”
“Whoa.” Soundwave tilts his helm in thought. “By the way, you look good.”
“Thank you. Thunderblast insisted.” Slipstream rubs her neck, which feels hot, so she knows she is flushed right now and not all of it is the booze or the feminine attention she has enjoyed receiving even when so terrified of femmes. “I’ve always tried to maintain myself, but she went a bit further than I would’ve on my own.”
“You’re a looker. A bit conservative, maybe, but that’s fine, if it makes you feel good. Your thing, not mine.”
“Me, feeling good.”
“You feeling it, right now?”
“Actually, yeah.”
“Good enough to dance with me?”
“Oh, no-no-no. I don’t dance.”
The mech laughs again.
The Seeker giggles despite herself.
“She likes you.”
“Thunderblast? Yeah, I like to think so.”
“Shadow Striker, actually.”
“Oh, uh, I mean, we get on surprisingly well, all things considered. I like her a lot more than I probably should.”
“We talk. She has said good things about you.”
“She mentioned that you got a cybercat. Showed me a picture. Cute little rascal.”
“Ravage,” Soundwave says fondly, sighing. “She tells me I’m a cat dad.”
“Aw, that’s adorable.”
“Except he won’t stay home. He’s a wanderer, an eternal stray at his Spark. He comes and goes as he wishes and I’m lucky if I get him to sit with me long enough to take a pic to send to her.”
“Can I just say that I really admire your friendship?”
“You can say whatever you like.”
“Wow. You’re actually alright. No offence. I assumed you’d be… worse.”
“None taken. I’ve been told I’m generally tolerable, after a few drinks.”
And just then, Thunderblast saunters on over, gleaming and curvaceous, optics bright like the sun and smile sharp like a knife.
“Here comes trouble.”
“Hey, you.”
Soundwave allows the femme to fall against him, nuzzling into his neck and clinging to his broad chassis as he lays his free servo on her hip, keeping his drink out of range of being bumped and spilled.
“Acting like you don’t know me, after all we’ve done, together. What’s up with that, huh? Give a girl a complex, this hot and cold thing you’ve got going on.”
“I’m hot under the right circumstances. Not right now, though. Right now, I’m chilling.”
“Then…” A slender digit draws circles over the Deceptibrand, which would make him flinch if his facial rigging could afford such an expression. “Maybe later? Mm?”
“Maybe.”
“Hey, you know Slipstream, looks like. Does this guy know you, sugar glider? If he’s bothering you, I’ll send him off, trust.”
“We’ve met. He’s fine.”
For a while, Thunderblast hangs off of Soundwave’s neck as he acts only vaguely interested in her, purring into his audial and occasionally winking at Slipstream, who contributes with the rare comment but mostly just wonders how he drinks with his face-guard perpetually in place, shielding his intake from view.
A fight breaks out on the dance floor. Someone is dragged out kicking and screaming and very drunk by a burly bouncer. The festivities continue like nothing happened.
Eventually, the boat gets bored of the barely responsive mech and turns to the more receptive Seeker, falling against her instead and hanging off of her neck.
Slipstream smells the sickly sweet high-grade on Thunderblast’s vents. She would not accept anything less when offered free drinks. “Oh, hey.”
“Hi, you. Having fun?”
“Yeah, this is nice. Thank you.”
The boat beams, delighted.
The Seeker wraps an arm around her, mostly to offer support, but it winds up seeming quite amorous even if that was not the actual intent. “You’re melting. You’ll be a puddle on the floor any minute now.”
“I’m loose, sugar glider.”
“You can say that again.”
“Soundwave, shuddup.”
“Hey. No shame. Me, too.”
“Yeah, you do get around, you slag. And yet you play hard to get when I want some.”
“I’m vibing. Let me be.”
“Sure, sure. So, sugar glider. Had enough liquid courage to dance with me, yet?”
“Sorry, I just don’t dance. At all. Ever.”
“Aw, c’mon. I really wanna dance with you! Pretty please?”
“I already tried, Thunderblast. She turned me down. Me. Face it, toots. You’ve got no chance.”
“Tch! You’re so mean! Glitch!”
Slipstream giggles when Thunderblast pokes her glossa out at Soundwave, who inclines his helm agreeably in turn.
“Mmhm.”
“Sugar glider, must I beg? Shall I take a knee, prostrate myself before you?”
“Please don’t. People will look.”
“People been lookin’ – we’re lookin’ good.”
“You’re drunk,” Soundwave intones with amusement.
“A little,” Thunderblast replies, nuzzling Slipstream’s chin. “You smell nice.”
“So do you.”
“Please dance with me.”
“Let her be, Thunderblast.”
“Great.” The boat huffs, jutting out a hip and upturning her olfactory sensor. “Now my vibes are off. I was so looking forward to that dance, but I guess I’m destined for disappointment.”
“Melodramatic, much?”
“Shuddup, Soundwave.”
The Seeker sighs. “Hold my drink, please.”
The mech takes the cup with a chuckle. “Oh, are you sure?”
“Somehow. Scrap. I’m a little drunk right now.”
“Go on, then.”
“Thunderblast, I hate to leave a lady upset. Would you still consider dancing with me?”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“Ohh, sugar glider!”
Soundwave shakes his helm as Thunderblast squeals her delight and grabs Slipstream’s servo, practically dragging her onto the dance floor with soft grunt of mounting panic.
“Yass! I am gonna grind all on you, work you up and down, make you sweat!”
“Please be gentle.”
“Good luck, Slipstream. You’ll need it.”
Bodies. So many bodies. All this movement, all this sweat and the lustful pheromones.
The boat is willing to go a little slow, be a little gentle, to cater for her shy and awkward Seeker companion.
And yet when Slipstream meets those inviting golden optics, thinks about a lover back home, she mutters a depressed little, “Frag it,” under her vents and then unleashes a monster she has kept encaged for millions of years with barely any room to breathe.
Thunderblast’s jaw drops. She briefly forgets to dance.
Life sucks. Just this once. One dance will not hurt, and then the boat will be happy and the Seeker can finally make her escape and spend much-needed quality time with the Cityspeaker she loves, make sure she is okay before ultimately leaving her behind again to return to the Pits. This is the mission.
“Girl!” Thunderblast remembers to dance, tossing sweat and exhaling the vapour of intoxication. “You’re tearing it up!”
“Is that a good thing?” Slipstream roars over the music, moving with it. “I dunno what I’m doing, am I doing this right? Is this okay?” There are tears in her optics. Her breaths come quick and shallow and trembling. She has finally let go of herself and her questions are totally worthless.
“Yeah!” The boat sways a little closer, then closer still, until sliding her servos along the Seeker’s chiselled abdominal plating to encourage her. “Don’t stop!”
“I can’t!”
“Then it’s working!”
Soundwave whistles. “Damn. Okay.”
Slipstream, as it turns out, is a very good dancer after all.
Thunderblast cheers as their rolling hips collide and the crowd goes wild.
With nobody looking this way, Soundwave retracts his face-guard and sips his drink, then slides it back into place just as discretely. He must maintain his mystique, after all. It is part of his brand.
Shadow Striker has seen his face. She has seen him smile.
Thoroughly cleaned, finally well-fed and well-rested, recently attended to by Knock Out who is a master of cosmetic surgical improvements second only to Shockwave’s willingness to go to even further extremes, Empress hardly resembles her grimy and gruesome gladiator self. She moves with the slow, casual elegance of a rather large and powerful lady, her heavy steps drawing her to Megatron at her own leisure, as he has called for her again.
“You clean up nicely. How do you feel?”
“Wonderful. Better than I can remember.”
“Very good.”
“Indeed. It’s all thanks to you and your loyal Ascenticons who serve you. I’m impressed.”
Megatron smiles, pleased. Empress does have manners, even if she deliberately teases and overpowers mechs for some sort of personal pleasure, never mind the alluring and electrifying effect she has on femmes. She may grow quite devoted to his kindness and generosity. He has plans in place for every one of his Decepticons and she is certainly no exception. “I wish to have dinner together. Would you accompany me?”
“And what of your lover?”
“Star is otherwise occupied. It will just be the two of us.”
“Very good. Then I happily accept!”
“You dislike him.”
“He dislikes me. I just find him amusing, almost… cute.”
“Please try to get along with my mech. He outranks you, my dear, and I adore him. You would do well to know your place.”
Empress bites her derma, optics hooded.
Megatron offers her his arm, despite how she towers tall and broad enough to equal his impressive stature. “Shall we?”
“We shall.”
Nova Storm, who has been acting quite unlike herself, fawning about and admiring Empress from afar to the point of sometimes stalking her in supposed secret despite Starscream, almost swoons when a wink is cast toward her hiding place, revealing that she is not as hidden or unnoticed as she thought.
Skywarp thinks Empress is really neat, but would rather prank her than admire her. Still, Nova Storm and Skywarp are almost attached at the hip, thus it would seem both Seekers are hardly subtle.
“They’re such darling creatures,” Empress murmurs to Megatron, who sighs. “I want one of my own someday.”
“Then you had better learn to get along with their Captain.”
“Or you could let me borrow a Seeker. You are supreme, after all, are you not? We all wear your mark. Not his.”
“I… suppose.”
“Speaking of which, when will Captain Starscream take the brand?”
Megatron does not answer, heaving another, greater sigh.
Empress giggles, her rail splitting off into attached segments and swaying like a wagging tail behind herself, or perhaps a serpent poised to strike the mech beside her.
After taking an extra strong detox solution to purge the operating system of most inebriation and thus sober up real quick, the flushed but coherent Slipstream makes sure the drunk and giggling Thunderblast is safe and comfortably seated within a plush booth with a bowl of Energon goodies to entertain her, a detox solution waiting to sober her, and Soundwave sat opposite to keep her company and ensure her safety. “You’ll be okay?”
“I’ll be fiiine. I got me a hunk.”
“She means me.”
“Oh, okay.”
“Yeeeaaah, I’mma hit that.”
“Not likely.”
“You’re a little drunk, Thunderblast. You shouldn’t be hitting anything. Take the detox, please.”
“When I’m good and ready. I’m vibing, sugar glider, and I don’t wanna throw my vibes off. Later, m’kay? Now, run along, or fly, whatever. Go see your girl. Remind her how lucky she is.”
Slipstream winces when Thunderblast slaps her rather hard across the aft.
“Nice!”
“Alright, then. I’ll be back for you soon.”
“Don’t rush! Spend the night! She’s missed ya, she’ll wanna show it… all night long! Heh, know what I mean!” The boat elbows the Seeker under the mech’s impassive gaze. “Eh? Ehhh?”
Slipstream flushes, giving Soundwave an apologetic look. “Are you sure? I can grab the stuff from the locker and take her back to base myself, it’s no trouble.”
“I already told you, I’ve got it all covered. Leave her to me. Besides, I’d like to pay Shadow Striker a visit, show her more cat pics.”
“Thank you. She’ll like that a lot.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Sooo welcome. Mmyeah.” Thunderblast is shameless, fluttering her shutters and posing within her seat, admiring her own reflection in a metallic pillar nearby. “Work it out, mmhm. So hot, I could kiss myself.” She proceeds to flop on over so as to kiss the pillar, almost falling off of her seat.
“No! That’s unsanitary!”
“I’mma dirty glitch!”
Slipstream manages to wrestle Thunderblast back to her seat all the same.
“She’ll be fine,” Soundwave intones, vaguely amused. “A few blunders aside, I’ll keep her safe and pick up the goods on the way. I’ve dealt with worse.”
“Sugar glider, honey, listen to me real quick, babe, sweetie, listen to me, yeah?”
Slipstream sighs and patiently bends, giving Thunderblast her audial.
“Don’t worry. Not about me, or Shadow Striker, or that silly list, or anyone, or anything else. Just go be with your girl and rock her whole world. Also, tell Windblade I said hi.”
“Thanks, Thunderblast. You’re really a lot nicer than you want people to think.”
“I gotta keep my defences up! Glitches wanna try me on. Gonna get cut.”
“Please don’t cut any glitches while I’m gone.”
“Then they better not try me!”
“Behave, if you can. Be nice to Soundwave.”
“Ha! He’s a glitch. Kinda cute, though.”
“She’s right,” says the mech, “on both counts.”
The Seeker sighs, leaning in to kiss the boat’s flushed cheek. “Soundwave, you’re doing me a real solid here, so I just–”
“Another one.”
“Huh?”
“Another one!” Thunderblast demands in a seductive slur, interrupting whatever Slipstream had meant to say. “Gimme another kiss, ’cause the other side gets jealous.”
Soundwave watches impassively as Slipstream obligingly stoops again to kiss Thunderblast’s other cheek.
“Better?”
“Much better. Good girl,” the boat utters a little patronisingly, with a fond pat to the Seeker’s aft. “Now, begone, thot-bot! Go get laid.”
“Thot-bot? Primus’ light.”
Thunderblast proceeds to give Soundwave a sultry look as she pops an Energon goodie in her intake and suckles on it with much exaggeration, noisily. “Mmyeah? Remember this action?”
“Distantly.”
“How ’bout a repeat performance?”
“Maybe another time.”
“Why not now? C’mon, we’ll grab a room in the back, have ourselves a little a private party. Maybe find us a third, or a fourth, or…?”
“No, thanks. I prefer my encounters sober.”
“Ugh! That’s just, like, decent of you, I guess.”
“It’s the bare minimum.”
“Yeah, but the world is such a sad place, so we gotta praise the lowest bar anyway.”
“Indeed. Exceptionalism made out of mediocrity.”
“And here I am, hitting on you relentlessly and scrap, when you’ve already said no. Major ick. Sorry.”
“Meh. I guess I’ll forgive you.”
That said, Slipstream decides it is safe to finally depart, leaving the booth behind as she makes her exit, apologetically squeezing past bodies, smiling shyly at femmes and mechs whose optics follow her muscular frame with keen interest.
Most of the people here are terrestrials, who love and loathe fliers in equal measure.
When she steps out of the club and has left the noise behind, she transforms and soars into the starry sky. Reaching a comfy altitude, she hails her internal comm link, which has gone so disused in a dampening zone where only Decepticon frequencies thrive. The pollution of the city does obscure the brilliance of the celestial bodies, unless one rises above the smog.
Hopefully Starscream is not listening.
“Windblade.” The sheer adoration that can be conveyed in a voice. The way a name can be spoken like a prayer. “Hi. Yeah. It’s really me.”
The police mechs and femmes stare on stupidly with members of the unmarked public as the large group of baying, jeering, chanting Decepticons paint the walls with that ominous sign and set fire to makeshift barricades, observed but uncontested. The night is young enough to stretch on and on and on.
Chromia answers the door, being the protector. She does not even get a word in, before a delighted cry of feminine elation silences her from behind.
“Slip!”
“Windblade!”
She can only step aside, making room for the inevitable.
Slipstream’s large, blocky form fills the doorway, arms already open.
Windblade would run to her, if she could. All she can manage is an eager, rather uncoordinated waddle due to the pain between her legs, jostling her still somewhat swollen modesty panels with every step. But the pain is receding, day by day, with rest and medicine.
Chromia does her best to be an excellent caretaker. Her best is not enough.
The Seeker pushes past the bike and swoops in to catch the Cityspeaker before she can take a tumble, scooping her up and cradling her close.
Windblade nuzzles against a Deceptibrand, then recoils from the baleful purple that glows its painful menace. She frowns, lays a palm upon it, and feels Slipstream flinch.
“We need to talk.”
“Yes. We really do.”
Shutting the door to keep the chill of the draft out, Chromia does find it very romantic. But that does not mean she approves of this.
Windblade and Slipstream embrace for some time, exchanging nuzzles, caresses, and soft, intimate words that are unintelligible to all but themselves.
The bike allows them this much, at the very least, unwilling to interrupt, squeezing past them.
Eventually, the Cityspeaker pulls back just enough to tearfully smile up at the Seeker, who is also tearfully smiling. Only to frown down at that Deceptibrand once more.
“Windblade, my darling. Finally, I get to touch you.”
“And yet I’m a little afraid to touch you. That mark looks so painful.”
“It is. Hey, my optics are up here.”
Windblade looks up.
Slipstream kisses her.
“Mmm.”
When their intakes gently part, their digits are interwoven.
“Slip, you did your makeup for me.”
Actually, this is not strictly the case, but a white lie never hurt anyone, even told by omission. “Do you like it?”
“Yes, you’re stunning! Oh, wow! What a lucky girl I am! You’re here, looking so beautiful I could just die.”
“Please don’t die.”
“I’m trying not to. I’m really trying, here.”
“And look at you. The closest state to perfection, given life.” Not the first femme to be told that these past hours, but it is harmless to pretend otherwise.
“I don’t even have a face on!” Indeed, Windblade has removed her makeup, leaving only the distinct, unique marks of the Titan. “You’re making me feel so plain.”
“Hush. You’re the most beautiful femme I’ve ever met.”
“Want something to drink?” enquires Chromia politely from the periphery. “Eat?”
“Oh, no, thank you, I’m just fine. Also, hello!” Slipstream offers a servo, flushed. “I’m sorry, I forgot to greet you before, I was so taken in by the very moment I saw her.”
“You can be forgiven for that.” A large servo accepts another, even larger servo, shaking firmly, masculine. “She has a certain effect.”
“Aw, you guys!”
The Seeker slouches, which does bring her almost level with the shorter bike, the latter being more slender in shape but unusually armoured and statuesque for a two-wheeler, appealing to the Cityspeaker’s apparent taste in big, strong femmes. It has never been more obvious than whenever Slipstream and Chromia interact. They look each other over with some amusement, recognising this.
Windblade giggles, internally shrugging. What can a girl do? She likes what she likes. She can ignore the Deceptibrand for a moment, if nothing else. She has her favourite femmes here, with her. She will enjoy them first and foremost, leave the difficult conversation for later.
“You look well, Chromia.”
“Likewise, Slipstream. Especially so.”
“Thank you. I’m trying something less, uh, conservative. A new mode.”
“Mode?”
“I don’t know what it means either, but it has something to do with style.”
“Oh, I see.”
Slipstream likes Chromia and wants to earn her trust and approval, partially because this is Windblade’s lifelong best friend all the way from Caminus, partially because Chromia seems like a really cool femme to get to know.
Chromia tolerates Slipstream, but does not dislike her, finding her pleasant enough in their interactions and seemingly not intending any harm, but anyone who makes Windblade cry is to be treated with suspicion if not outright disdain.
“I need to sit down, girls, you mind helping me to the couch?”
“Oh, of course, here.”
Windblade takes Slipstream’s arm and is graciously escorted.
Chromia narrows her optics in passing. Any funny business and she will intervene, but she must be tactful for her best friend’s sake, because she is in love.
The Seeker cuddles with the Cityspeaker upon the couch.
The bike goes to pour herself a strong drink, then returns.
“Here,” Windblade interjects before Chromia can fall into an armchair, “sit next to me.”
“I don’t mean to interfere.”
“Oh, please,” Slipstream says with a nervous little laugh, “I don’t mind! This is your home!”
“It’s our home. You’re both mine. I want you both sitting next to me.”
The bike and Seeker exchange a mutually helpless look.
The Cityspeaker inevitably gets her way, happily crammed between two bigger bodies, snuggling betwixt their pauldrons, hugging their brawny arms. “My girls. I love you.”
“Love you too,” Slipstream and Chromia chorus together, giving one another another helpless look from over Windblade’s helm and her ornamental crest, going unnoticed by the femme they both love.
The Cityspeaker turns to kiss one broad pauldron, then turns to kiss another. She is quite noticeably smaller and slighter of build than the other femmes occupying the same couch. She adores this. It is a bit erotic, but she is also just so relieved to have them both.
The Seeker offers an awkwardly handsome smile to the bike, hopeful to look harmless enough to lower her constant guard and receive her blessing.
Chromia sighs quietly into her drink and makes a point of looking at that Deceptibrand, her optics communicating fatigue and distrust.
Slipstream does not give up just yet. She must make this work, somehow. “Thank you for taking such good care of her. I’ve always admired your friendship. Windblade is blessed to have you, Chromia.”
The bike looks a bit taken aback. “Oh, I… Oh. Thank you.”
“Primus sent her to me, of that I have no doubt.” The Cityspeaker giggles when her best friend flushes and shyly looks aside. “What, don’t believe me?”
“I’m not quite that miraculous.”
“You so are. I’d be lost without you in my life.”
“I try, I suppose. And arguing with you is generally useless, so I guess I’ll just have to accept that.”
“It’d be the smart thing to do, yeah.”
The Seeker chuckles. She is not the jealous type, happy to share and be shared.
Chromia clears her vents, handsome and flushed, sipping a strong drink. She knows Slipstream has had a few herself, able to detect the sweetness within her vents, and clearly Windblade does not mind.
“This is just what I needed. Both of you.”
The Seeker leans in to nuzzle the Cityspeaker’s cheek, which in turn provokes a kiss.
The bike watches them for some moments too long, then looks anywhere else, flushing and also frowning.
“Careful. I’ll smudge your ink, after you went to so much effort to impress me, even though you know you don’t need to.” Windblade is making this so easy. “Wouldn’t that be a shame?”
“A lady likes to feel pretty sometimes.” Slipstream just might nail it. “But it’s totally okay with me, if you’re the one who ruins my makeup,” she rumbles hotly and relishes how her husky undertone makes her dearest shudder up close and personal, like this.
Chromia quirks an optic ridge. That husky undertone is making her feel a certain way too, despite herself. She takes a really big sip of her strong drink and thinks up an excuse to get up and leave, before these two end up entangled on their end of the couch and she is tempted to stay. Only to oversee Windblade’s safety, of course, and not just to watch her making out with Slipstream.
“Mmyeah? I think that shade would look really good, smeared all over my shell.”
“Mmyeah. It’d suit you real nice.”
“I’m tired. I’m going to berth.”
The Cityspeaker forgets to be seductive and squeaks her protest as the bike rises rigidly, drink in servo and expression comically stern. “Chromia!”
“Oh, sure, uh.” The Seeker is disappointed, but unsurprised, offering a nod and a strained smile. “Goodnight. Sleep well. It was good seeing you again.”
“Likewise. Take care, now.”
“Chromia, get back here!”
“Windblade, it’s okay, let her go.”
“I just want you guys to get along, is that too much to ask? After everything? I need this!” The Cityspeaker slumps where she sits, in the protective crook of the Seeker’s side, big blue optics upon the bike’s spinal strut as she hesitates. “I’m so sore. And sad. And selfish. And sorry.”
Chromia’s Spark is rendered in twain. She mutters something dark under her vents, into her cup, and turns to face the femmes on the couch.
Slipstream begs her not to get a rise out of this. Begs her to give in, to keep the peace. But this is not necessary.
“It must be said, before we proceed with this any further.”
“Speak, Chromia, please. I promise you, I’m listening.”
“You, too, Slipstream. This is largely directed at you.”
“Of course, please, do go on. I’m hearing you.”
The bike points at the Seeker, who flinches. “I don’t trust you. She’s madly in love with you and I don’t like it. But I love her enough to get along with you, if your intentions with her are good.”
“They are. Of course they are. I’m in love, too.”
“Then you need to choose her. You can’t torment her with this indecision, it makes her cry and I hate you for it.”
“Chromia,” the Cityspeaker intones, “it’s not that simple, she’s not doing this because she wants to.”
“I don’t care about her troubles. Your happiness and safety are my responsibility, Windblade. I must protect you. I’ve already failed you in my duty, so many times.”
“Duty! You’re my friend, not my bodyguard! You don’t owe me your shield!”
“It’s already yours.”
For a moment, there is silence.
“Chromia, come here.”
She obeys, helm bowed, kneeling on the carpet before Windblade who remains seated upon the couch beside a very uncomfortable Slipstream.
“Look at me.”
Chromia lifts her optics, sighing.
“You’re enough. No, you’re more than enough. Why do you act like you’re somehow lacking?”
“I’ve let you down so many times, Windblade. I should’ve never gone back to Caminus without you, and I’ve let you get wrapped up in all of Cybertron’s political turmoil, and now you’re in love with a Decepticon.”
The Seeker flinches. “Unwilling Decepticon,” she mumbles in her defence. “I don’t like this either. I’d prefer your pity, over your accusations, thanks.”
The bike glances at her, sighs, relents with a nod. “Yes, it is unfortunate. I know that, too.”
“Can’t we all be friends?” The Cityspeaker finds their servos, laying the large palms upon her lap, squeezing the heavy digits. “You guys could be so good together. Every time I’ve watched you talk, I get the sense that I’m the reason. I’m the problem.”
“You’re not a problem,” Slipstream and Chromia interject altogether, with the same protective vehemence.
“See?” Windblade giggles weakly. “You guys could vibe. But you don’t and that’s mostly my fault. I feel like I’ve pitted you against each other. It’s so silly.”
“Until she stops being a threat,” the bike intones grimly, “I’d rather keep my guard up.”
The Seeker bristles, her already large framework swelling with offence. “A threat?!”
“Yes, a threat.”
“Hey! I’m not perfect, this isn’t ideal, but I am not a threat to anyone! Least of all her!”
“You are a threat, you just don’t mean to be. You don’t want to be. But I can’t pretend I don’t sense the damage you could do.”
Windblade is utterly wordless, looking from Chromia to Slipstream, back and forth, appalled.
The Seeker grinds her handsome, angular jaw, optics flaring with fire.
The bike coolly gazes back, on a knee, holding a drink.
“Can I have some of that, please?”
“Sure.”
“Thanks.”
The Cityspeaker gawks as the cup is passed over with astonishing civility, despite this tension.
Slipstream takes a small sip. Then another, bigger sip.
Chromia watches the thick, reinforced cables of that armoured throat bounce with each swallow.
“Okay.”
“You good?”
“No. But that helped.”
Windblade’s optics follow the crystalline cup as it is passed back again, just as civilly.
“I want you to like me, Chromia. I want you to trust me. But you know Windblade better than anyone else, and if you really think I’d hurt her, even though I never ever want to, then… I guess I gotta respect that.”
“Slip?”
“Windblade, I asked you this before, but would you run away with me?”
“I already told you, not without Bee and the others. They won’t flee their home. Cybertron is my home too, I can’t abandon it. I won’t.”
“Not even to be with me?”
“No.”
The Seeker bites her derma.
The bike pities her, frowning softly.
“And it hurts me to say that, but it hurts a lot worse that you’d ask me that twice. Call this a low blow, Slip, but you sound just like Chromia, you know that?” The Cityspeaker shakes her helm, scoffing softly. “You two really should get along. You both clearly want the same thing for me, my wishes be damned.”
Slipstream and Chromia share a collective wince.
“I’m sorry. That was cruel.” Windblade folds her arms and squeezes her optics shut, hugging herself. She shivers, then sniffles wetly. Her healing codpiece hurts all the time, as if to spite her for her libido and for daring to challenge Starscream out of lust as much as love, and her friends are all in jeopardy if he ever does honour his threat. She is not okay. “I hate this. I hate what this is doing to me. I’m being so… mean. I’m hurting the people I care about.”
The Seeker and the bike move together to engulf the Cityspeaker.
“I keep getting told I’m better than this, but I feel like I don’t recognise myself. I know I have to be strong. For Bee, for all our friends, for the High Council, and for you, both of you. But I’m not. I have to fight this, but what if I can’t?”
Chromia’s helm rests in Windblade’s lap, her dainty pauldrons trembling within Slipstream’s arms.
“All my talk of saving the day, of being the badaft everybody else thinks I am. I never once imagined myself a damsel in distress. But for the first time in my life, I’m fragile and frightened. Did Starscream really do this to me?”
Chapter 32: Flesh*
Summary:
Starscream has found Slipstream. Windblade is in no condition to defend, and so Chromia steps forth. Empress asks Megatron for a kiss and he accepts, then returns to a cold and empty berth without Starscream, yet to return. Upon waking, Megatron finds his lover here, as Starscream has come home. Flamewar becomes anxious when Slipstream fails to return soon enough, and when Flamewar gets anxious, she tends to hurt herself, thus Shadow Striker plays the surly old nurse with a terrible berthside manner, but her ruse is discovered. Slipstream wakes in Windblade's berth, which should feel better than this. Invited to join them, Chromia says her piece. Finding one of many hiding places available to a small and somewhat insane femme trapped underground, Flamewar is coaxed from her mourning and then confronted for her attitude, leading her to lash out at Shadow Striker in a way that hurts them both. Slipstream leaves Windblade to Chromia, returning to the depths of the Pits and the denizens dwelling below. Shadow Striker offers the abrasive comfort of her lap, in exchange for a cy-gar and some high-grade. Sentinel and the Functionists officially combine their forces, thus the Functionist Council is devised.
Notes:
I had accidentally uploaded this chapter early, in an incomplete state. Realising my error, I quickly deleted and edited the chapter for a reupload. My apologies.
Possible trigger warning: anxiety and self-harm.
Featured sex scene: Starscream/Megatron (small mech underneath, big mech on top, size difference, weight difference, prior injury, praise, flirtation, mildly threatening dirty talk, groping, excessive valve lubricant, old man has a fat pussy, sex scent/masculine scent, instinctual squirming/thrusting/humping the air, face-sitting, cunnilingus, nipping, grinding, slamming, ass slapping, breast groping, self-service whilst being serviced, service bottom/bratty bottom combo, minor damage incurred, weapon systems alerted, risky sex).
Chapter Text
The femmes say nothing for some time more, processing all that has been said before. It is this pause that permits a dull roar in the distance, drawing their attention elsewhere, but this is no small mercy.
“You hear that?” Chromia’s audials are always tuned on high alert, keen for signs of danger. She hears it first, lifting her helm off of Windblade’s lap and gazing into her big blue optics for confirmation. “Sounds like–”
“Jets,” murmurs her fellow Camien, expression hardening. “Which can only mean–”
“Seekers!” Slipstream throws herself off of the couch and hurries for a viewing port, peering out into the night, trying to see her kin passing overhelm. “Oh, no.”
The bike rises and protectively stands over the seated Cityspeaker, who clutches the arm of the couch so hard the joints of her knuckles distend and creak with strain.
“Three of them. Thrust, Thundercracker, Starscream.”
“How can you tell them apart?”
“I just can.”
“What do they want?”
“To make a point. Send a message.” The Seeker slowly backs away from the viewing port and looks to the ceiling, turning herself deliberately, seemingly tracking the motions of her kin in the night sky above the habitation suite. Her wings jerk instinctively, as if beckoning them to return to her, or begging to be permitted to leave this enclosure to soar with them. “They’re circling above.”
Chromia exchanges a stern look with Windblade. “What does that mean?”
“It’s standard procedure when seeking something, or someone, as per our namesake,” Slipstream says lowly, fists at her sides, optics wide and upcast. “But it’s a common intimidation tactic to demoralise hunkered enemy units even if they stay hidden. Seekers used to inspire fear and awe.”
“They’re seeking you, Slip,” the Cityspeaker says tiredly. “Aren’t they.”
The Seeker lets out air in a hiss through dentas. “They already know I’m here. I’m so fragging stupid. I should’ve known he’d pull something like this just to spite me.”
The bike grimaces, broadening her pauldrons.
“I’ve got a tracker built into my shell and I didn’t tear it out. Even if I had, I’ve left an Energon trail leading right to your doorstep. He was definitely listening in on my comms when I called you. This is all my fault.”
“Yes, it is. I’d like you to leave, now.”
“Chromia, stop that. Slipstream’s not going anywhere.”
“She has brought danger to our home, Windblade. Enough of this madness. It stops here, before someone gets hurt.”
“Too late,” Slipstream mutters with a meaningful look at Windblade’s codpiece, and she cannot even shut her thighs to hide her shame because of the pain. “I’ll go.”
“No!”
“Windblade, I’m so sorry. Chromia, forgive me.”
“Leave the Decepticons! Stay with me! The High Council will protect you, I’ll protect you!”
“Even if you could promise to keep me safe, Starscream would take my Seekers away from me. I’d lose my family. He’d retaliate in other ways, too.” The Seeker keeps turning, tracking the movements of her kin above. “Clearly, he’ll stoop so low as to hurt and humiliate, and not just to spite me. He’ll go after my friends, my loves. Too much collateral damage.”
Chromia looks appalled, laying a palm to her chassis.
“Frag him! He’s just some guy with an ego! I’m not scared of him!”
“You are frightened, Windblade. I can see it in your optics.”
“You’re not even looking at me!”
Slipstream stops following the familiar flight pattern of her fellow Seekers and turns to stare at Windblade, silent.
“Okay, so, maybe I’m a little freaked out! But I’m a Cityspeaker, I can fight, I’ve been trained over millennia to cope with immense stress and anguish! I just haven’t exactly been in a war before, okay! So, I’ll just have to mech up and get stronger, smarter, and I will! Trust me, Slip! Stay!”
Chromia wants to protest, opening and shutting her handsome intake, letting out hot air within a silver plume from her vents.
The Seeker stares at the Cityspeaker with love and lust and longing, almost convinced she can be trusted, to the bike’s dismay.
But then the jets pass again from above, completing another circle, lower this time, closer this time, and in the disruption of this suburban peace, people are sticking their helms out of their homes and complaining at the discord within the starry night sky, the heavens obscured by smog.
“Choose me. Be with me. All the rest we’ll face, together.”
“SHUDDUP, YOU FRAGGING FLIERS!” a mech bellows through an open viewing port in a neighbouring habitation suite as his wife curses in the background. “I’M TRYNA WATCH MY SHOW!” Other neighbours yell their agreement, until one neighbour yells at another to keep it down because they are not helping restore the peace, which leads to an argument betwixt yelling neighbours only further incensed by the jets circling noisily above, clearly in violation of laws.
“Flamewar.”
“What?”
“She’d miss me.” Slipstream snaps out of Windblade’s allure just like that. “She wouldn’t understand. She’d think I left her. Would she be wrong?”
“Who?”
“A friend. Part of my squad.”
“A Decepticon, you mean.”
“Decepticons are people too, my love. People like me.”
Perhaps it is the stress of it all, but Chromia has to stifle a laugh, sinking into the armchair and pointing at the door. “Just go.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Leave.”
“Slip, please.” The Cityspeaker’s pauldrons drop as the Seeker slinks over to the couch. “I love you. Don’t do this to me.”
“I love you, too. Chromia’s right. I have to do this, it’s just easier this way.”
“Frag what’s easy! I fight for what I want. I’ll defeat him and save your Seekers. Somehow. I just need a little support, a little time to heal, and a plan. The High Council will figure something out, I know it, and with you here, I can watch over you. You’re staying.”
“I’ve brought discord to your home. It’s so unfair!”
“This is not your fault. It’s all Starscream’s doing.”
“What would we do, if he knocked on your door and demanded I step out?”
“You’d stay inside where it’s warm and safe with Chromia. I’d step out and tell Starscream to go frag himself before your girlfriend opts to break his neck.”
“Ohh, Windblade! Beautiful and fierce as you are, you do scare me, truly.”
“I want to be the cure for all your fears, Slip,” Windblade says softly, seizing Slipstream’s servo and pulling insistently, until the bigger femme sinks onto the couch cushion beside, trembling. “I want to take all the parts of me that frighten you, and weaponise them in your defence.”
“That sounds so romantic. Chivalry is dead, but you’re very alive, and you’re like one of those knights from the old stories.”
“Milady, my sword is yours.”
“Some shield I am.” Chromia sighs quietly. “I really cannot stop any of this from happening.”
Thundercracker’s namesake proves true, as upon Starscream’s command, a terrible burst of noise within the sky causes the crystalline panes of the viewing ports to rattle, neighbours fleeing into their homes in fright like back in the war when Seekers ruled the skies and rained lethal plasma upon the bent backs of foes crouched in trenches.
Chromia jerks within her seat, covering her audials. “By the Thirteen!”
“I’m s-sorry.” Slipstream buries her face in Windblade’s neck. “Please, let me go.”
“Shh.” The Cityspeaker throws her arms around the Seeker and holds her tight, with so much astounding strength that escape is quite impossible without a fight. “They’ll give up and go away. They’ll be gone soon.”
Starscream circles with his attending Seekers for some time, resorting to hailing Slipstream’s comm link when fear tactics do not draw her out. Simply transforming into root mode and knocking on the door to demand she leave the domicile would be more civil and sane, and thus admitting some defeat.
“He’s calling.”
“Don’t answer him.”
“He’s my Captain.”
Windblade holds out a palm.
Slipstream reluctantly pries out her remote communications module from within the side of her helm, disconnecting herself from any of her contacts before laying the small device upon that presented palm. “Please don’t crush it. I need that functional.”
The Cityspeaker curls her digits into a fist about the comm link, clearly tempted, but she resorts to tossing the extracted module into a decorative urn on a low table instead, with a rattle of echoing impact as the device hits the bottom of the smooth, glossy clay.
There is a familiar shriek overhelm, louder than the roaring jet thrusters or Thundercracker’s namesake.
“This cannot go on,” the bike mutters. “It’s ridiculous and upsetting.”
It would seem Starscream has had enough of his own games, now that the classic Seeker intimidation factor has failed. The sound of transformation and bodies hitting the turf with force is followed by heel struts going click-clack with a vengeance, the leader of the Seekers tall and beautiful and ferocious, uncontested by the terrified terrestrials hunkered within their homes like the war has come back.
“Sir, I don’t like this,” Thundercracker says, his distress faintly audible from outside. “Please. This isn’t right. I wanna go home.”
“You’re acting crazy,” is Thrust’s contribution, impatient and irritable. “We’re Seekers, Captain, not common thugs. You’re forgetting yourself and dishonouring us all.”
“Shut up, both of you!” Starscream’s usually suave, raspy vocaliser is shrill with his own upset. “You’re here to watch my back, in this grounder neighbourhood! I didn’t bring you here to think for yourselves!”
Slipstream tries to get up from the couch.
Windblade stops her. “Stay.”
“But he–”
“Will be dealt with,” Chromia intones.
A fist slams upon the front door, knocking far too viciously to be polite.
The Cityspeaker draws her Seeker into her arms once more, hiding a wincing face in a slender neck. “Shh, shh. You’re safe. He can’t touch you here. I’ll chase him away.”
“No, leave this to me,” that bike mutters, rising from her comfy armchair. “You are injured. You will wait here, with her. This is our home. I will defend it. ”
“Don’t!” Slipstream struggles to escape Windblade’s arms. “Just let me go to him! I can talk him down!”
“I doubt it. Something tells me you lack the ball-bearings to convince him of anything.”
“Chromia, please! She’s not wrong to feel frightened. He could ruin her life.”
“I do this for you, Windblade. Not her.”
Starscream bangs on the door again. “Hello?! I demand an audience! Slipstream, I know you’re in there, come on out! Obey me, dammit!”
“Just be careful. Don’t get cocky like I did. He’s dangerous. If he harms you, I will kill him.”
Chromia smiles softly at that, very much in love with her best friend. Then she scowls her determination and departs on powerful steps to answer the front door.
Slipstream always knew Windblade to be physically far stronger than her slender body would lead one to assume, and yet her strength is truly awesome, awful. “Release me, please, he’ll leave if I go to him!”
“Finally!” Starscream exclaims as the front door swings wide and Chromia’s imposing form bars the way, scowling. “Greetings, civilian. I am Captain of the Seekers, and my scanners indicate that within this domicile you are harbouring one of my–”
Chromia reaches behind herself, removing part of the kibble from her back strut and bringing it before herself, reforming this part of her into a shield in mere moments, a fluid and practised motion, totally unexpected. She lunges from the front step, throwing herself into Starscream and sending him careening away, without having to leave her post within the entrance to the habitation suite.
Windblade and Slipstream hear a heavy thud of colliding frames, a scrape as a body hits the ground, followed by a squawk of agony.
“You struck me!” Starscream clutches his chassis, in a heap. “Ohhh, the pain! You brute! You will pay for this, you filthy ground-pounder!”
“Blow it out your actuator, Captain.”
Thundercracker reluctantly helps Starscream up. “Sir, you sorta deserved that.”
“Hey, lady, take it easy,” Thrust intones, palms raised, warily regarding the shield. “This was all his idea. We don’t want any trouble. We just came here for–”
Chromia takes a single threatening step closer. “Leave.”
Thrust scrambles backward, fleeing. “Frag this!” He leaps into his fighter jet alt-mode and takes off seamlessly, the most skilled flier of all the Seekers currently in operation.
“Get back here! Thrust! Aaaagh! I hurt!”
“Captain, we should go. Now, please.” Thundercracker pulls on Starscream’s arm. “She’s scary.”
Chromia has not left the front door undefended the entire time. Her stoic expression hardens.
“Not without my wayward Seeker!”
“Captain, c’mon! You’re just gonna make Slip hate you!”
“Never! She is mine, as are you! I shall do whatever I please with my Seekers, as is my right! Jetfire entrusted your care to my will!”
“Um. Pretty sure he wouldn’t approve of this, Sir.”
“Silence! Give her to me, now!”
“Does Megatron know you’re out here, making a fool of yourself and your Seekers, terrifying the very people he hopes to persuade?”
“Why, you-!”
“Can’t look good for the Decepticon cause, Captain.” Chromia narrows her optics. “If the big mech himself cannot control such an openly impulsive second-in-command.”
“Actually, that’s a good point, Sir. Um. Did you get his permission?”
“Shuddup.” Starscream bares his dentas, but concedes defeat with an arrogant huff. “Fine! Seems I have made another enemy this day. Mark my words, I always remember a face. This will bring you dire consequences in the near future. That Seeker is my property. Harbouring her from me, is as good as theft. Consider yourself fortunate, femme. All that stops me from retaliation, to rightfully seize what you stole from me, is that this is a residential area unfit for combat.”
“You have ten seconds to frag off before I get unpleasant.”
“Threatening me! How dare you?! I am Captain! Nobody threatens–!”
“Ten,” Chromia interjects firmly.
Thundercracker squeaks. “Sir! She’s started counting!”
“Bah! To the Pits with you! This is not over! And you can tell that to Slipstream!” Starscream gestures rudely, then takes to the air, his Seeker subordinate quick to follow.
Chromia waits until their noise is gone, then returns her shield to her back and pats herself lightly on the pauldron for showing enough restraint not to summon her axe. Things would have got real ugly, then. Starscream is right about one thing, she determines grimly – this is residential area, not a battlefield. Crisis averted, threat done and dealt with, she steps inside the habitation suite and shuts the door after herself, leaving the neighbours to their cursing and complaints.
Windblade has managed to keep Slipstream trapped throughout the ordeal. The Cityspeaker looks up at the bike upon her return, chin resting on the Seeker’s trembling pauldron.
“They’re gone.”
“Did you break anyone?”
“I might’ve cracked the loud one’s cockpit, but he’ll survive, I’m sure.”
“Chromia, I haven’t wanted you so bad since the first time we sparred together and you bested me in front of my instructor.”
“And after all your posturing about, strutting back and forth, acting the braggart.”
Windblade grins tiredly up at Chromia, who smiles grimly back.
Slipstream wants to die.
“May I?”
“You may, though you should not make a habit of this.”
Empress kisses Megatron’s cheek, which is easy for her since she is as tall as he is. “Sleep well, dear.”
“I shall. May you find your rest.”
She winks, then saunters off with a giggle, her movements graceful and unhurried, emphasised by her size. She is beautiful and she knows it, she is unashamed of it.
Belly full and body fatigued after another long, busy day, he watches her go with a rising affection for her. She is charming, now that she is clean and tidy, and makes for good conversation over a meal, although he must resort to teaching her table manners. He does not begrudge her this crudeness. He can only empathise. He was not always the elegant, gracious mech is is today, after all. He remembers how he used to be. How hard it was to cultivate this image, a reinvention of himself, without proving a fraud, without denying himself. He really ought to go to berth.
Starscream is not yet back from his aerial practice with two of his Seekers, and his comm link indicates that he wishes not to be disturbed.
Megatron thus finds his berth empty. He tries not to feel anxious over it, prefers not to track his lover’s movements or question his motives. Distrust is the slow, painful death of a relationship. He reclines upon his side and reads a rather self-indulgent work of romance from an author he rather despises, but the Captain wants his mech to take pointers from the character of the unrealistically perfect leading mech, and so the old gladiator reads this drivel with patience devoted to study. “This is ridiculous. Nobody talks like this, certainly not when in an argument with a lover. Oh, Star. I am talking to myself. I shall soon be senile.”
By the time Starscream sneaks into the berthroom, obviously quite guilty for doing something he was not supposed to do, he is relieved to find his lover has fallen into recharge with the datapad upon his bosom. This saves an awkward talk, at least for now.
Megatron does not stir as his mech prepares for recharge. He is old and generally uncomfortable, thus when he does manage to sleep, he sleeps like the dead, desperate.
The Captain inspects himself for damage whilst taking a quick shower. It is all superficial, minor things that he can get buffed out with a little help from Knock Out and Breakdown, who can also check for any internal injuries invisible from the outside whilst keeping the medical examination hushed, a secret between friends. Starscream likens having a shield slammed into him with such brute force, to being attacked by a wall with an attitude, so he may very well be broken inside. He will make that femme pay, another time. For now, he bathes, then turns off the oil flow and dries himself with a very soft towel, so as to polish his frame. A few more items upon his daily self-care regime, and he is ready for sleep. Let whatever happens, happen once he has rested himself. He is just rather upset about Slipstream, so will sleep be possible? Only one way to find out. Also, he simply must think of a fittingly degrading punishment for Thrust. Add that to tomorrow’s agenda. Busy, busy, busy.
The old gladiator grumbles something when the datapad is gently extracted from his slumbering servo. His rugged facial rigging twitches as the lights are dimmed. He turns his helm as the berth creaks beside him. Yet Megatron does not wake.
The Captain kisses his lover’s forehelm and climbs gingerly into berth beside him, wincing. Starscream sighs quietly and tries not to let his emotions get the best of him. At times like this, he really misses Jetfire.
“The detox isn’t working,” Thunderblast murmurs conspiratorially into Soundwave’s audial, leaning heavily on him as he fiddles with the rented locker, entering the code to release the mechanism and access the contents within. “I think I had too much.” She belches hotly into his neck, with terrific noise. “Oops! S’cuse me.” But at least she is finally ready to leave the club without throwing a tantrum.
He sighs. It has been a long night.
On the fringe of the next morning, after some hours of recharge, Starscream is woken by the sensation of being pinned by something very big and very heavy. This had made him panic, the first few times, but he is used to it by now. Only his body aches.
Megatron has rolled over onto his lover, quite crushing the smaller mech, nuzzling into his neck cables, throwing a huge gunmetal thigh over both his shapely legs.
The Seeker Captain has been very moody lately, but he melts with tenderness as he brushes his slender digits over the old gladiator’s broad back strut, his swollen bicep plating. It has been a little while since they made love, he supposes. His mech is so busy, so distracted.
Megatron is lulled from sleep with a low rumble. “Grrrmph. Star?”
“It is I, my love.”
“Good. You were gone. I was worried.”
“Do not worry for me. I always return to my nest. That’s you.”
“I am your nesting place?”
“Yes. You are my home.”
“Oh, Star.”
Starscream smiles at the huge heap of handsome mech laid over him. It gets the interface array hot in short order, and that makes it easy not to feel guilty. Moodiness subsiding, the flier fondles the terrestrial’s transformation seams, plucking at sensitive wires.
The leader of the Decepticons smells the scent of a mech’s desire. His mech. Rumbling again, he drags his large glossa over those slender neck cables, tasting it too, upon a hastening pulse.
“Would you like to sit on my face?” purrs the Captain.
“Yes. I would.”
“Lovely, I would like that too.”
Megatron had been terrified of trying that, the first time, because he is so very big and so very heavy, with an aft hardened and tightened by exercise since the darkness of the Energon mines and reinforced with armour plating during his gladiatorial era. He needed much encouragement to give it a try, but when first experiencing Starscream’s gorgeous, smirking face plate as a seat fit for a king, the sheer pleasure overwhelmed all fears.
It is early. The light has not yet graced the horizon.
The retired gladiator rises with a smile of love, but his optics burn with lust.
The Captain makes himself comfortable, ensuring his pillow is properly supporting his helm, preparing himself. He also poses somewhat, exaggerating his curves, sensually running palms up and down his beautiful reinvented body, unique and kept pristine through much preening. Except for the scuff marks. Those are new. Thankfully, the dim obscures such minor details. The body hurts.
“You are a vision, my shining Star. You are the light in the night sky that guides weary travellers home. You guide me home.”
“Mm. I do like it when you talk to me so nicely. Tell me more.”
“Your beauty is the song of my Spark. Your guile incenses my instincts to consume you. Your charm will be the death of me someday.”
“Ohh, Megatron!”
“Star, I love you.”
Starscream’s shutters flutter as a big palm cups his sealed modesty panels, teasing him, claiming him, coveting his virility, his fertility, his capacity to give and take pleasure.
“I will gift you Cybertron, remade to suit one so exalted as yourself. I will cut out the cancerous systems and kiss the wounds of the oppressed until all are healed, I will dry each tear from every cheek and throw the unrepentant to the fire, in your name.” Megatron lowers his thunderous undertone, adopting a coquettish countenance as he leans over his lover with rippling sheets of gunmetal grey. “I am yours, and you are mine, and this is just the start of our reign. You and I will get all we deserve. I do it for you.”
“Enough! I can stand this seduction no more! Give me your valve!”
“As you wish, my dearest.”
“Now!”
Megatron giggles. Actually giggles. He adores being wanted so fiercely, by one so fascinating and fine. His codpiece partially retracts, exposing the plump, flushed mesh of his drooling valve, with a cascade of lubricant that douses Starscream beneath and seeps between the gaps of his streamlined armour, deliciously pungent with musk.
The Captain thrusts his hips automatically into the humid air between them, somewhat ruining his efforts at being cool and composed, as well as jostling himself somewhat, which makes it harder for the old gladiator to move into position, fat valve hovering, powerful thighs braced, aft clenched at the effort at suspension.
“Star, hold still, or I’ll sit on something other than your pretty dermas, as I did last time.”
“Here, let me!”
Megatron moans as Starscream seizes him by the cheeks of his aft and sits up impatiently, slamming face-first into the valve with a slurp. “Ohhh, Star, mmm! Such impertinence! Do you not know it is rude to rush a mech?”
The Captain cares not, devouring his lover’s interface array whilst still thrusting stupidly at nothing, his own modesty panels yet sealed.
“Yesss,” the gladiator purrs, slowly sitting back and putting his weight upon the face lost between his thighs, pinning the pretty helm upon the pillow with a wet gurgle. “Demand your satisfaction, take it from me!”
Starscream thrusts harder, faster, futility incarnate, simply so desperate as Megatron begins to grind himself down, down, down, rolling his heavy hips in slow, deep circles, to be met with probing glossa and kissing dermas and the occasional nip of dentas. Palms go so far as to slap the aft, then squeezing.
“Make me yours! Dominate me! I wish to be undone upon you! Drink my essence, my love, and feast upon my flesh!”
The Captain bucks and brays from below.
The leader of the Decepticons fondles himself whilst grinding his valve and aft upon his lover’s face plate, playing with his own breastplate, abdominal plates, the housing of his aching spike still captive in its prison. “Such fire, such ferocity! I like this side of you, Star, I need to have it as my own! Mine, only! Hear me? None other shall know you this way!”
“Hmmmph!”
“I will lay my seed within you, I will take yours for myself! Conquer, to be conquered! Ohhh, Star, you drive me mad, this fever of mine cannot relent!”
Starscream swoons when the ample interface array begins to slam itself upon the architecture of his bruised face plate, bouncing up and down with force and weight that threaten to crush him to death. Warnings flash within his HUD. His weapon systems automatically go online, despite having detached his null rays before going to berth.
“I’m close,” Megatron cries out, trembling within himself, optics rolling back and digits digging into his own protoform where gaps in the armour permit. “Star! Please! I cannot, I–”
People would pay to see the greatest gladiator in Cybertronian history, leader of the Decepticon movement, enthusiastically bouncing his aft upon the Seeker Captain’s face plate whilst he thrusts into the air without relief, the pair of them mewling like a couple of common pleasure frames paid to pretend for the audience that pays, berth creaking beneath them both. This goes on for some time.
And so goes the start of another day.
“Uh, Sir.”
Shadow Striker smiles down at Flamewar, but the smile fades. “Hey.”
“Hi.” The bike looks like she is trying not to panic. “Did Slippy report in?”
“Not since you last asked me that.”
“Okay, well, I took a little peak outside and it’s getting bright on the surface, but she’s still not back. So, like, I think a search and rescue party is in order.”
“It’s still early.”
“It’s not like her, boss bot. I’m getting anxious. Can’t you hit her up?”
“I’m sure she’s fine, as per her last report. She’s probably in berth with her girlfriend. I’m letting them have that to themselves.”
“You can’t just assume that, not in this social climate. What if she’s in trouble? What if she got lost?”
Shadow Striker grimaces, reluctant to have this difficult conversation.
Flamewar paces back and forth about the office, clawing at the Deceptibrand upon her breastplate in spite of the sealant.
“Stop that.”
“Sorry! Sorry.”
“Come here.”
She obeys, presenting herself for inspection.
“You didn’t reopen any wounds. But you could’ve.”
“Boss bot, I’m freaking out.”
The mercenary sighs.
“Why do I get the feeling you’re being evasive on purpose, boss bot?” The bike allows a large palm to settle on her pauldron, squeezing. “Tell me I’m imagining that.”
“You’re good at reading me.”
“I’m a little insane, not totally insensitive.”
Shadow Striker brushes her dermas over Flamewar’s forehelm.
“Tell me what’s up.”
“I had a few words with Slipstream, before I sent her out.”
“Okay.”
“She’s been unhappy.”
“Yeah, I wish I could help.”
“You do, as best you can.”
“It’s not enough.”
“You can only do so much. That’s not your fault.”
“She’s my friend.”
“She treasures that, I’m sure. But she’s already got a girl who loves her, a girl who could do more.”
“Wimbles.”
“Windblade is from a colony world.”
“Caminus, right?”
“Right. It could be a way out for them.”
The bike blinks slowly.
The mercenary’s frown is soft.
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean.”
Flamewar narrows her optics. “Just go ahead and say it, anyway.”
“Fine. I told Slipstream to consider her happiness,” Shadow Striker intones, making the unnatural effort to be gentle and patient. “Happiness she’s gonna have to pursue for herself, with the girl she’s got. Windblade can give her what we can’t.”
“A way out.”
The mercenary nods once.
“Well. This is a lot.”
“I sent her out there with my blessing. Be mad at me if you want to, but you know I did the right thing.”
The bike swallows audibly, then scoffs. “Right, okay, I see how it is.”
“Flamewar, don’t be selfish. Let her go.”
“Oh, no, this is all on me. I knew I shouldn’t have grown attached.”
“Don’t be like that, either. She could come back.” Shadow Striker squeezes Flamewar’s pauldron as those bright optics widen, then narrow, flooding with tears. “But if she doesn’t, I’m telling you, don’t beat yourself up, okay. I want you to know, it wasn’t you. You’ve been a friend to her. She clearly needed that.”
“But she might not need me after all, huh.”
“Flamewar.”
“You told her to go and not bother coming back, but only now do you bother telling me how this could end. Screw me and my thoughts and feelings.”
“Flamewar, please.”
“Thanks for the warning, boss bot, I feel so emotionally and mentally prepared to relive abandonment again. It’s one of my defining character traits, y’know – my fear of being left behind.”
“Flamewar, I–”
“Frag you, Sir.”
The mercenary winces as her servo is brushed aside.
“You can clean your own damn rifle. I’ll be in mourning, just in case.”
“Flamewar. Flamewar!”
The bike departs with a guttural snarl of her engine.
Windblade likes her creature comforts, accustomed to a life of luxury awarded to her by virtue of her Cityspeaker status, a position of immense responsibility she earned through a lifetime of gruelling study, so rare a distinction as to be assumed mythical by most. She is very real and she has a very big berth, covered in far too many pillows and blankets, a nest she enjoys when she sleeps alone but also generously shares with friends and lovers frequently.
Slipstream can be forgiven for sleeping in, as this is the most comfortable her body has been. When she wakes, she rouses gently, smothered in warmth. She yawns, stretching under the covers, encountering another body beside her own.
Windblade is already awake, laid over her lover, tensing and tightening, as if forcibly keeping her here.
The Seeker gazes down at the Cityspeaker, silently and stupidly absorbing a being of such inticate beauty, so close.
“Good morning.”
Indeed, this should be the best morning of Slipstream’s life, but it rings hollow with hurt. She kisses Windblade’s forehelm and begins to sit up, only to be pulled back down again and restrained.
“Stay.”
The Seeker sighs quietly beneath the Cityspeaker, checking the time on her internal clock. She should have reported in and got back to base hours ago, and yet she has not been told to return to base. She really could be free to join the High Council. She could flee to Caminus.
Shadow Striker has granted this opportunity. But then what about Flamewar, left behind? What about the other Seekers, whom Starscream would withhold, preventing visitation as sheer petty revenge? What about Megatron, who would be forced to punish this desertion of the Decepticon cause, and the threat he could impose if he ever extends his reach to the colonies, to Caminus? What kind of life could Slipstream have as a traitor or a coward? What kind of life would that be, when shared with Windblade?
“Kiss me.”
Just then, Chromia walks into the berthroom with hot mugs and a guarded frown, but she does not protest.
Slipstream is laid handsomely in the big berth, with Windblade laid over her, their dermas meeting with soft, wet sounds, digits interwoven and palms compressed.
Chromia had shared the berth with the both of them, last night. She had allocated for herself one side of the berth, with Slipstream having occupied the other, and Windblade was in the middle, aching for a threesome, aching to be loved. This morning after, the bike can feel a throbbing betwixt her thighs despite herself, stood here and watching until the Cityspeaker and Seeker sense the intrusion, prying their intakes apart.
“Chromia,” Windblade says softly, then offers an outstretched servo.
Slipstream smiles awkwardly. Now she is the one thinking up a way to escape this situation, when she only has the Pits to return to, should she exile herself from this heaven, for there is trouble in paradise.
Chromia sets down the steaming mugs on the berthside unit to free her servos, then gently takes her best friend’s outstretched servo, so much more slender and stereotypically feminine, kissing the dainty digits like an appointed knight attending to her lady.
“I love you more than words could ever express. You know this.”
“Likewise, Windblade. My life is yours.”
The Cityspeaker utters a soft sound, then pulls on that powerful blue arm.
The bike falls atop the berth, scattering excess pillows to the floor.
They giggle in a heap, embracing, kissing each other.
The Seeker’s smile turns a little crooked and she averts her gaze, flushed. “Damn.”
Chromia and Windblade rest their forehelms together.
“I don’t want to leave this berth,” Slipstream says mostly to herself. “Ever.”
“Then stay.”
“I wish I could.”
The bike gives the Seeker a sudden punch to the bicep with a metallic thud of impact.
“Ow!”
“Chromia!”
“That’s for stringing her along. You shouldn’t have bothered coming back, just to leave her again.”
Slipstream sits up, rubbing her arm with a wince. “Okay. Fair enough. I deserve worse.”
“Indeed,” Chromia grumbles. “You do. And if I had my way, I’d drag you outside and–”
The Seeker falls off the berth as a pillow whacks her across the face plate with such ferocity, she is actually stunned when she hits the carpet.
“Chromia!”
The bike proceeds to throw pillows off of the berth in rapid, violent succession, aiming at her downed foe, obliterating her in weaponised comfort.
“Chromia!” Windblade keeps yelling her best friend’s name in exactly the same tone, trying to wrestle ammo out of big blue servos, bodily blocking her shots. “Would you please stop!”
“You are a seductress and a coward if you leave.”
Slipstream is collapsed under a downpour of pillows, cushions, and anything else that can be thrown down upon her buckled pauldrons and bent back strut without killing her outright.
“Chromia! Stop!”
“Slag.”
“Chromia, that’s enough!”
“Have I made myself clear?”
“Yes,” comes a muffled voice from the floor, beneath the pile of pillows and such, defeated.
“Good.” Chromia finally relents, then takes up her hot mug and sips delicately at the Camien blend, stoically handsome.
Windblade huffs. “Honestly!” Then leans over the edge of the berth. “Slip? You okay?”
“I’ll live.” Slipstream climbs out of the pile of soft things, astounded by how those makeshift missiles could really hurt when thrown with true intent. Either she is softer than she thought, or she was almost the victim of murder.
“Windblade shall not wait for you forever,” the bike intones into her mug, ignoring the Cityspeaker’s glare.
“Do not presume to speak for me.”
“I will protect you. I perceive a threat, I react in your defence. Be glad I did not apply lethal force.”
“You’re picking up this mess and remaking this berth.”
“So be it.”
The Seeker shakily sits on the edge of the berth, rubbing her arm, grimacing.
“Slip, I’m so sorry, are you alright?”
“Pillows can really hurt, it turns out. And she hits hard.”
“Humph!”
“Chromia, apologise.”
“No.”
“It’s fine,” Slipstream grumbles, glancing at Chromia. “She’s right. I’m messing you around. I wanna be with you, but if I give in, Starscream will take my Seekers from me and he’ll do whatever it takes to tear you down just to torture me. I dunno how low he’ll stoop, but he hurt you, and that’s already too low for me to tolerate.”
“I’ll heal. I’ll find my courage again. I’ll grow cunning. I’ll even stoop to cruelty, if it means protecting this planet filled with people I love, including you.” Windblade bows her helm, solemn. “Stay with me. I can’t run away with you to Caminus, but I can keep you close, even here, on Cybertron, under the protection of the High Council. All our friends can watch over you, too. You’ll have my sword.”
“Your High Council is losing this war, Windblade, and all I’d bring is trouble. I’m a liability.”
“You’re my love, Slip. We will beat him. I dunno how, I dunno when. I just know it, I feel it in my Spark.”
“Even if we do, I’m part of a team now.”
“A team of Decepticons, you mean.”
“They’re people too, Windblade. Disturbed, damaged people. But they’re still people. My little squad of weirdos. I’m very fond of them and they actually like me, too. They’ve been good to me. We’re good to each other. Like, in a strange, likely quite unhealthy way. It might be a little toxic.”
Chromia inclines her helm. “Is there someone special to you, in this squad. Flamewar, you said?”
“Yeah. She’s a friend. I like all of my team, but we’re extra close.”
“She would miss you.”
“If I leave her, I think she’ll spiral.”
The Cityspeaker opens and shuts her intake a few times. “But I love you! I loved you first.”
“I love you, too.” The Seeker accepts a steaming mug from the bike with a nod of thanks. “And that’s why I’ll survive this war and wait for you on the other side. When your High Council miraculously pulls through and wins Cybertron’s future, I will be ready for you to come and save me from myself, Windblade.”
For a while, nothing more is said.
“Mine,” Windblade declares quietly, in that fierce way of hers, dulled somewhat with pain. “You’re mine and I’ll have you in the end.”
“Yours,” Slipstream concurs, finding a servo and squeezing it. “You might move on–”
“No! Never!”
“But I’ll wait for you forever.”
Chromia looks to the viewing port, dimmed to admit only the softest rays of morning. She sighs.
“What am I to do with you, hmm?”
Arcee snores, asleep in Ariel’s chair, cuddling the adorable furry little organic alien pet Captain Snuffles, freed from his cage and also deeply asleep, snoring squeakily in her arms.
Grimlock sighs, servos on his hips. “My dearest friend. You are so precious, words fail me. I love you so very much.”
Ariel sprays some sort of liquid into a terrarium, smiling.
“I assume she was sufficiently well-behaved.”
“She was fine. No trouble at all. Helpful.”
“Excellent. Thank you for taking care of her.”
“My pleasure.”
“Needless to say, she has quite taken quite a liking to you, and your organics. She talks about you endlessly, but she also tells me all about your collection. I am learning things from you, through her.”
“Good. She’s enthusiastic. I wanna cultivate that. Maybe it won’t last long, but while it does, I don’t mind if she forgets to go home from time to time. She’s welcome to stay here.”
The big mech grins at the big femme, saying nothing with words, because he does not have to speak his thoughts aloud.
Ariel senses this and turns to look back at him with a handsome smile, flushed. “I’ve been a gentlefemme the whole time, I promise.”
“Of course! I trust you with her. Unlike that Sentinel fellow.”
“He’s going through a lot. He’s a good mech at Spark, really, he is.”
“Where’s Flamewar at?” asks Demolishor over his double ration. “I haven’t seen her at all this morning.”
“She’ll be sulking in one of her hiding places.” Despite the aid of detox solution, Thunderblast is hungover. Still, she forced herself out of the recharge bay and now takes her morning Energon ration at the table in an effort to appear invincible to the team, because weakness of any sort is dangerous to her image and influence. She just comes across as irritable and sickly instead. “Slipstream’s not back yet. Gonna be a depressive episode of note.”
“Very observant of you,” Shadow Striker replies quietly, inwardly a bit stung over the whole thing.
“Not really. I just know my little dirt bike.”
“You do know her better than you should.”
“Yeah, well, she is to be my future consort, after all. I need to know what makes her tick, so I can take advantage of her to suit myself.”
“You are truly one of the most ruthless yet admirable glitches I have ever met, Thunderblast.”
“Thanks, Sir. I know.”
Demolishor hums thoughtfully, his rugged expression soft with sympathy. “Do you think…?”
“Yeah. She’s in love with her.”
Shadow Striker grimaces.
“Flamewar falls hard and fast. She loves a girl who’s already in love with someone else. Slipstream has Windblade, and even if they sleep around, that complicates things. I would know.”
“You had your Spark broken,” Demolishor says gently.
“Just once. Never again. My mistake.” Thunderblast reveals intimate details about her past and personhood sometimes, even traumatic or tender details. As she endures a sip of Shockwave's Energon blend and gags at the nausea, this turns out to be one of those occasions for brutal honesty. “Eugh! Since then, I’ve broken so many Sparks, it’s like I love with a vengeance. They said they couldn’t live without me, so I said die, then walked away.”
“All those wrongs won’t make anything right.”
“Nah, big guy. I don’t delude myself into thinking that anymore.”
“Flamewar.” Shadow Striker touches Thunderblast lightly upon the wrist. “Where will she be hiding? She likes tight spaces, little nooks and crannies. Help me narrow it down.”
“I’d try the lockers. She likes the feeling of being held, but the darkness inside helps hide her not just from our sight, but our ridicule, so she crawls inside and almost shuts the door on herself. I told her not to go there anymore. It’ll get her trapped someday.”
“Thanks. I’ll go get her.”
“No offence, but I think she needs a motherly touch right now. You’re sweet on her, clearly you care about her, but maybe you’re a bit too caustic. Let me go get her. I did it before.”
“But you’re barely holding it together. You’re taking it easy for now. You need to recover from partying too hard.”
“Don’t patronise me. I’m fine. I can party as hard as I wanna and be totally okay.”
“You’re so nauseous right now, you gag a little every time you swallow.”
“Um. Because Shockwave’s goop is disgusting, Sir. No scrap I’m gagging. This stuff is nasty, so nasty. I keep telling you, I deserve better.”
“I apologise, princess.”
“That’s Your Majesty, actually. I’m a queen.”
Demolishor smiles as Shadow Striker bumps her helm affectionately against Thunderblast's pauldron, nuzzling against the hungover femme in a display of actual fondness, meant to irritate her.
“Geddoff.”
“But I like you.”
“Not now.”
Bumblebee is a little guy, but his littleness is apparent when he cannot fully wrap his arms around Slipstream's bulky upper body, which would normally amuse them both. Now, he just he buries his face plate in her broad chassis and breathes in her familiar scent, committing it again to his memory banks, stored within the core files that can never be erased without damage to the personality matrix. Far from his sunny self, he whimpers, raised doors quivering like wings.
“He’s missed you almost as much as I have,” Windblade remarks with a broken smile and big blue optics brimming with pain.
“I could say some silly sentiment about how you’re always in my Spark, but…” Slipstream bends herself over Bumblebee, pulling him deeper within herself. “I wish I could take you with me.” Explaining why she cannot, has been the hardest part. Crushing such an optimistic mech's spirit, in turn crushes her.
“How’d you find me, boss bot.”
“I see everything. Also, Thunderblast said you’d be hiding here.”
“Oh. Right. Duh.”
“C’mon. You can’t sulk all day like this. It’s unproductive, and besides, maintaining that pose for hours on end will kill your spine.”
“Don’t care.”
“Come on out. You’ve got work to do.”
“Go away.”
“Seriously, Flamewar. Get outta there, that’s an order.”
“No.”
Shadow Striker crouches with a sigh, reaching within. “Fine.”
Flamewar is curled up within an open locker, scowling miserably at nothing. She allows the servo to touch her, caressing her atop her helm.
“I know you’re anxious and upset. Slipstream is a friend, to you.”
“You miss her too.”
“Yeah. But I sent her out there with my blessings.”
“If she doesn’t come back, I’ll suffer for it.”
“You won’t be alone.”
The bike feels large digits curl about her upper arm.
“Come.”
“I’ll bite you.”
“Please.”
Flamewar feels a tug on her arm, careful enough not to hurt her, an attempt to physically coax her from her hiding place. She growls, flashing fangs in warning.
“That’s enough. Get outta the damn locker so we can talk like normal people.”
“I’m not normal and I don’t wanna talk to you!”
“You blame me, huh.”
“Yeah, I do! You sent her out there to do a job, but you told her she’d be better off not coming back! And then you told me!”
“I wanted you to know so you could be emotionally and mentally prepared for that possibility. I wasn’t gonna blind side you.”
“How exactly do I prepare for abandonment, boss bot!”
“Just… I want to make this better, okay, so…” Shadow Striker begins to pull.
“Lemme go!”
“I need you to get out of this fragging… Flamewar!”
The bike’s reaction is sudden and animalistic.
The mercenary recoils with a muttered curse, holding her bloody servo before her face plate, scowling.
Flamewar resettles within the dark, cramped recesses of her locker, knees drawn and arms folded, growling ominously, optics bright and wild.
“You bit me.”
“I warned you.”
“Holy scrap, you actually bit me.” Shadow Striker lays her wounded servo to her bosom, hissing. “That really hurt, you manic glitch.”
“Leave me be. I’m mourning.”
“You didn’t bite Thunderblast when she somehow made you cooperate.”
“Dreamboat hadn’t betrayed my trust.”
“Take that back.” The mercenary’s jaw clenches to stop itself from trembling. “What you just sad. Take it back.”
The bike is sullen, silent.
“I’m sorry I told her she could leave us. I was trying to do the right thing. And I’m sorry I told you that. Again, just tryna do the right thing, here. Ugh. Frag me sideways. I’m no good at this scrap.” Shadow Striker falls onto her aft and slumps forward to bump her helm against the locker with a dull thud and a sigh, bleeding inner Energon from the puncture wounds in her palm, clutched to her breastplate, smearing wet, a striking contrast against her dark glossy panes of armour littered finely with old battle-scars. “I guess I should’ve just been a selfish old slag and kept it all to myself, let things play out as the fates decide. My mistake, for trying to communicate with my team, for considering your needs, for even daring to care about your dumbafts.”
Flamewar winces, withers, whines, small and trembling, unfurling her limbs and crawling out the locker and into her commanding officer’s lap.
The mercenary does not shove the bike off, does not reject the apologetic advance.
“Boss bot, I’m sorry.”
“Yeah. Me too.”
Flamewar curls up in Shadow Striker’s lap, cheek on her chassis.
The mercenary allows the bike to take her wounded servo in careful claws, uncurling the large digits to inspect the bite wound within the palm.
“What if she doesn’t come back?”
“I don’t wanna think about that.”
Flamewar buries her faceplate in Shadow Striker’s servo, nuzzling into her bleeding palm, glossa lapping at the spilled inner Energon as if to instinctually clean those surprisingly deep, nasty wounds.
The mercenary kisses the bike top her helm, wrapping an arm around her and cradling her close, presenting more of the wounded palm for the lapping glossa. “I drank from a corpse, once, when I was lost and alone in the battlefield, too wounded to transform and low of fuel, unsure of rescue, unwilling to lay down and die. I lost a piece of myself when I siphoned that line. But the mech's inner Energon gave me strength. I dragged myself outta that trench. I survived.”
Flamewar pauses, looks up from that palm, dermas wet, bloodied. “Boss bot, is that meant to be inspiring, or comforting, or what?”
Shadow Striker smiles grimly. “I don’t know. But those fraggers owe me a commemorative medal.”
Slipstream is about to leave her love behind when something catches her focus for precious seconds of stalling. She thus stops and stares at a little potted plant kept in a sunny spot close to the front door, somehow unnoticed before, clearly organic in its alien beauty, absorbing sunlight from its place at the viewing port.
“A sort of ‘get well soon’ gift from the High Council,” Windblade says, following her lover’s optics. “Well. Gifted by one of them, anyway. Orion does visit and Sentinel sent me his regards, but Ariel wanted me to have something I could keep. I’m just doing my best to keep it alive.”
“You’re doing great, bestie,” Bumblebee intones kindly, to which Chromia nods, grunting her agreement.
“It’s beautiful.”
“Yeah. It brings me a little joy and a little distraction. I’ve never, uh, mothered something before.”
Slipstream smiles feebly, opens the front door, and steps out before she can burst into ugly tears in front of everyone.
Chromia offers Windblade a supporting arm, helping her to follow, and Bumblebee is close behind.
“Slip, wait.”
The Seeker stands on the little path leading to the front step, back turned, wings trembling, pauldrons buckled, fists at her sides.
“Someday, I’ll save you,” the Cityspeaker says. “I promise.”
“Just survive until then,” adds the scout. “We’re gonna beat Megatron and Starscream too. It might look dire right now, but we’re gonna figure this out. We’ll come back for you.”
“And then you and I might get to know each other as friends.” The bike tries to smile. “I never gave you much of a chance. I regret that, now.”
Slipstream digests all these words for some time, then turns to look back at them, nodding once. “I love you. Keep each other safe.”
“We love you too,” Windblade and Bumblebee chorus, holding onto Chromia for her strength and support as the transformation sequence and jet turbines resound, then fade away into the clouds.
Rising above the smog of the city, Shadow Striker crosses Slipstream’s mind, just then, as she often does. Just like Flamewar and Windblade and Bumblebee. The other friends, not so much, but they are all thought about fondly, from time to time. They are just on the periphery. Out of focus, but cared about. And Slipstream recalls words Shadow Striker said, the sensations those words provoked. A detour is in order. The jet swerves, changing route. Thunderblast did stress the importance of bringing gifts, after all, justifying how she intended to blow their budget all along.
It is a beautiful new day. Especially from up here.
“You look like you’ve been in a scuffle, my darling.”
“You could say that, yes. Would your better half mind?”
“Worry not! Breakdown truly is a maestro behind a buffer. He’ll have you looking brand new in no time. But do let me examine you, just in case. As your physician, and your friend.”
“Please, my dear, if you’d be so kind.”
Knock Out is a wonderful mech, although he is a bit quirky about surgery, and he has been happily bonded with his larger, quieter Conjunx Endura, Breakdown, for many millions of years now, without losing any of their romance to the erosion of time.
Starscream hopes he and Megatron will be like that, too.
When Slipstream returns, she comes quietly, as if she does not want to be noticed.
Demolishor stands guard and greets her with a smile, but he knows.
She approximates a smile, almost, and leaves him at his post.
Shadow Striker is in her office, stuffing sealant into the wounds in her palm, when a frame fills the doorway.
“Sir.”
The old mercenary looks up sharply, grinning with relief. “My good girl. You came back to me.”
“Yes, Sir.” The Seeker again pretends to smile, very much customer service for one who hates serving customers. The smile does not reach her optics, dull and dark.
“Primus, it’s good to see you. Flamewar will be ecstatic.”
Slipstream’s expression falls. There is a trembling of her bottom derma, a subtle indication of the urge to burst into tears, restrained in some show of curt professionalism. Her optics are downcast and she keeps her pauldrons squared, standing perfectly upright and not slouching for once. “I’ll go see her in the armoury as soon as you dismiss me, Sir. She must be so upset.”
“She had a moment, yeah. Might wanna take it carefully with her.”
“Does she feel betrayed?”
“Abandoned, too.”
“I really fragged everything up.”
“Then I hate to ask you this, but…” The old mercenary takes it all in with a roving scope. “How’d it go with Windblade?”
“Not especially well, Sir, thank you for asking.”
“Did she break up with you?”
“No.”
“Then there’s hope.”
“There has to be. I can’t do this forever, Sir.”
“You won’t have to. Hang in there, a bit longer.”
“I feel a little lost, but nothing really changed. I am exactly where I was. She still loves me, but she didn't choose me. We won’t be running away together to Caminus. She’s chosen to stay and fight for Cybertron, allied with the enemy. Our happy ending was so close, but then again, I alone wouldn’t have made her happy, not with such a steep cost.”
“Oh. Damn. I’m sorry.”
“Anyway, I got you a gift.”
“Uh. Okay. Thanks. You shouldn’t have.”
“It’s okay, Sir. I wanted to.” The Seeker releases the seal of her cockpit with a pressurised hiss, the angular dome lifting upon a hinge to form an opening that exposes her guts and the small bundle she has kept safe within her own chassis. The cramped office suddenly smells so strongly of her interior mechanisms, not at all unpleasant. “It won’t impact the budget. This is from me, to you. Not Decepticon business. Off the record.”
Shadow Striker grimaces at the intimacy of the display, even if this is nothing new, as she has served with Seekers in the previous war. “Nifty pocket.”
“It is useful, yes.” Slipstream reaches within herself and carefully extracts the bundle of neatly assembled gift wrapping, neatly tied together with a ribbon. She steps forward and sets her burden on her commanding officer’s desk. “Here. Open it.”
The mercenary accepts the present with a slightly nervous chuckle. She feels kinda bad when she unties the adorable little bow, which had been tied so symmetrically so as to almost be perfect, and carefully peels the embossed foil wrapping apart, baring what lies beneath.
The Seeker stands there, waiting for a reaction.
Shadow Striker exhales, presented with a small square crystalline bottle of clearly expensive high-grade, laid on the gleaming plane of its flat side atop the lid of an engraved cy-gar box. “Well. This set you back a fair bit.”
“I think you’re worth the personal expense, Sir.”
“Why?”
“I like you. You like me. I want to sit in your lap and grab your waist while you drink and smoke,” Slipstream says softly, “like you promised me before. Remember?”
“Yeah. I do.”
“You also threatened to throw me over your desk and frag me senseless if I were to kiss you. We’ve kissed a bunch of times and I think it’s time you followed that threat through, because I could do with being fragged senseless right now.”
“Slipstream, I–”
“Please.”
“You’re clearly upset.”
“Yeah, no scrap.”
“I don’t wanna take advantage of that. You deserve better.”
“I am asking for it, Sir.”
“Don’t slag yourself out to some mean old glitch like me, just because the femme you love’s got you down like that.” The mercenary sighs softly. “Whatever happened between you and Windblade on the surface, you gotta realise I’m a poor as frag substitute for the real deal, and doing this won’t fix a thing. Don’t make me complicit in doing you further harm. I want no part in that.”
The Seeker’s dull optics brim with tears as she shuts her cockpit, forming a vacuumed seal with a hiss as it pressurises. She scoffs quietly.
“I’m trying, here.”
“I know, Sir. You’re right. You’re being good to me.”
“You’ve set the bar as to what abuse you’ll tolerate from someone with authority over you, so damn low it concerns me deeply, imagining just what someone with bad intentions might do to you in my place.”
“I don’t have much self-respect, Sir. That’s really my problem, not yours. But thank you for not taking total advantage.”
“Slipstream, can I say something absurd?”
“I suppose. This is absurd.”
“She refused to take you with her back to Caminus, but you should’ve dropped the squad, defected to the other side.”
“The High Council is losing this war. And you told me you don’t tolerate betrayal, that your grudges last forever and you act on them.”
“If nothing else, you could’ve gone down fighting with the one you love and spent the struggle surrounded by friends. It’s stupid, but the sort of sentimental nonsense I could respect, coming from you. No hard feelings, remember.”
“You spend all these lessons teaching me how to defend myself, you learn to care about me, you comfort me, and yet you tell me to accept defeat, to join the losing side for the sake of love, prolonging the inevitable. Are you hearing yourself, Sir?”
“You were hoping to leave me and the squad anyway. It would be a compromise, some shot at your happiness. I’m old and getting paid regardless, it really doesn’t affect me beyond losing you.”
“It would still be a betrayal. It would be a goodbye. That does affect you, more than you can admit to yourself, Sir, or so I suspect.”
Instead of acknowledging that, Shadow Striker pops open the little crystalline bottle and takes a swig, sighing.
“Whatever.” Slipstream sighs and shakes her helm. “Enjoy the gift, Sir.”
“I will, thanks. And although I don’t think I should frag you senseless just now, you’re still welcome to sit on my lap and grab my waist while I drink and smoke. The lesser of two evils, mm.”
“Yes, please, Sir.”
“Come. Sit.”
The uncomfortable chair groans beneath their combined weight, but holds.
Slipstream thus finds herself sitting upon Shadow Striker’s thighs, turned so as to grip her feminine hip and waistline in a big servo, leaning into her chassis and nuzzling into kisses directed at tears.
“Comfy?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Good girl.”
The Seeker’s wings flutter at the praise.
“I’m so glad you’re here.”
She sniffles and drags her face into more kisses.
“Mm. I gotcha. Shh, shh, shh. It’s alright, now.”
“I need this, Sir.”
“That’s okay with me.” The mercenary tastes those tears even as she sips from the bottle of high-grade. “Ahh, that’s nice. Pass me a smoke.”
Slipstream reaches for the box upon the desk and opens it, extracting a cy-gar, setting it between her commanding officer’s proffered digits.
“You ever tried one before?”
“No, Sir.”
“Lemme show you how it works. There’s a technique to enjoying a cy-gar properly and not looking like a fragging fool.” Shadow Striker winks. “You know I got zero tolerance for fools.”
“United, we shall form the Functionist Council. A single overruling entity, based here, within Cybertron’s capital of Iacon City, acting on behalf of Primus throughout the world.”
Sentinel is glad that the others are not partaking in this meeting. His own gut instinct is to recoil, but for the betterment of Cybertron as a whole – and for the sake of his career, hanging in the balance, dependant on his victory over Megatron’s Decepticon uprising – he hides his revulsion with a polite little cough. “That is rather more, uh, unified than I had anticipated. The Senate before still maintained some separation between faith and governance.”
“You need not concern yourself,” One-of-Twelve intones pleasantly, his expressionless helm gently inclined. “Primus will bless this union.”
“Oh, yeah. Of course. Right.”
“You should lie down,” Slipstream says softly, so as not to disturb the obviously hungover Thunderblast, currently poised over cables.
The boat looks up, wincing against the light, and sighs. “I’m okay, but thanks. You seen Flamewar yet?”
“On my way now.” The Seeker deposits a little kiss to the cheek. “Just reported in to Shadow Striker.”
“You smell like cy-gar smoke and booze.” Thunderblast gags at the latter. “Eugh.”
“Sorry.” Slipstream eases away with a sympathetic wince. “I’ll finish those cables for you. Go and lie down a while.”
“And admit defeat? Nah. A party never beat me before, it won’t now. I gotta job to do and I’mma get it done like a girlboss.”
“Alright, then. Take care of yourself, please be gentle.”
“Hey, before you go, how was Windblade? Was she hot and heavy?”
“We talked. We cuddled. We slept in the same berth.”
“Lemme be more specific, because I want juicy details specifically. As in, did she or did she not fold you over and take you upside-down with your helm dangling over the edge of the berth, like I imagined?”
“Sorry, nothing quite like that.”
“Please tell me you got laid.”
“No. She wasn’t feeling well.”
“Oh, for Primus’ sake. Girl!”
The Seeker squeezes the boat’s pauldron, then departs from her with a sigh.
“When I’m not hungover,” Thunderblast calls after her, “I’ll fold you myself, if you want.” Wincing at the volume, how raised voices echo in the tunnels.
“That sounds great,” Slipstream calls back, with a husky chuckle to disguise a sob.
Ariel had left a little note with care instructions to keep the organic plant alive, stuck to the bottom of the clay pot. It is simple enough.
Windblade takes care of the gift, as an excuse not to take care of herself. She will not eat, not even as Chromia’s gentle insistence gives way to a rare show of frustration.
“Would you please stop punishing me?”
Slipstream goes unnoticed initially.
Flamewar is thoroughly cleaning Shadow Striker’s beloved rifle.
The Seeker's throat tightens painfully.
The bike has been crying. Her claws tremble over the mercenary's favoured weapon, in pieces.
“Hi,” Slipstream says, because what more can her trembling vocalizer manage?
Flamewar almost drops Shadow Striker’s rifle, lunging from behind the workbench and throwing herself in her friend’s open arms with a howl.
The Seeker stumbles back a few steps, then stabilises, holding the bike bodily off the floor, whose legs and arms wrap around the large torso and cling to dark armoured panels as if for dear life.
The mercenary’s rifle is forgotten, for now, in a state of partial disassembly.
“You came back!”
“I did.”
“Boss bot said… I just… Oh, Slippy!”
“I couldn’t leave you, Flames. Not even if I tried.”
Chapter 33: Distraction*
Summary:
Starscream lies and Megatron rages, frightening them both. Ariel challenges Sentinel's decision and he sends her away. The stoic, mysterious old bounty hunter Roulette returns with her quarry. Orion is disturbed to learn of Sentinel's intentions to weaponise the Functionists, thus financing the production of Functionaries. Shockwave realises that he is attracted to Acid Storm in some capacity, capable of the sensation of lust despite the higher logical functions, even after Wheeljack. Chromia takes care of Windblade in her sadness. Soundwave opts to follow after Ravage, curious to learn where the stray likes to wander, ending up on Hot Rod's doorstep as it turns out both mechs are befriending and feeding the same cybercat. Bumblebee bumps into Roulette, literally, and notes how she looks a lot like someone he knows - could they be sisters? Starscream rants spookily about being the chosen one and the wordless Skywarp is shook.
Notes:
This chapter is shorter than the last and a bit fragmented, as it is intended to offer some closure so that I can push the narrative forward without it feeling too jarring. Things are going to get grim soon, and characters are going to get hurt.
Featured sex scene: Slipstream/Flamewar with Windblade mentioned (cunnilingus, bigger femme servicing smaller femme, kneeling, pining after another woman, tearful, frustrated, gnawing, kissing, sweat, plump/curvy, cum swallowing, head stroking, claws, praise, hugging, tongue sucking, depressed sex, sex as a coping mechanism, sex as distration, sex as comfort).
Possible trigger warnings: a domestic dispute with some allusion to the threat of domestic violence, preparations for weaponised religion with government sanction in the form of the Functionist Council (as a fusion of the Functionist faith and the Autobot High Council, reinforced by Sentinel's elite guard and appointed enforcers of the faith).
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“I was practising aerial manoeuvrers with my Seekers in low-light conditions, I already told you that.”
“I do not believe you.”
“Pardon?”
“Soundwave showed me the online landscape, more specifically drawing my attention to a troubling change in the recent discourse surrounding our Decepticons. Social media is rife with reports of the disturbance to the peace you led that night, during your so-called practice. I have already spoken with Thundercracker and Thrust. Your testimony does not correspond with that of your Seekers.”
“Traitors.”
“Star. They answer to me, too. They have done no wrong.”
“Cowards.”
“They have been dealt with. This is about you, now.”
“Ridiculous.”
“It is a disciplinary hearing, Star, please take it seriously.”
“Seekers are loud and proud, always have been! Decepticons like to make some noise, so what? It makes people uncomfortable, as they should be.”
“You are being difficult.”
“Of course! In all matters that concern my misbehaviour, you know you can only discipline me in berth, darling. I am your most precious companion, I am immune to the bureaucracy that can be applied to the rest of your forces. I am no mere Decepticon grunt.”
Megatron is very obviously unamused. “Star. Please.”
“As for disturbing the peace.” Starscream smiles sweetly up at him. “Your entire movement gained the most traction when you got people angry and caused disturbances to the peace, my love. You destroyed the Senate for that very reason, a rippling effect, shaking the pillars of their peace and toppling their positions of power.”
“Yes, this is true. However–”
“The status quo cannot change peacefully. Keeping the peace is the excuse weaponised by the rich and powerful to subdue the miserable masses into compliance with threats of harm and imprisonment, justified by supplications to some sense of moral superiority or divine higher power, hence faith’s interference within governance. Violence, they say, is the tool of the crude and the cruel. Yet violence is only a crime when the oppressed fights back against the oppressor, never the other way around.”
“Indeed. Nevertheless–”
“You taught me that. It’s why I fell in love with you.”
The leader of the Decepticons wants to let this go. However, he sees a troubling patten in his beloved’s behaviour, an unsanctioned chaos misguided with arrogance and agony, festering. He sees a problem, presenting himself. “I am worried for you.”
The Captain frowns prettily.
“Shadow Striker reported to me that Slipstream would briefly be surfaced to attend to a task. The reasoning was sufficient, thus I did not forbid it.”
“Well, you should’ve. My wayward Seeker could conspire with the enemy, again. She should not be permitted to run amok, unsupervised.”
“Slipstream was not sent alone. I trust Shadow Striker’s judgment. She has sent me regular feedback as to Slipstream’s temperament and behaviour, indicating reliability, obedience, and loyalty to the team despite the ugly nature of her reassignment, as well as the less than savoury companionship. She is fond of them and they are fond of her. This cohesion is good. I desire it.”
“Didn’t stop my darling Seeker from betraying me. How dare Shadow Striker claim to know Slipstream better than I! Feminine wiles, I tell you, that’s how. I, a mech, cannot compete, not even after a lifetime of cohesion. Humph! Whatever. I really dislike that old glitch.”
“And yet the only one running amok unsupervised is yourself, Star. You told me you were practising with your Seekers. Clearly, this was a deception.”
“Decepticon.”
“Do not be cute with me, right now.” Megatron speaks gently, but in his firm way, effortlessly intimidating. He actually has to try not to be scary, because he is in love. “I am unhappy with you.”
Starscream folds his arms and pulls a face, sulking.
“Dare I assume you were attempting to–”
“I don’t want to talk about this. I’m leaving.”
“Star. Do not go.”
“I do whatever I please and I go wherever I wish. I am your second-in-command if we must speak of rank, but I am also your first in all matters of the Spark.” The Captain rises from his chair and turns sharply, striding for the door.
“Stop.”
“No.”
“Star, heed me.”
“I don’t like your tone.”
The former gladiator rises from his seat and moves astoundingly quickly for his massive size, barring the way with his body.
Starscream is forced to remain, with a huff. “Excuse me. I wish to pass.”
“Not until I am finished with you.”
“Excuse me! Let me pass!”
Megatron leans in slowly, bringing himself very close to his lover’s audial. “Why did you lie to me?” The words come out in a soft, thunderous purr, utterly terrifying.
“I… I do not appreciate this tone you have taken with me! It is strange to me and I feel uncomfortable! Do not speak to me in this way, my love!”
“Answer me, Star.”
The Captain laughs prettily, but it is a nervous reaction. A part of him is afraid. Actually afraid.
“This is not a joke.” The old gladiator grits his dentas, squaring his jaw. “I see nothing amusing in this.” So close. So huge. So sinister. Ancient aggression, domesticated for the sake of trying to save the world, to appear civilised within it, to be taken seriously as an intelligent and rational being, more than a brute. But a brute, all the same.
Starscream has tried Megatron’s patience previously, but this is the first time the Captain’s difficult behaviour has earned him an actual disciplinary hearing with with leader of the Decepticons, his beloved. And this is the first time either one of them has felt unsafe in the other’s company.
“Megatron, please, I don’t want this. Let me go.”
“Terrifying a neighbourhood in the dead of night is no way for a Decepticon of your station to be conducting yourself, Star. Do you know what they are saying about you? Do you realise how that makes me look? This is not a righteous struggle, it is not an underground resistance, Star. It is pettiness. Your pettiness. And I cannot permit it endlessly.”
“Get away from me.” The Captain is confined to a small meeting room. He has nowhere to go, that is not blocked by the old gladiator’s imposing frame. A shove to the gunmetal grey breastplate sends the bigger mech back a single step, and in response, something flashes within those gorgeous optics that the flier finds reprehensible to behold.
In an instant, Megatron’s handsome, long-suffering face plate twists with rage. “You are a Decepticon, my second-in-command, first in my Spark!”
Starscream jerks with fright at the escalation in volume, feeling it reverberate through the floor.
“Your conduct reflects upon us all! Lesser Decepticons can set their fires and throw their bricks, but I expect you to look good at my side and rise above the rabble, because I chose you, and I do not make unwise choices! I appointed you for greatness, and yet you behave like a spoilt protoform, as if I am an overindulgent mentor! My own mentor would not tolerate such cheek, and I will not stand for any humiliation or shame besmirching my cause, the cause she inspired within me! Not when that humiliation or shame is provoked by one such as you! I have strived, sacrificed, suffered too much, to have you, of all people, defy me now! Do not ruin this for me!”
“Do not yell at me!”
“You have yet to answer for your conduct! I am beyond disappointed in you, I am also frustrated! You lied to me about your motivations and your whereabouts and you do not deign it appropriate to tell me why! And now, my Seekers, my Captain, altogether resemble the aggressors from a past war! I yet strive for peace, I only destroy those who deserve it! Harassing mere civilians, within their very homes, some of whom wear my mark, whilst you refuse the Deceptibrand out of sheer vanity! Explain yourself, Starscream! Why do you lie to me!”
"Megatron. Stop. Please."
“I promised you the world! Deceive others if you must, but not I! Never I!”
“You’re scaring me.”
The leader of the Decepticons flinches, all fury evaporating with the steam of his vents. He blinks once, twice, thrice, and his brilliant optics are soft, doleful, apologetic, and hurt. “Star?”
The Seeker Captain trembles, chewing his derma, wings drooped.
“Star.”
“It is good that you like your own company. You can expect to sleep alone for some time.”
“Star, forgive me, I–”
“Enough. I am Captain of the Seekers, a position granted to me because I am worthy, regardless of your current opinion of me. I was appointed long before becoming your second-in command of the Decepticons, first in your Spark. You will speak to me with respect befitting my station, is that clear?”
“Do not be cold. Do not be angry.”
“You call me spoilt, yet I find myself surrounded by incompetence, idiocy, and idolatry. Please step aside so I can leave. I have much to think about.”
“No, my love. We cannot part ways in anger. It is not right." Megatron bolsters himself, yet assumes a very docile and gentle expression, trying his best to seem physically harmless. “Let me hold you, kiss you.” He carefully tries to touch Starscream’s cheek. “Let me-”
The smaller mech contorts himself unnaturally to avoid the other’s reach, slipping below the thickset arm and squeezing into the gap afforded by the bigger mech’s tapering side. Thus the Captain escapes the old gladiator.
“Star, wait. Please.”
“We are done, here.” It is rather hard to flee gracefully on heels like these, and yet Starscream succeeds, hurrying along down the passageway beyond with a click-clack-click-clack.
Megatron sags in place, alone in a small room.
“You doing okay today?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Be honest.”
“I still function, Sir. Thank you for checking in on me.”
“That’s my girl.” Shadow Striker slaps Slipstream on the back strut, then ruffles her helm. “You do me proud.”
“I try to, every day, Sir. Sometimes just in the small things.”
“Of course you do. Hey, look at me.”
The Seeker meets the mercenary’s gaze.
“You’re gonna survive this. Take it day by day.”
“I’ll try, Sir.”
“Meanwhile, if you need something, say so. We’re a team. I’ve gotcha. ”
“Thank you, Sir.” Slipstream smiles shyly when Shadow Striker thinks absolutely nothing of placing a motherly kiss on her subordinate’s forehelm. “Mm. You’re so good to me.”
“Yeah, well, that’s between us, off the record. Don’t spread that sorta stuff around, yeah? Tell anyone and everyone who asks you about me, all about how irredeemably awful I am. Gotta maintain my rep. Yeah?”
“Understood, Sir. It’d be bad for you if word got out that you’re really kinda sweet and you've got a soft spot for me.”
“Oh, no, we just cannot have that. Huh, good girl.”
The Seeker is tired and miserable, especially now, after having tasted sweet freedom for a few hours, only to return to feed off of the gruel of this captivity. But she is cared for, in a twisted way, and she is truly very grateful for that. Despite her life being a wreckage of what it once was, she does have someone here who looks after her. “Your good girl.” Her praise kink gives her a mark of distinction, now. She is almost proud of it.
The mercenary stalks off to attend to her work, but not without a backwards glance cast over a pauldron, a fleeting smile.
“No.”
“Ariel.”
“Frag, no.”
Sentinel has his helm in his palm, groaning quietly as she slams her fists upon his desk, denting the metal.
“The Functionist Council. That has a certain ring to it, huh. Really laying our cards on the table with that one.”
“Like it or not, about fifty percent of the Cybertronian populace abides by the faith. Some are staunch believers, others have some inkling of form dictating function. It comforts hopeless people, convinces them their little lives have a divine plan. We can use that to our advantage.”
“And condemns them. Compels them, if they dare to think differently. Your advantage, Sentinel, not ours. If those Functionists get their way – which they are gonna expect, because they believe they’re in the right and anyone who disagrees is wrong, thus there is only their way – they’re gonna make Orion and I return to the docks, or take up some other gruelling labour, the moment Megatron is in stasis cuffs. Because clearly that is all bots like us are destined for. That will be our future, our legacy, if we, the Functionist fragging Council, win.”
“I won’t let that happen.”
“You’ll be fine, you’re too highly regarded, so it’s all good, right? You can arm the faith with your elite guard, reinforce their marches in the streets, keep their pulpit safe from Megatron and his evil freedom of speech and thought. And in exchange, maybe the Functionists will say something nice about you, convince the people that you serve Primus so well, and not yourself.”
“Shut up, won’t you?”
“Sure. I'll be in my lab.”
“It is hardly a lab.”
“Bite me.”
Sentinel looks up as Ariel leaves his office on long strides. Her aft is as great in her old age as he remembers in their youth. “Believe me, old friend. I would like to, very much.”
“Oh, real hot shot cruising on through,” a bored police mech mutters aside to another, glaring at a femme who strides past with a frothing captive in stasis cuffs. “Fraggin’ bounty hunters, doing our jobs, making us look bad.”
“They catch crooks better than we can. It’s a fact. They got the gear we don’t, like cloaks and scrap. It’s impressive.”
“Hey. Who’s side are you on?”
“Let her be. It’s less work for us, letting her sort bring ’em in. She can do the dangerous jobs and we can process the datawork. Suits me just fine.”
“Ohh, I gotcha. Hadn’t thought of it like that before.”
“I know a guy called Hot Shot,” contributes the dumbest of the three, with an intake stuffed with a partially chewed wheel-nut.
“I’m here for the bounty,” the femme says gruffly, presenting her almost entirely immobilised prisoner, a visor concealing her optics, but her posture indicates superiority typical of bounty hunters, even the sanctioned few fools who work with law enforcement for less pay and even more ridicule, generally despised by cops.
Strongarm sighs quietly. “Alright. Let’s get him processed.” She hates working the front desk, but Prowl knows she needs to do something dull for a bit, just to take the edge off. As is typical among the police, he is covering her aft, but less typically, she hates herself for it. Nightra is a wanted femme and Prowl prides himself as being one of the few honest cops, trying to live up to the legacy Dropforge left. “Roulette, yeah?”
“Uh-huh.”
“You’re efficient, I must say. Seems you bring a new one in every other month or so. Quite the track record.”
Roulette is not much for talk, thus she grunts.
Strongarm types ponderously. Her servos are too big for the little holographic keys and she is not usually placed here, thus she lacks practice. She would be out on the streets, if she could even pretend to care. She gave up on the myth of helping people millions of years ago.
“Your cologne’s different.”
“Huh?”
“You changed your scent.” The bounty hunter is looking elsewhere, stoic and rigid. “I like it. The last one was too sweet. Didn’t suit you.”
“Uh, that’s not creepy, at all.”
“Sorry. I notice small details. We’ve crossed paths often enough, Officer Strongarm.”
“Well, okay, I guess.” The police femme sighs, digits moving mechanically as she enters the data into her little holographic terminal. “How curious are you?”
“Vaguely.”
“My girlfriend dumped me. I wore it for her. She liked it. No point, any more. Hence the change.”
The mech in stasis cuffs makes a sympathetic noise.
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine. Went for something different, something that doesn’t remind me of her, every time I get a whiff of myself.”
“Good for you.”
“Yeah, I guess I oughta reinvent myself, after a messy breakup. Honestly, I never liked that scent, either.”
“Perhaps I am misunderstanding this arragement.” Orion frowns down at the datapad. “They are proposing that you militarise their processions?”
“That’s a little strongly worded, but yes, I’m to provide certain combat-ready upgrades to sanctioned individuals who will be ordained to protect missionaries.” Sentinel grimaces, pouring Engex into two crystalline flutes, then passing one to the other mech. “I know how it must look. I do pity them, though. They just want to feel safe to practice their faith openly. The Decepticons don’t take kindly to Functionist rhetoric.”
“I can see this being terribly abused, old friend. Is it any wonder Ariel is so–”
“I’m going to keep control of the situation. She just needs to calm her aft down, frankly, and you need to have some faith in me.”
“I… I will try, old friend. Though I do have my doubts.”
“You can’t have faith without trust. You trust me, don’t you?”
“Of course I do. With my life. I love you.”
“Then could you please convince her to get off my back? Either that, or she can very well get off my planet. She is so difficult! If I did not still care deeply for her, I would not tolerate her.”
Orion sighs, then shuffles over and rests his helm on Sentinel’s broad, gleaming, decorated breastplate as they stand together under a viewing port, being somewhat smaller than this great mech of such distinction, built closer to Megatron’s immense scale.
“What’re you doing?”
“What I used to do, when you were not so cantankerous. You were cuddly, back then.”
“I am old, Orion. And stressed.”
“As am I, Sentinel. As am I.”
The most prominent representative of what is to be the Functionist Council lays his palm upon the former archivist, caressing his bent neck and nuzzling atop his helm.
Orion closes his optics and listens to the inner workings of Sentinel’s bosom.
“Oh, Slippy, yeah–”
Windblade is terribly missed. She should have been the saviour she proclaims to become, at some uncertain point in the future. But she is just a person. Mortal, after all.
Slipstream buries her tears in Flamewar’s valve, gnawing frustration upon her swollen anterior node aglow with flowing Energon, twitching betwixt dentas and throbbing against dermas that kiss away the discomfort of this pinch.
The bike tosses back her helm and overloads with very little noise, dissolving within her armoured shell, flames shimmering with sweat, dark curves rippling muscular and plump upon her smaller framework. She has the Seeker upon her knees behind the workbench, cramped and uncomfortable, servicing her with hunger and hurt.
Slipstream drinks it all in and allows claws to rake affectionately over her helm, shivering at the sensation.
“Good girl,” Flamewar purrs, breathy and fond. “Ohhh, Slippy, you’re so good. Goodest good girl, mmyeah.”
The Seeker will go on like this for some time, taking advantage of her allocated break, and she will be ready to go back to work promptly once her time here must end.
The bike spares her friend all of that, by gently prying her helm out from between her thick thighs, dragging the much bigger femme up into a hug, a kiss, tasting the bittersweet relief.
Slipstream sighs as her glossa is suckled, tearful optics narrowed against Flamewar’s twin suns.
The bike moans at her own taste, then breaks the kiss with a wet pop, easing back to ponder the Seeker’s expression. “Did that help, Slippy?”
“Yeah. I feel better, now.”
“Want me to do you?”
“Yeah, alright.”
“What would you like?”
Slipstream leans into the claws that lovingly caress her wet cheeks, smearing fluids.
“I’ll do almost anything for you,” Flamewar says with such soft, sharp sincerity, it is actually quite uncomfortable. She only means to help.
Acid Storm drops a small instrument with a metallic tinkle and a sigh, bending to retrieve it from under their workstation, in turn hiking up their firm, well-defined aft as they reach below without resorting to kneeling upon the cold, sterile floor, digits fumbling to recover what was dropped.
Shockwave just so happens to turn his helm at that moment, intending to say something. His singular optic widens at the sight, brow arching as a flicker of charge caresses his internal circuitry, a sensation he has not felt in a long time, certainly not since Wheeljack. The great scientist ought to have purged his systems of such useless processes by now. Apparently a little lust yet remains.
The Seeker rises to their full height with another sigh, setting the instrument upon the tray, then stretching their rippling back strut, bulky by design and tight with excellent health, green shell glossy with self-maintenance. They are stiff from extensive labour, evident in how they roll their pouldrons and pause to rub their neck. They keep their wings retracted to take up less space. They mutter something quietly.
The disembodied servo flutters across the room, independent and capable of performing complex tasks on its own, a feat in technical engineering and surgical science. It has taken a liking to the laboratory assistant, hovering their way.
Acid Storm smiles and accepts a cup of that awful artificial Energon. “Thank you,” they tell Shockwave’s servo, as if speaking to a person separate from himself.
Shockwave himself finds it quite strange, even fascinating, how his own servo has formed a tangible relationship with the Seeker. And also, vaguely endearing. They get along so well, and he cannot discern how or why. His servo is not truly sentient, last he checked, as it bears the artificial intelligence of a mere drone. It liked Wheeljack, too.
Optics flicker and find his own, the laboratory assistant turning in place with gentle expectation. A smile, placid and patient. “Sir?”
“It is nothing,” the Decepticon’s lead scientist says quickly and averts his gaze with a shy dip of his almost entirely featureless helm, a victim of the empurata process intended to punish criminals with anonymity and lack of expression. His crime was mad science, but only because those without his intellect cannot understand the method in his madness, and even fellow geniuses falter to understand him. Even Wheeljack sometimes struggled to comprehend Shockwave’s actions. This does not matter. He is the sanest of all. “Carry on.”
Acid Storm sometimes catches their boss looking their way a little too intently. Their smile deepens. “Alright, Sir.” There is much work to be done. Inert Seekers are soon to be born from this collective cold forge, their frozen Sparks thawing within the unwilling protoforms within the imprisonment of their shells within these wombs, and this does require much attention. At least, it will, until the Senate's secret process is perfected in their absence.
“Can I do it?”
“If you’re feeling brave. She can’t really be domesticated. She’ll probably try to bite you, since she hasn’t had a chance to get used to you yet. Give it enough time and you’ll become an acceptable part of the environment.”
“Like a rock?”
“Like a rock.”
“Flattering! Maybe I’ll just observe this time.” Arcee giggles prettily. She lives her life like someone who just wants to have fun.
Ariel inserts her servo within the tank, carefully setting a little bowl filled with a fresh portion of nutritious paste within the enclosure. As her servo begins to withdraw, a rather terrifying multi-legged organic creature scuttles out of the hide to investigate her digits with disinterest, clearly sensing the food. She is allowed to leave without being bit for her trouble.
“How long did it take before she accepted you?”
“Long enough.”
The younger femme snaps a quick pic, cooing. “Gonna show this to Grim later! Wow, look at her. From this angle, you can see all those fangs, and each one’s attached to a venomous sack for injection when she bites down. That is just so badaft.”
The High Councillor finds peace in this place, a peace that was threatened by an old friend so desperate to meet with her, he resorted to a hidden agent to leave a message. But now, she also finds company, the sort that can talk.
“Hey.” Arcee looks up, pretty facial rigging soft with friendly concern. “You feeling any better?”
Ariel sighs quietly, wiping off her servos on a rag she keeps, because feeding and otherwise tending to organics tends to be messy, smelly work. “A little. I’m just glad for your company. These organics don’t really talk, though I tell them things all the time.”
“You do need other companionship. The talkative kind. Like me! Well. Okay! Maybe not as talkative as me.”
“Orion tells me the same thing. You’re not talkative in a way that grates me, unlike most people. You have insightful things to say and you listen when I speak. Often, I feel like I have to throw my weight around, get real tough, just to be heard. I lack the social skills and charisma to convince people with my words.”
“I think you’re very charming. I like listening to you.”
“You’re probably too nice.”
“Well, if that means you’re not sick of me yet, how about dinner? I know a great place, I’ll treat you. Consider it my thanks for being so patient with me, tolerating all my endless questions, letting me poke and prod around in here, forgiving me when I fall asleep in your chair.”
The femmes regard each other fondly.
“Did you just ask me out?”
“Kinda, if you want to. So! Whatcha say?”
“I say, it’s been a while since a lady invited me to dinner.”
“Sooo, is that a yes?”
“Heh. Yes.”
“You seem upset, dear.”
Megatron grumbles irritably, his arm held out for Empress to hold, strolling together through this Decepticon base to review activities and make his presence generally known. He has taken a shine to her quickly, and thus he indulges in her apparent desire to spend quality time with him, perhaps enjoying him just as much due to his ability to withstand the strange aura radiating from her, finding him an amusing challenge. Besides, he prefers to keep a close optic on her, as she has quite seduced most of the femmes stationed here already and most of the mechs are frightened of her. She could prove a mighty Decepticon and valuable asset. He just needs to collar her, keep her on a short leash, and direct her allure and dismay where such an aura is useful.
“I won’t pry. However, if you need someone to talk to, I’ll listen.”
“Thank you. That is kind, but there is no need.”
“Oh, very well, then. Be that way. The offer still stands.” Empress directs one of her pleasant, calm smiles upon a small group of Decepticon femmes, who collectively coo and flush and wave shyly to her in passing, somehow failing to notice Megatron himself. “Hello, ladies.”
As if on command, they all seem to swoon to various degrees.
“How do you do it?”
“Do what?”
“That.”
“I don’t know what you’re referring to. I just said hello.”
“Fine. Stay mysterious,” the leader of the Decepticons mutters aside at the young gladiator on his arm, who turns helms with her passage, rolling his optics at the looks of longing that follow her, likely directed at her aft. “So long as you cause me no trouble.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, dear.”
“Very good.”
Empress squeezes Megatron’s arm affectionately, possessively, just tightly enough to hurt a little.
“Eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
In a fit of loving frustration, Chromia takes up the plate and stabs into it with the silver fork, so dainty in her strong digits, then presents the morsel before Windblade’s frowning dermas expectantly.
“…Seriously? Are you just gonna sit like that and stare at me until I comply?”
“…Eat.”
The Cityspeaker narrows her big blue optics, dulled with depression.
“My cooking is not that terrible.” As if to prove this, the bike stuffs the laden fork into her own intake, chews a bit, swallows. “It’s not half bad. Really. I only burnt it a little bit and I scraped off all the singed bits.”
“Your cooking is fine, Chromia. I’m just not hungry, okay.”
“You haven’t consumed anything in–”
“I know. I’m sorry. This is me, not you. I never mean to make you feel punished.”
“Please eat it. Just eat some of it.”
“No, thank you.”
“Your medication will drain your system resources. You’re already so tired today. Ratchet said you need the fuel.”
“Then pour me a strong drink and toss some Energon crystal sprinkles on top for nutrition.”
“Leave the strong drinks to me. I need them, not you.”
“I know I’m being a pain in your aft right now. I really don’t do it on purpose.”
“I love you, thus I will endure it.”
“The drink wouldn’t hurt.”
“Perhaps not, but you tend to try getting fresh when you’ve had a few.”
“Because you’re extra handsome when I’m tipsy and I trust you to take care of me.”
“Which is exactly what I’m trying to do.” Chromia stabs the fork into the iron filing casserole again, then jabs the laden fork at Windblade’s tightly drawn dermas. “Eat, dammit.”
“You know what I’d really like to eat, right now?”
“Do not say my spike.”
“Your spi–”
The bike neatly inserts the fork within the Cityspeaker’s intake.
Windblade huffs, but as the fork withdraws, she does not spit anything out. She chews, wincing a little, and eventually swallows.
“Not so bad, right?”
“It’s made with love. That makes it the tastiest thing ever. Except for your spike. Nothing tastes better than that.”
“Good answer.” Chromia presents another forkful, prepared. “You’re going to eat at least half of what’s on this plate.”
“Can I eat your spike, after? For dessert.”
“And yet you say you have no appetite.”
“Different appetite. You know me, you know what I'm like.”
“You are truly the worst.”
“Damn right I am. And I’m always hungry for some spi–”
The bike smiles mildly as she sneaks another forkful into the distracted Cityspeaker's intake.
“Where do you go, when you leave my company?”
Ravage turns back, hisses once, and makes his escape on silent paws. He will not be distracted.
Soundwave has some time to kill, some boredom to cure after another long day of being the best Decepticon. After all, his face plate inspired the Deceptibrand’s design. He shrugs, and follows. “Alright, then. Show me.” The door locks automatically behind himself as he swaggers after his feline friend. “Slow down. Why the rush?”
The cybercat trots ahead with determination to get somewhere specific at a certain time each day.
“Hey. Don’t pretend you didn’t understand what I just said.”
“People are staring.”
“Let ’em! If they’re making you feel uncomfortable, I’ll pull funny faces at them and stare right back. It works!”
Ariel flushes, but chuckles at that, seated across the table from Arcee.
“There’s a sort of refuge in audacity. I stopped caring about what some strangers might think of me when I realised I’m just a little too much, and I embraced that. I’m not hurting anyone, so what’s the harm in just being myself?”
“You misunderstand me. I couldn’t give a frag what people think about me. I dislike people and they generally dislike me, I already know that and I accept it just fine. That’s not why their stares bother me.”
The smaller femme tilts her helm, gazing up at her dinner date for the evening.
“I’m gonna put it bluntly, here.”
“Okay, go for it.”
“I am way, way too old for you. That’s what those fraggers are thinking.”
“Oh? Y’know, I hadn’t considered the age gap.”
“Yeah, well, neither does Windblade, so.”
Arcee quirks an optic ridge, smirking. “She’s a flirt, that one. Quite dangerous. I love her to bits.”
“Orion would flip his scrap if I, uh…” Ariel flushes, the sensory spires atop her helm lending her a queenly appearance as she bows her helm shyly. “Y’know, with one of Bee’s friends.”
“Bee’s best friend, no less.”
“Right. I’m in trouble.”
“Oh, Windblade can be a bit intimidating, but she’s really sweet when she eases up a little. If you’re not interested, just let her know and she’ll back right off. No harm done.”
“Yeah, I get that, but… I kinda like the attention.”
“Oh! I see.”
“I don’t mean to encourage her. But I dunno if I wanna discourage her, either.”
“Well, you gave her flowers, sweet Spark. And not just any old Cybertronian flowers. You grow those organics yourself, it’s a gift she just won’t get from anyone else. That might’ve seemed a bit encouraging.”
“Goddit.” Ariel sighs heavily, sagging in her chair. “I’ve gone and done it, now.”
Arcee finds her date’s large, scuffed servo upon the table and squeezes.
“Oh, is he yours?” Hot Rod is gorgeous, especially when he smiles.
“I had hoped so. I assumed he must be yours, since he led me to your door.”
“Nah, I doubt it. Little guy just likes a bit of company and some chow. Huh, kitty?”
“Then we have both been taken advantage of.” Soundwave chuckles musically.
“Can’t blame him. World’s tough on strays.”
“Clever creature. I admire his tactics.”
Ravage hisses, feline optics sharp and mean, even as he rubs himself against Hot Rod’s ankle joint, tail lifted and quivering. The sleek black cybercat then crosses over the short distance to rub against Soundwave’s ankle joint, hissing again, as if inconvenienced terribly with this affection. A bowl of partially consumed Energon kibble is momentarily disregarded. These idiot mechs need to be reassured that they are both equally tolerable in the cybercat’s opinion, so long as the food is good and there are comfy places to nap and nobody gets any dumb ideas about a forever home. The stray is not a pet, not any more. He is far too clever for that. He does not trust so easily. He has been mistreated too many times. These mechs seem kind, but mechs are not to be loved, only used.
“Yup.” Hot Rod smiles handsomely, optics downcast, watching the feline’s performance. “He’s a character.”
“Ravage,” Soundwave intones musically, “I do hope you’ve not scratched him to ribbons, as you’ve scratched me.”
Another hiss answers that, baring fangs.
“Ha! He’s had a real go at me. Check it.” One mech holds out his arms, littered with nasty scratches. “I tried to give him a bath, y’know, so he’d stop stinking of garbage. Bad idea.”
“Indeed. I, too, tried it.” Another mech extends his wounded arms with a melodic chuckle. “I always considered myself a natural with animals. Not this one, apparently.”
“The name Ravage suits him, huh.”
“He would not answer to anything remotely cute.”
The cybercat hisses once more, then goes back to devouring his meal.
Hot Rod and Soundwave watch Ravage for some moments, then turn to gaze at one another quite naturally, without any tension despite the Deceptibrand.
“You, uh… wanna come inside? It’s getting late. Guy shouldn’t be walking around when it gets dark.”
“Then I ought to be going. I’d hate to impose and time waits for no mech. You concern is cute, though. I can take care of myself.”
“I got snacks and video games if you wanna chill. I could use the company, and if Ravage likes you, I guess you gotta be solid. You seem really cool all the time, like, at the parties and stuff.”
“Surely you know me.”
“I’ve seen you around, since you’re usually the guy with the music and you dance like a total pro. But we’ve never really, like, talked? Always wanted to, though!”
“Unacceptable. Allow me.” A servo is held out. “I’m Soundwave.”
“Hi!” The servo is accepted eagerly, initiating a firm, masculine shake. “Name’s Hot Rod. But my friends call me Rod. Or, uh, Hot. Sometimes.”
“…Hot.”
“That’s me!”
“…Charmed.”
“Sweet! So, like, you coming in?”
“Yes.” Soundwave squeezes Hot Rod’s servo, then releases and saunters past him, brushing their frames together in a manner that is undeniably flirtatious, aft swaying more than is strictly necessary. “I’m in a sociable mood this evening. Lucky you.”
“Damn,” the fiery mech mutters, optics following the Decepticon, who easily makes himself at home within the habitation suite without needing a host. “Nice. Kitty, I owe you one.”
Ravage hisses.
“You said there’d be snacks?” croons Soundwave from within.
Jerked back into awareness, Hot Rod grins and hurries inside his own home. “Dude, I got so many snacks, you won’t believe.” The door is left a little ajar, specifically for the cybercat.
Ravage rolls his optics, licking Energon residue off of his muzzle. Truly, mechs are so tiresome, but he supposes two laps are better than one. Food finished, the stray goes inside to escape the chill of the end of day. No sooner has he set a paw through the door, Soundwave is poised to capture this moment, taking another picture with his visor whilst accepting a drink from Hot Rod, who laughs adorably at something he says. The cybercat hisses at them both to hurry up and sit down so he can have his choice of lap.
Megatron dines alone.
“You’re such an old lady,” Thunderblast mutters as Shadow Striker scrolls through a fresh batch of pictures of Ravage, Soundwave’s tentative new cat, a stray he has been attempting to adopt to some success, documenting their journey thus far and sending it to his best friend. “Primus. You wanna be a baddie, but turns out you’re a crazy cat lady.”
“Not too old to catch you and bend you over my knee. Cheeky glitch.”
“Unfortunately for you, but lucky for me, I just so happen to like spankings.”
“Me, too.” Demolishor smiles when Slipstream gives him a sidelong look. “It’s just always been hard to find a guy willing to spank me. I’m kinda intimidating, I guess.”
“Oh. That’s…” The femme with a preference for femmes awkwardly pats the mech with a preference for mechs lightly on his arm in consolation. “I’m sorry to hear that?”
“Solidarity vibes,” intones Flamewar. “We’re such a great team.”
“We’re totes gonna get you into online dating, sweetie.” Thunderblast is polishing her digits again. “I’ll sit with you and set up an account and a profile page, something that really catches a guy’s optic. We’ll get you a hunky mech willing and able to spank that aft, on my honour.”
“Hey.” Flamewar scratches her chin, thoughtful. “We should spank each other. Like, make it a thing we do. I think that’d be great for unit morale.”
“Little freak.”
“You like it, dreamboat.”
“Mmhm!”
“Oh, look at that,” Shadow Striker coos, settling on a rather shaky, partially blurred picture of Ravage in the process of savaging Soundwave’s servo and forearm, captured during the foolish errand of attempting a belly rub, fangs and claws sunk into his shell. “Isn’t that the cutest little monster you’ve ever seen. I love him. I would die and kill for this cybercat.”
Thunderblast rolls her optics and Slipstream giggles.
And so with the final communial ration of the evening, another day in the Pits draws to a close and Cybertron yet burns above.
“Nah, I’ve had enough. You guys keep going without me.” Bumblebee pushes his empty cup aside, yawning into a fist. “I’mma head over to Windblade and Chromia’s, check in with the girls, then get a little sleep. Might stay overnight, have some cuddle time if they’re in the mood.”
Grimlock smiles fondly down at the smaller mech, ruffling his helm, pinching his sensory spires shaped like small curved horns. “That sounds splendid, my friend. Do give them my very best.”
“Will do, Grim.”
“Yeah, and mine too,” adds Clobber, rubbing at the Deceptibrand that chafes. “I like them a lot, they’re really nice. Windblade is extra nice.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah! She’s always so friendly with me and she laughs at my jokes, and not just my best jokes, but like, all of them. Even my bad jokes.”
“That’s because she’s flirting with you,” Bumblebee says gently, chuckling as Clobber’s singular optic widens.
“What, really?”
“Yeah, she thinks you’re cute.”
“She’s right,” contributes Lockdown, his grisly countenance softened with a handsome grin as he throws a burly arm about his best friend’s huge pauldrons. “You are cute!”
Clobber’s disbelief morphs into delight. “Yay! I’m cute!” She cups her cheeks within her pincers and giggles girlishly. “Wow! I’ve never been cute before.”
“Nah, you’ve always been cute, Clobber.”
“Aw, Lockdown, thanks! I love you.”
“Love you, too.”
The Decepticons embrace within their half of the booth, taking up a lot of space, seated opposite Bumblebee and Grimlock.
“Bless them. They are so precious.”
“Yeah, they’re good people. Gimme kiss.”
Grimlock bends a bit to peck Bumblebee’s cheek. “Stay safe out there, scout. Call me when you get indoors.”
“Sure thing, Grim.”
Clobber and Lockdown wave Bumblebee off.
“See ya!”
“Have a good night!”
“You too!” Bumblebee waves back at then, winks at Grimlock, salutes Maccadam, and then walks facefirst into a bigger frame with a grunt of impact. “Oof!”
“Watch it.”
“Oh, sorry! Clumsy me!” He smiles up at the femme, and then feels his inner Energon freeze within his fuel lines.
Roulette pays him rather less mind, stepping around the frozen little mech as he dumbly stares after her.
“H-hey, wait!”
She glares back at him through her lowered visor. “What.”
“Sorry! Would you just, um, humour me for a second?”
“Maybe.”
“Uh, could you remove the… uh, like, the thing covering your optics? Please.”
She sighs, but patiently reaches for the mechanism, retracting her visor and thus baring her optics, normally kept hidden behind the scrolling data readout and tinted crystal lens, granting her improved accuracy, reaction time, comfort in differing light conditions, and discretion.
“No way.” He gawks, letting out a shaky little laugh. “You look just like someone I know.”
She grimaces.
“Yeah! Same face, same optics! Well, she’s got that scope. And your colour scheme is totally different from hers. And you don’t scowl quite as much. But if you guys stood next to each other, you’d look like twins! That’s just so uncanny. You got a sister, by any chance?”
The femme he has never met before promptly returns her visor, turns stiffly, and departs from him with a soft huff.
“Sorry! I wasn’t meaning to be weird,” he calls after her, wincing. “Uh, have a nice night!” Deflates, shaking his helm. “Aw, Bee, you blew it. Who even does that?”
“Something strong, please,” Roulette tells Maccadam at the bar. “Don’t care what it tastes like.”
Bumblebee leaves the old oil house with a backwards glance and a soft, sad sigh.
“I am the chosen one. Jetfire chose me. Megatron chose me. And I feel a cosmic pull, a greater destiny yet to manifest itself, through me. I am special. I am… worthy.”
Skywarp says nothing. She just looks very confused and concerned, remaining very still whilst Starscream strokes her helm, cradling her cheek to his chest. He fathers her a little bit, as much a father as he can be to any of his Seekers, because she lives by his will, exists due to his wish – all he needed was some help to fulfil his ambitions, and she is the living embodiment of that.
“I should be honoured, loved, obeyed.”
She gazes up at him. Chirps quietly and gets a little kiss on the brow for her trouble.
“Hush, little one.” His cheeks tremble, his vents hitch. He stares into space, optics seared over, and runs his digits back and forth over her bowed helm. He gets like this, sometimes, and none of them know why. None of them can help him. He is surrounded by allies, yet so very alone in the world. “It will be alright.”
Notes:
Someone please give Starscream a hug and the number for a really good therapist, he just wants to feel loved like a jealous god - where's the harm in that?
Anyway, this somewhat messy chapter should pave the way nicely for things to escalate. Thanks for reading!
Chapter 34: Confession**
Summary:
In the months that follow, the Functionist Council prove effective, at once serving Sentinel's purposes and disturbing him. Megatron finally begins to panic, as the Functionist Council is a rather different collective from the prior High Council, and his Decepticons are under threat. Hot Rod and Soundwave have entered into an exciting new relationship, attempting to adopt Ravage, the cybercat yet traumatised and distrustful, feral. Orion Pax and Ariel are horrified by the things Sentinel will permit, and yet the wisest of them all, ancient Alpha Trion, simply allows these things to happen. Healed sufficiently for physical activity, Windblade trains Ariel in close combat and meditation, with Chromia providing a lesson of her own. A Functionist preacher interrupts Megatron's speech, leading Starscream to do something embarrassing and Empress to do damage control with her strange sphere of influence over others whilst the loving couple unravel. Knock Out, a happily married mech, gives Starscream comfort and encouragement. Over at Maccadam's place, Roulette and Shadow Striker meet up, as they rarely do these days. Starscream challenges Empress and wins. Bumblebee is pinned to a wall by Shadow Striker.
Notes:
Please be prepared for a time skip of some months, I want to pick up the pace a bit so I can get to the exciting stuff.
Featured sex scene:
-Bumblebee/Shadow Striker (femme dominant, bigger femme, smaller mech, size difference, strength difference, rough sex, penetrative sex, spike, valve, little guy spikes scary lady, risky sex, violent undertones, man used for woman's pleasure, man just happy to be along for the ride, she does all the work and he just takes it, objectification, toy, aggressive, passionate, sweat, licking, kissing, paint transfers, noisy, dirty talk, he inadverdently says something she isn't emotionally ready to hear, sex concludes prematurely, sore and sad aftermath).
-Starscream/Megatron (smaller mech serviced by bigger mech, on knees, seated, on a table, oral sex, cunnilingus, praise, presence of food and alcohol, smug, victorious).
Chapter Text
Over the months that follow, Sentinel’s Functionist Council bears fruit. Not all of it tastes rotten to him. He must make compromises to save himself and renew Cybertron, for he is the hero of his own story – all he needs to do is prove it to everyone else. But how much more can he sacrifice? He does not know where the limit should be. Desperate times call for desperate measures. This arrangement goes further than the Senate had dared to go before, preferring to keep the Functionists at a safe distance, and it is a gambit that works out better than Sentinel had ever hoped. He is miserable, but succeeding to even out the playing field. He is now a credible threat.
Orion speaks of tolerance and second chances, Ariel grows restless and harsh in her alienation among her own people, and Alpha Trion applies his Quill to his secret records with the patience of a mech who knows too much but cannot say.
Sentinel’s name rings out to the people with the name of Primus in tow, and so approval ratings soar as more are persuaded to ally themselves. Thus lost Sparks fall into the loving arms of the Functionist half of this union, to be scooped up and held tight in obedience to their translation of Primus’ will, the purity of form and function, the acceptance of classes varying in empowerment and fortune based on occupation in turn dependent on alt-mode presumably unchanging, although there are ways available to those with the means to obtain such surgeries. His secular half gathers aid from those with useful skills and a willingness to work hard for little worldly reward, comforted by the notion that law and order must be restored to the way it was before the great upheaval, with perhaps a few improvements to make life easier and society kinder. Rich mechs and femmes who have not yet fled Cybertron for the colony words tend to sponsor the Functionist Council, with the expectation that the status quo shall be restored, as the rich and powerful benefit from both the faithful and the secular, in some way or other, and that is why such things are permitted to exist.
Megatron finally begins to panic. He had largely dismissed the High Council, as their defeat had seemed inevitable, but that High Council is gone now. The Decepticons are challenged upon the streets, less so by the incompetent police, and more so by the increasingly daring believers. The difference in brute strength had been accounted for through the elite guard in attendance, for a time, and now the Functionists are defended and enforced by the creatively named Functionaries. Decepticons are getting hurt and morale is taking a dive. Megatron tries not to show it, but Starscream senses weakness in him.
“My love.”
“Star.”
They have been drawn together, and they have drifted apart, so many times these past months that this is the gossip of many Decepticons, particularly when the couple’s increasingly frequent disagreements are not always kept behind closed doors. The tenderness, giving way increasingly to the turbulent. Starscream drives Megatron to wrath, and Megatron drives Starscream to fear.
“Do you need to rehearse your speech once more?”
“If you do not mind.”
“Of course not.” Starscream sits gracefully upon Megatron’s lap, kissing his deeply engraved lines of stress and age. “I am here for you.”
The old gladiator smiles softly.
The Captain brushes a digit over that soft smile.
“Be critical of me. Do not be kind.”
“As you wish, my love.”
“Hey. Be nice.”
Ravage hisses, then returns to licking his foreleg, offended.
“Let me love you,” Hot Rod intones with desperation, bleeding from fresh cuts in his cheek cleaved upon him by claws. “I just wanna be your dad for five minutes, then I gotta go to work. Please.”
The grouchy cybercat ignores this comment, sat upon the rug, licking the stink of mech off of his sleek coat, licking his claws clean of fresh inner Energon.
“Well, fine. I love you anyway.”
Another hiss.
Hot Rod makes smooching noises in retaliation.
Ravage looks disgusted.
Soundwave smiles behind his mask. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Yeah? You want some too?”
“Fine. Come here.”
The fiery mech giggles as he falls into the Decepticon’s arms, peppering his mask with noisy kisses under the light of a viewing port.
It is a beautiful, bright morning.
“This is barbaric,” Orion protests, but Sentinel swings out an arm and holds the other mech back.
“Leave it.”
“We cannot!”
“It sends a message.”
“She is unmarked! She is not a Decepticon!”
“She’s on her way to becoming one, with the way she’s talking. All the same slogans. Besides, she interrupted my speech. That irks me.”
The femme scrambles backward to escape the gleaming steps of the advancing Functionaries, led by a faceless mech who preaches love and forgiveness if only she opens her Spark to Primus. Onlookers are persuaded to repent, so moved by the display, or shrink away in meek fear, unwilling to accept chastisement. None rise to help her.
“This is not the way,” Orion intones, shoving his way past Sentinel, only to be yanked back by the collar.
“Now, you listen to me, old friend. I am winning. Soon as I’ve got Megatron rotting away in a cell somewhere, I’ll dump these zealots and go secular. I’ll listen to all your peaceful proposals then.”
“Sentinel, release me.”
“Your job is not to be the hero. That’s my job.” A digit prods a chassis as words are hissed into an audial. “Your job, old friend, is to stand with me and form a united front at my side, looking like the patient father figure everybody craves whilst doing it. Alpha Trion is too damn old and Ariel is too damn alien to stand with me. You’re all I’ve got right now. Understand me? I need you.”
Gentle and slow to anger, Orion would still shove Sentinel off, except the words he just spoke sounded so scared.
“Please.”
Windblade sweeps a heel over the polished metallic tiles as she gracefully adapts her meditative stance, arm extended and palm splayed, spinal strut arching with the redistribution of her weight. She has said absolutely nothing for some time, seemingly at peace within herself when she practices as she was taught to do. And now, she passes on those teachings.
Ariel does her best to copy her instructor and memorise the motions, getting better at it with every lesson. The bitterness that is within her finds some respite in exercise as emotional and mental stresses are redirected into physical exertion.
Chromia sometimes observes them. She can plainly see the gap in endurance and overall fitness between the other femmes, but also the difference in motivation and temperament.
Windblade is perfectly composed and not at all flushed or sweaty, achieving a calm state of mind in harmony with her body, finding comfort in this routine, this performative art with deadly applications when applied swiftly and decisively in a fight.
Ariel, however, drips with perspired coolant and is flushed with exertion after a couple of hours of this intensive practice. She works out hard, takes it as far as she can, and her pink shell trembles in places with the strain of contorting her large, heavy frame in ways it has never bent before, slowly and under strict control.
“May I make a suggestion?” Chromia interjects gently. Normally she would not dare to interrupt them.
Windblade revives with a loving smile. “Of course.”
Ariel glances aside, grunting.
“I think I should take over.”
“Oooh! You wanna teach?”
“For a little while, yes.”
“You’re in for a treat, Ariel.” Windblade breaks her stance with a little stretch and a sigh. “Chromia is a wonderful instructor. Best sparring partner ever, too.”
Ariel sags where she stands, panting.
“Do you need a break?” Chromia asks gruffly, but not disrespectfully.
“Nah, I’m good.”
“Windblade is the most ferocious femme in a fight.” The tall, powerful bike strides into place, standing before the Councillor as the Cityspeaker steps back. “But your frames are vastly different. I think my combat style is more suited to your size and shape.”
“Show her how it’s done, Chromia!”
“I intend to.”
That said, Windblade bows deeply, grinning.
Ariel bows in return, as she was taught to do. She turns to repeat this bow to her new instructor.
Chromia merely inclines her helm as a mark of respect. Although she can be rigid and formal, she was never one for too much ceremony. “Shall we begin?”
“Yeah. Go for it.”
Whereas Windblade had moved with the flow of air, Chromia seamlessly assumes a very different stance, demonstrating stability and fortitude, rooted in place like the ground beneath her heavy pedes planted firmly apart, pauldrons squared and fists clenched. She will not be moved unless she permits it. She is like her shield, embodied.
Ariel copies that stance and exhales. “Okay, this does feel more my speed.”
“You both look so strong!” Windblade is delighted on the periphery. “And tough, and handsome, and need I go on?”
Chromia actually winks aside at her best friend, then refocuses on Ariel.
“Don’t make me look too bad in front of the lady, yeah?”
“I make no promises to that effect.”
“For every shape, a purpose!” a voice cries out, emanating from a tall, slender femme bedecked in consecrated vestments as ornamental kibble, wading through the crowd. She is flanked on either side by huge enforcers in holy armour, bearing holy armaments, forcing the sea of helms and pauldrons to part way for her safe passage. None dare touch her, for fear of incurring the Functionaries’ divine violence.
Megatron is stood upon his stage, a huge Deceptibrand projected behind himself in hologram. “You are interrupting my speech,” he rumbles, distinctly irritated.
“Do not interrupt his speech!” Starscream caws, shrill and sassy.
“He speaks lies!” the preacher proclaims to the onlooking civilians upon reaching the stage. “Deception!” She points dramatically upward. “Decepticon!”
“Oh, yes, very clever.” Soundwave rubs his brows. “Haven’t heard that one before.”
“Big mech finally lets me out of the underground, then they show up. We could be stuck here at a stand-off for hours. Great.” Shadow Striker folds her arms and huffs. “I just wanna get this over with and go. Why are we even here, anyway? We’re just standing around.”
“To make him look good, of course. Like a united front, like we know what we’re doing. Why else?”
“Ha! As if. Whatever. I’m gonna hit up Mac’s after this. You in?”
“Of course.”
The best friends fist-bump behind Megatron, who is rather distracted by the invading Functionists.
“Bring your boyfriend.”
“He is not my boyfriend.”
“You’re raising a cybercat together. That’s boyfriend material right there.”
“Ravage prefers to keep his options open. We facilitate. I told you.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Help me up,” the preacher barks to an enforcer, one of her appointed Functionaries, who scoops her up and sets her delicately upon the stage with knightly grace and reverence. “You!”
“Do not touch me.”
“You dare to deny the will of Primus!”
“His will, according to you.”
“People! Do not fall to discontent in your own construction! Do not be swayed by vanity that would have you defy your design! You are beautiful as you are, your role in this life is sacred, no matter how humble! His poison only brings destruction of the social order that allows us to live in peace! His way is war!”
Megatron bares his dentas when that jabbing digit gets very close to touching him.
“Glitch is gonna get it,” Shadow Striker hisses aside, with some excitement. “I hope he pops off on her. That’d be fun to watch.”
“Until her thugs gun us down,” Soundwave croons.
“We got our own guns. I’ll keep you safe, toots.”
“Thank you. I feel so much better, now.”
The best friends fist-bump again.
“But it would be unwise of him. You know what they’re like. They’d only weaponise it. He knows that, too. He doesn’t intend to give them the ammunition to use against him. He must play nice.”
“He’s gonna explode eventually, anyway. Mech’s just full of anger. These dumbafts forgot what happened to the Senate. I say we remind them.”
“By blowing up the Council chambers? Never gonna happen. His friends are in there.”
“Bah! It’d solve all his problems. My team’s ready and waiting, but we’re going to waste underground. He’s got us doing smuggling routes to supply the lot, when we’re supposed to–”
The Functionist reaches up and neatly slaps Megatron across the cheek, taking offence to something he just said to her.
“Oh, no! She didn’t.”
“Oh, yes. She did.”
Megatron would not normally hit a femme.
However, Starscream has no such compunctions.
The preacher stumbles back as the Seeker Captain strikes her neatly across the face.
The Functionaries raise their weapons.
The Decepticons raise theirs.
“Cease!” cries the preacher.
“Enough!” bellows Megatron.
Both sides hold their fire.
“Starscream!”
“What?! She asked for that!”
“Do not stoop to her level!”
“She started it!”
“You struck me, heathen!”
“Yes, I did, glitch! And I’ll do it again!”
The preacher answers that with a slap. “Repent!”
Starscream shrieks and, true to his word, retaliates with a slap.
What proceeds is the battle of the slaps, here upon a stage in Iacon City, capital of Cybertron, before a befuddled audience.
Shadow Striker giggles in her sinister way, accompanied by Soundwave’s synthesised chuckling.
The present Seekers begin to cheer on their Captain.
Shockwave watches through his drone, shaking his helm from his place beside Acid Storm, whose own helm hits their desk with a thud as the broadcast upon the holoscreen shows Starscream being picked up and pulled away by Megatron whilst the preacher screams damnation upon the Decepticon cause.
Empress smiles as she steps forth, palms raised. “Okay, let’s just calm ourselves down, please.”
The preacher chokes on her own vents, clutching her chassis as if in struggle, only to suddenly sag in place and become eerily serene.
“There. That feels better, doesn’t it.”
“Yes, I… I do feel the need to sit down.”
“Please, dear, allow me.” The gladiator offers a huge servo for the preacher to shakily accept, helping her step off the stage.
The attending Functionaries glare suspiciously at Empress, yet when she she directs her smile upon them, she invisibly forces the armoured mechs to take a wary step back.
Starscream sulks in Megatron’s arms.
Empress murmurs something to the Functionist ensemble and sends them away with a little wave. “Have a nice day, dears.”
“How does she do that,” Shadow Striker mutters to Soundwave, who shrugs. “Spooky, bigaft glitch. It’s not natural. Kinda bad, though.”
“She has her ways.”
“Thank you, Empress,” Megatron intones whilst lovingly stroking Starscream’s flushed cheek, where he was repeatedly struck.
“Happy to help, darling. Oh, dear, that looks painful. Are you quite alright, Captain?”
“I’m just fine, thank you very much!”
“Star. We will speak of this later.”
“Oh, whatever! I don’t regret defending you, from the likes of those!”
Megatron sighs and returns to his audience, who are all quite confused at this point. “Good people of Cybertron, I must apologise…”
Empress simpers over Starscream in some imitation of maternal concern, tenderly agitating him until he glares up at her, smiling down on him.
“Did you two finish your share of the work?” Demolishor grumbles, assuming command in Shadow Striker’s absence as the most senior and experienced Decepticon present aside from herself. “You’d better not be messing around, or it’s going in the report.”
“Yup,” Flamewar answers casually, rudely slumped over a campaign of Dead-Dark-Drone using the rig Thunderblast blew the budget to get as a gift. Shadow Striker could not really get mad about it.
“Sweetie, would you relax? I’m on top of scrap. Chill, daddy.”
“That’s Sir, to you. Shadow Striker left me in charge, remember? Are you even listening to me? Of course not.”
Thunderblast makes her move.
Flamewar giggle-snorts.
“What?”
“Bad play.”
“Hey! I’m playing really well!”
“You’re gonna lose again.”
“Well, that’s just, like, your opinion!”
“Wanna bet chores on it? Beat me after all, and I'll take your next three shifts to scrub out the shower block. Lose, and you get mine.”
“You are so on, glitch.”
Demolishor sighs, then lumbers off. “I’m gonna go check in with Slipstream. You two behave yourselves.”
“Yes, Sir!” the femmes chorus teasingly after him.
He shakes his helm, smiling when they cannot see him.
“Are you alright, my love?” Megatron rumbles, as Empress takes over and placates the crowd, allowing him to step aside with his sulking second-in-command where the crowd will not observe them.
Starscream does not answer immediately. “I’m more wounded by your disapproval than her abuse. I defended you, and yet you tell me off in front of everyone.”
“I do not need defending. You demeaned yourself. You are better than that. Do not stoop to their level, not even on my account.”
“I love you. I will do what I feel is right for you.”
“Star. You embarrassed me.”
Starscream turns his helm away, flinching.
“We have been over this. You keep doing these… things. All the plans I have for you, for yours is the Spark of a conqueror, and yet…”
“Are you having second thoughts about us, again?”
“Star.”
“I really wish you would just make up your mind. The fear that you might fall out of love with me someday, is surely killing me. Your favour is so fickle, to turn sour like this so soon, so sudden.”
“Do not say that. How dare you say that.”
“I cannot help being who I am. I am provocative and proud. Your conqueror cannot cower from the public eye. And yet you are growing increasingly ashamed of me.”
“I chose you. I will always choose you.” The old gladiator brushes a thumb over the Captain’s flushed cheek, visibly hurt. “This is my promise to you. How could you ever doubt my word?”
“I am upset. Leave me be.”
“I am not ashamed, I am merely begging you to moderate your conduct and–”
“Go away.”
“Fine. We will speak more, later.”
“Later, then!”
Megatron pulls Starscream into a hug, kissing his wounded cheek.
“Begone, you beautiful brute.”
“Brute? That is how I am, that is the mech you see me as?”
“Sometimes.”
“How many times must I apologise to you? How often shall I kneel with my guts spilled in my palms to present to you the truth of my guilt? I am sorry. You do not realise this, but your words do damage to me, Star. And you never apologise for that.”
The Captain shivers at the heat that radiates from the leader of the Decepticons.
“To treat me like a monster, after all I have done for you and your Seekers. It breaks me, Star. I did not think I could break like this again, but here I am, broken before you. These few months are all it has taken, for you to dismantle me. Is this not proof that I love you?”
Starscream turns again and cringes as a scoff brushes against the back of his neck.
“And you won’t even look at me.”
“You must finish your speech. Before she steals all your glory.”
Megatron exhales harshly, then strides back onto the stage to stand beside Empress, dismissing her.
Slipstream stands at the edge of the mercury, looking down. She is guarding this point of weakness in body, but her mind is elsewhere.
“Careful,” Demolishor says as he approaches her from behind, movements heavy and stiff, ponderous and loud. His ancient body has been retrofitted for active service, but the parts that supply his frame are no longer in production. He jokes that he is not so much himself any more, relying on alternative replacements to all the little things that inevitably wear down and break.
She is not startled, as she heard him coming a while back and senses a friendliness to his radiating field, which she answers with some melancholy.
“Fall in there and you’ll sink without a trace, dry to the touch even as you hit the bottom. They say it’s a silent death, since they can’t hear your screams from the surface.”
“It’s amazing that Thunderblast can swim in something so lethal.”
“You can fly, but a great enough fall would shatter me to bits.”
“I suppose.”
“When you think about it, Megatron got most of our weaknesses accounted for with each other’s strengths. He assembled quite the team.”
“Yeah. And yet he hardly utilises us.”
“I think he’s got us on reserve, just in case. He doesn’t wanna have to send us out there to do more dirty work. He’s a good mech, old Megatron.”
“Maybe so.”
“Though, I suspect he assigned me down here because he’s not sure I’ll keep ticking long enough to repay him for all he’s done for me. He’s keeping me outta the way.”
“Don’t say that.”
Demolishor stands beside Slipstream, so much bigger, and she is already big.
“I’m sure you’ll prove yourself just as strong as you’ve ever been.”
“Thank you.” His hollow tubes find her digits, capturing her servo within his own. “I really needed to hear that.”
“I cannot ever seem to do anything right to please you any more,” Starscream spits at Megatron’s back plates, uncaring of whoever overhears within the base. “You told me you wanted to talk about my unacceptable conduct, why do you retreat from me now! I demand you face me like a mech!” Just not in an enclosed space where one might feel entrapped and endangered.
“Star, I am tired and quite busy. We will discuss this later, when today’s work has been done.”
“You used to like spending time with me! Now you avoid me like the rust plague!”
“Only because you insist on repelling my advances.”
“How dare you!” The Captain sniffs delicately, wrapping himself within his own arms. “Fine, begone then! You’ll be back! You need me, my love!”
The old gladiator grabs a datapad from a random Decepticon too distracted to do anything but stare, perusing it. “Why are you doodling caricatures of myself when you ought to be reviewing – oh, actually, that is rather a good likeness. You have talent.”
“Oh, uh, thank you, Sir.”
Starscream storms off.
Megatron wants to weep, for he feels like such a monster.
“I demand a rematch.”
“Sore loser, eh.” Flamewar stretches and yawns. “Nah. You’re not very good at this game. No offence.”
“Fine. I’ll suck you off if you take back those extra shifts in the shower block.”
“Sloppy toppy is a good start, but you can get dirtier than that, dreamboat.”
“Wanna frag my tits and watch me lick myself off?”
“Dirtier.”
“Wow, okay. You like getting your pedes wet? I’ll let you step on my valve with those awful heel struts of yours, then stuff said struts down my throat if you promise to be gentle with my face. Leave a mark on me and you die, of course.”
“Step on me and make me eat your heel struts with the promise you won’t be gentle and it just might kill me, then it’s a fragging deal.”
“Deal.”
“Awesome, now we’re talkin’!”
“I just don’t know any more. We were so perfect together! He was all I’ve ever wanted, and I kept him satisfied! Our future seemed so bright! And now… I am at a loss, and he is strange to me.”
“He’s under a lot of stress, as are you. Relationships pass through bumpy roads.”
“Perhaps, though I notice that Breakdown treats you like royalty.”
“Of course! I trained him to.”
“It’s true.”
Starscream quirks an optic ridge at that, laid out on the gurney as if it were a recliner, and Knock out were a therapist.
Breakdown quietly busies himself in the background, cleaning the clinic. “I am very well-trained.”
“Yes you are, light of my life.”
The married couple of mechs exchange a wink.
“…Right.”
“Have you tried dating him like you used to? Remind him of what you’ve got, flaunt it. Seduce him all over again.”
“That is a splendid idea. He’s always busy, though. Always tired. Whenever I get the chance, I tend to just have my way with him, fulfil my bodily needs, and I know he needs it too, he needs me. Then, he falls asleep. Oh, I do miss how we used to talk and cuddle, before and after making love. I fear this will become routine, like a chore.”
“Well, as to the prior, the Functionist Council is putting up quite the fight. His life’s work is in jeopardy. As for the latter, he is rather, errm, old. His performance might not quite meet your expectations.” Knock Out holds a jar of something before his optics, peering closely at the contents, tapping a slender digit against the crystalline casing. “The honeymoon phase could be wearing off, and if that is the case, you’ll need to just accept the reality of who he is, and who you are, and do your best together. It is a bit grim, but that is life.”
“I came here because I want you to tell me nice, reassuring things, darling.” Starscream huffs at the bright light above. “Make me feel better. Don’t give me more reasons to overthink things.”
Breakdown tosses a look back at his Conjunx, who sighs softly in return.
“We’re going to beat them, I keep promising him that. He owes me the world and I will get what I am due. Also, I assure you, my lover may be a little grey in the shell, but he is as virile as a mech half his age. And quite supple.”
Knock Out tilts his gorgeous helm, tapping his chin with a scalpel, evidently picturing things within his mind’s optic. “Mmm.”
Breakdown chuckles softly to himself.
“And you know something? His behaviour took a peculiar turn the moment she turned up. It’s her doing, that wench.”
“Mmyes, about all that…”
“She’s insufferable, and yet he finds her charming. He tells me it’s some sort of kinship between them as gladiators, like that ought to explain it all away to my satisfaction.”
“Darling, I don’t mean to alarm you, I certainly did not wish to have to tell you this, but, uh…” Knock Out saunters on over, laying a delicate palm over Starscream’s pauldron, leaning over to peer softly down at him. “You do realise she’s after your mech. Right?”
“Yes, of course I do! It is plainly obvious to me!”
“Then why don’t you do something about it? Assert yourself! Being so pathetic is just not the Starscream I know!”
“Oh, Knock Out, you are absolutely right! I am pathetic. She makes me feel like I am dying. I cannot explain it. She just looks at me and everything I am, crumples inwards. I get squished.”
“Squished? Dying? I admit, she is strangely oppressive up close, but that’s just a little melodramatic, don’t you think. Come, now! You’re a strong, smart, suave Seeker, nay, you are their Captain, second-in-command to Megatron himself. Act like it, be a bad glitch, and mech the frag up!”
“Yes, but what can I do? She has already sunk her claws into him. I cannot seem to pry him free. We fight too often now. She keeps inserting herself in my place, spending time alone with him while I sulk.”
“There is your answer, silly! Clearly, you give her too much room!”
“You know…” Starscream scowls prettily. “You’re right. You’re always right. About everything.”
“Of course I am!” Knock Out juts out a hip and smiles. “I’m just that good.”
Breakdown grunts his agreement.
“Hey, sis.”
Roulette grunts softly as Shadow Striker falls into place beside her at the bar, with a kiss to the cheek and a crooked smile.
“Been a while. Missed you.”
“Yeah, well, we’re both busy.”
The old mercenary chuckles as the bounty hunter gives her Deceptibrand a wary look.
“I saw that disaster earlier. I saw you onstage, with that lot. I saw you with him.”
“Primus, that was funny. Scream is such a dumbaft and Megatron has had it.”
“I hope he pays well.”
“Sure does. I am losing some confidence in the struggle, though.”
“I would hope so.”
“Yeah. He’s already losing his touch. That Functionist Council scrap seems to be working. How sad is that, huh? Strike some fear in people and they fall to superstition to suspend their own disbelief, just like the old days.”
“It’s not too late to change sides.”
“C’mon, sis, where would I go, what would I do? It’s not like I can cozy on up with cops like you do, and I definitely won’t work for the Functionists in any capacity. Frag that.” Shadow Striker accepts her usual from Maccadam with a nod of thanks. “Besides, I can’t disappoint you any worse than I already have, so save your glitching, it’s just gonna ruin our little reunion tonight. I hardly get to see you any more.”
“I love you,” Roulette says quietly, grimacing. “I think of you all the time.”
“Love you too, sis.”
“Just stay safe.”
“Will do. Can’t get paid if I’m dead, now, can I?”
Soundwave keeps his distance, occupying himself with a crowd of mechs and femmes hopeful to get a piece of him, meanwhile he looks at Hot Rod, looking back. An upward tick of the helm invites approach and the handsome young mech all but falls out his seat and bounces over with a smile that can make the best Decepticon sweat.
“Hi!”
“Hey.”
Hot Rod tries to play it kinda cool when they are in public, keeping their tentative relationship something of a secret even from friends as per the other mech’s request for discretion, thus pretending he is just another hopeful guy eager for a chance. But no amount of acting can account for how he is a soft, silly mech at Spark, prone to flights of fancy and openly expressive of his affection for others, thus he cannot resist fluttering his shutters as he settles beside the outwardly aloof Soundwave.
“Long day?”
“Oh, so long! I could do with a dance, if you wanna?”
“I think that can be arranged.”
Bumblebee rolls his optics from his seat beside Windblade back at the booth.
“They’re kinda hot together,” she says. “I can dig it.”
“Yeah, but that guy is a jerk,” he replies. “Like, when he’s not dancing, I mean. Rod is way too sweet for someone like that.”
The friends already know about them, of course.
Bumblebee returns to gazing at Shadow Striker, beside Roulette.
“Hey, don’t let her bother you.”
“She didn’t even look my way.”
Windblade wraps an arm round Bumblebee, kissing his cheek, nuzzling him in her big sisterly way, always very protective of him. “Want me to go over there and beat her up for you? ’Cause I will.”
“I know you will, you total badaft, you.” He leans into her side and rests his helm on her pauldron, sighing. “Nah. It’s fine. I just might’ve caught a few feelings for her and I guess I thought she might wanna say hi. Been a bit, after all. She really seemed to like me back. Guess not.”
“Now I really wanna go over there and beat her up for you.”
“Please don’t, baddie.”
Laughter draws their collective gaze over to Hot Rod, who is letting loose to Soundwave’s beat, dancing with him within an entourage of other dancers, including a few new Seekers whose names are generally unknown, the next in Starscream’s line of mass-produced soldiers, still shiny from the production line.
“What do you think Slip would say?” Bumblebee murmurs sadly. “Because I don’t like the things I’m imagining she might say.”
Windblade can only sigh, shaking her helm.
Over at the bar, Shadow Striker turns back to smile at Soundwave, and in turn, steals another look at Bumblebee. Does she go on pretending like she does not think about him? Does she go on pretending like his gorgeous, sunny shade of eternally cheerful yellow is not driving her mad? She is a bad glitch, she is not the sort to miss a guy when she is gone.
He just so happens to glance her way again, and she knows he keeps doing it, he is not so subtle or sly. He realises she is looking too, catching her in the act, and this does surprise him. When he looks at her once more, he lingers, locking their gazes with a shy smile.
She hates herself so much for smiling back. She tears herself away and turns to her sister.
“Who is he?” Roulette enquires in her soft-spoken, gruff way.
“A fine piece of aft,” Shadow Striker replies coolly, flushed as she is.
“He’s cute enough.”
“You haven’t had a go with that fine aft.”
“Must be something special.”
“Don’t even start. He’s just some guy I might wanna frag again. You know I don’t do all that other stuff.”
“Your neck’s gonna seize up, the way you keep stealing stealthy looks his way. Surprised it took him so long to notice. Not very smart, is he?”
“Don’t gotta be clever when you’re cute enough.”
“Very true. Go and ask him to dance, then.”
“Don’t tell me what to do. I’ll ask him when I’m damn well good and ready. And it’ll be my idea, not yours. Afthole.”
“Oh, please.”
“Shuddup, sis.” Betraying herself, the mercenary glances back at the little yellow mech. “Frag me.”
The bounty hunter actually smiles.
Bumblebee feels a surge of encouragement. He is recalled after all, Shadow Striker does still notice him. He gets the notion she is trying to play it off like he does not bother her. He is right about one thing. Next to Roulette, they do look strikingly alike. “I’m thinking foolish thoughts, bestie.”
“Uh-oh.” Windblade lowers her painted face a bit, drawing close to her best friend’s cheek. “Any funny business on her side and I’mma beat her up for you. Trust.”
“Goddit.”
Shadow Striker curses Roulette, bumping pauldrons with her, then leaves her at the bar and saunters on over to the booth with a sultry scowl.
Bumblebee pretends to be inspecting his digits, the back of his servo.
“Hey, scrub.”
“Oh, hi, tough guy.”
Shadow Striker offers Windblade a respectful nod, and asks somewhat less respectfully, “How’s it humming?”
Windblade narrows her optics, but nods back. “It’s humming just fine, thanks.” She is in protective best friend mode. “Did you want something?”
“A dance.”
Bumblebee hums, as if thinking hard about it.
“Don’t tease me.” Shadow Striker licks her dermas. “You’ll get me riled up.”
“I might not mind that.”
“Damn. Alright.”
Windblade squeezes Bumblebee’s thigh under the counter as he kisses her cheek.
“Wanna join?”
“Nah. I’ll watch.”
“Hot.” Shadow Striker offers Bumblebee her servo, smirking.
He accepts and is pulled easily out of his seat, drawn into that bigger, stronger frame he knows so well. The scout meets the old mercenary’s headlights with a giggle and she exhales hot air over his forehelm.
“After this, take me back to your place. I’ve got a few hours to play.”
“You really don’t waste any time, do you?”
“Nope.”
“Maybe I want a little romance.”
“You won’t get that from me.”
That said, Bumblebee allows Shadow Striker to sweep him off his pedes to Soundwave’s beat.
Windblade feels a little turned on by that exchange. Her depression does nothing to kill her desire. She left Chromia in a puddle of passion back home, with snacks and a tall flute of high-grade and her favourite show on the holoscreen, taking a nap to recuperate. The urge to call Slipstream is strong, but it is too loud and distracting in here. The Cityspeaker has been making the effort these past months to make up for her prior impotence, her modesty panels not the only parts of herself that needed healing. She has been sure to call the Seeker every day since they parted ways, even if only to say I love you.
“Uh, hi.”
Lifted from the weight of these thoughts, Windblade smiles up at Clobber. “Hey, you. Wanna sit with me?”
“Yeah!”
The Cityspeaker’s optics twinkle as the enormous femme clumsily slides into the booth opposite, chassis bumping the counter with a sideways shuffling of the hip joints, bench sinking under the aft with a creak. A lot of bulk, a lot of weight. "Nice."
“Make love to me.”
Megatron and Empress both turn and stare at Starscream, suddenly standing there.
“I am yours, even if we sometimes do not come to a perfect understanding, even if we are not always in complete agreement. You are mine, no matter the friction. We are in love. We should make love.”
“…Okay…?”
“Star, we are eating.”
The Captain huffs. “Eat me, then. I will sate your appetite.”
The leader of the Decepticons flushes over his fork, glancing awkwardly across the table at the young gladiator who has dined with him on many occasions these past lonely months, and sensing his optics upon her, she remembers to smile her usual serenity with a feminine giggle.
“Oh, I can leave, if you two want some privacy.”
“Yes. Please do. I’d like to take my mech back. You’ve quite borrowed him enough.”
“Ooh, Captain, that tone. If I’d known this would make you jealous–”
“I am not jealous, darling.”
“You took a rather jealous tone, just now.”
“I know where I stand with him. Do you?”
Empress crushes Starscream alive, invisible.
He withstands her with a twitch in his cheek and a squirm in his Spark.
The motherly warmth in her placid smile fades a bit, the inviting curve of her soft dermas sharpening.
“...What is happening.”
“Just a little territorial dispute, my love, do not mind.”
“Dispute, dear?”
“Yes, you. Dispute.”
“I am being quite agreeable, Captain. You are the one with this surly disposition.”
“I’ll show you the nature of my disposition!”
Megatron gasps as Starscream pushes the plate and bottle of high-grade aside, sitting his shapely aft on the table with a backwards gaze at Empress, whose smile turns a little twisted.
“It is customary to take one’s seat in a chair, dear.”
“There is no other chair available. Shall I sit upon his lap instead? Would you prefer that?”
Empress sweeps her gaze along Starscream's curves. “You do look good like that.” She sounds irritated to admit it.
“Thank you, darling. Lock the door behind yourself on the way out, won’t you?” purrs the Captain, fluttering his shutters. “I have no desire for interruptions, or an audience. Sorry to disappoint.”
“Of course, dear,” murmurs the imposing femme, her honeyed undertone unusually gritty just then. “Have fun.”
“We shall.”
Their leader glances between them with confusion.
Empress takes a savage bite of her meal that shears off the prongs of her fork without her notice, making optic-contact as she chews the lot methodically, downs her drink to swallow it all down, then rises from her seat with a bow – Megatron recognises it as the bow of a gladiator greeting an opponent before the battle begins, a mark of respect, but she does it with a mocking exaggeration that is surely intended to irk Starscream.
“Aw, no need for all that. Run along, now. Toodles, sweetie!”
If looks could kill.
Bumblebee is lifted off the berth and swung around none to gently, thrown against the wall and pinned in place with a cry. He clings to Shadow Striker with his arms slung about her pauldrons and one leg hooked over her jostling hip, the other leg uselessly dangling above the floor, suspended, thigh quivering as he tenses against her thrusts.
She glares down at him, watches his flushed, slick face plate twist with anguish, her panting vents casting heat over his forehelm. Her valve clenches over his spike as he hits an interior node that has her whining, feminine.
He can sense she is close, again. Perhaps she really could frag him in half. Just his type of femme, really, although he enjoys gentle treatment too, mostly when he is with mechs. He is being used for her pleasure and he is built sturdily enough that he might survive this night.
She dominates him, does all the hard work, his body little more than a toy. She has clearly missed him and is making up for that, with the way she frags him with such aggressive passion, his back to the wall, her valve impaled upon his spike, her breastplate scraping slickly against his own. She stoops to compensate for their difference in size and licks the perspired coolant from his cheek, then clumsily kisses the casing of his audial. Her pauldrons, bosom and groin bear bright yellow paint transfers she will need to buffer out later.
He tries to say something, but the impacts of her thrusts send reverberations through his back strut, in turn causing a tremor throughout the wall of his habitation suite. A mounted holoposter is thus disturbed due to the commotion and falls to the floor with some noise, flickering.
“Huh?” She expects dirty talk. “Speak up, you hot little slag.”
“I missed you,” he moans, offering quite the opposite.
She stiffens around his spike, mutters a curse, and overloads with a spasmodic jerk against him, grimacing at the ceiling, then rippling impressively throughout her dark, sleek armoured plates as the charge rolls over her.
He overloads with her, dumping his transfluid within her, yelping at the almost painful intensity. His optics are shut and so he feels her pull him off the wall and carry him close against herself. She is so big and strong and he likes her, he likes this. He yelps again when she promptly dumps him on the berth, yanking herself off his spike as she does so. His optics flutter open, anticipating something kinky.
Instead, she gives him a strange look, then turns away, and proceeds to sulk with her sweaty spinal seam directed toward him, sitting her shapely aft on the very edge of the berth, helm in her palms that smell like him.
“…Shadow Striker?”
“Why.”
“…What?”
“Why’d you have to go and say that.”
Frowning softly with concern, he sits up, trembling and sore, and shuffles over to touch her back strut.
She sighs raggedly, muffled.
“…I’m sorry if I ruined the mood.”
“Whatever. Can I use your shower?”
“…Of course. Go ahead.”
She promptly shrugs off his touch, gets up with a huff, and staggers for the shower.
He hears the shutter slide into place, followed by a cascade of hot, fresh oil, muffled. Left behind, he contemplates joining her, but figures that she would probably react badly to feeling cornered in a tight space, after he went and said something so stupid in the heat of the moment, something he simply cannot take back. He spoke his truth.
It is getting late.
With Megatron on his knees until they ache, gunmetal helm clenched between shapely thighs that squeeze until his brain module rings, glossa swimming through slick mesh folds and digits buried deep within, words of worship and praise murmured wetly, Starscream reclines back on the table and sips from the bottle, laughter in his hooded gaze, scorn in the curl of his pretty dermas. The chosen one indeed.
Chapter 35: Revelation**
Summary:
Shadow Striker lets Slipstream know that Bumblebee and Windblade are surviving okay. The worst comes to pass in the lukewarm downpour of recycled oil. Shadow Striker is frightened, Slipstream is rejected, and words cannot be unsaid. Camien Windblade gets a taste of Functionist rhetoric from her privileged position. Retreating to the crazy but cute Flamewar for comfort, she accepts Slipstream in her damaged entirety. Goaded by Starscream, Megatron realises that he must do something he had hoped to avoid. Shadow Striker is suddenly unbearably nasty to everyone else around her, her worst character traits emphasised as she antagonises her fellow Decepticons, but they all know the prime target of her vitriol is the mild-mannered and respectful Slipstream and only Flamewar knows why. Ariel offers motherly comfort to the furious Windblade, alone together in the shower block to wash away the symptoms of their training. Sentinel seeks out Orion Pax in a moment of vulnerability.
Notes:
Just a gentle reminder - the previous chapter introduced a time skip of some months. The Functionist system has consumed the (Autobot) High Council, forming the Functionist Council as a system of faith in governance. Replacing the elite guard are the so-called Functionaries as enforcers of faith in action. Functionists via their missionaries safeguarded by attending Functionaries are clashing against the less organised Decepticons and dissenting unmarked civilians. If you have any questions or comments or constructive criticism, please feel free.
Featured sex scene:
-Slipstream/Flamewar (expressly making love, thinking about other women, spike, valve, penetrative, fingering with claws, fantasy about being pinned down/crushed, bigger femme tops smaller femme, risky sex, tender sex, praise, grinding, bouncing, breast squeezing, kissing, flier preening, taking turns being dominant and submissive regardless of top or bottom position, orgasm delay, orgasm on command, talk of death via sex, eye-contact, autoerotic asphyxiation, hugging, cuddling, aftercare, sleeping with spike inside valve).
-Orion/Sentinel (on a desk, handjob, fingering, oral sex, cunnilingus, fellatio, valve and spike, groping self, service top, needy bottom/bossy bottom, praise, reassurance, loving sex, tender sex, depressed sex)Possible trigger warnings: toxic relationships, toxic workplace, abusive behaviour, autoerotic asphyxiation.
Chapter Text
It is early in the morning.
Shadow Striker peels Bumblebee’s arm off of her chassis and gently lays it upon himself, thus setting herself free.
He mumbles something in recharge. He is angelic when he sleeps.
Overcome by this fondness that cannot be permitted to distract or complicate matters any further, she kisses his forehelm and murmurs goodbye into his cheek, before rising and departing from his company like a bad dream that leaves her impression upon his mind as she leaves her scent upon his pillow, lingering even though it is over, now. It was fun while it lasted.
He chose his side.
She has a job to do.
In another life, perhaps. Though there is no use in imagining it.
“Oh, hello, dears.”
Skywarp’s wings bounce in a friendly way as she lopes over to Empress, quite comfortable in the huge femme’s company by this stage. A prank is bound to follow at some point.
Nova Storm, however, flushes and preens, attempting to saunter whilst pulling on Thundercracker’s arm, dragging the frightened mech along.
Thrust keeps a polite distance, accompanied by two other Seekers, among the newer lot, eager to observe their more experienced kin.
“Good morning to you all.” Empress spares each of them a motherly smile. “Did you come to sit with me a while?” She is taking her Energon ration, a modest portion. She has a tremendous appetite, but only indulges it when dining with Megatron himself, as he too enjoys a proper meal and spoils her by extension of himself. Of course, Starscream seems to have put an abrupt stop to their regular dinner dates. “I would appreciate the company.”
Nova Storm is delighted to accept the invitation, although Thundercracker’s polite smile is nervous and Thrust rolls his optics in the background.
“There’s plenty of room, though I can stand if need be. Comfy?”
Skywarp proceeds to poke and prod at Empress’ scars, curious as Seekers typically are. The oldest marks upon the larger femmes’ plain, unadorned frame indicate injuries sustained when she laboured with her pickaxe. More recently, she is littered with the proof of her battles as a gladiator, rising to fame only to accept an early retirement in favour of Decepticon hierarchy. Free of the arena and attended to by the talented Knock Out, open wounds have mended, but they too leave their jagged script.
“Warp,” Nova Storm hisses, giving her sibling Seeker a light slap on the wrist. “Quit it. Consume your ration.”
“Honestly,” Thrust intones snidely, “we just can’t take you anywhere.”
Skywarp grins mischievously at Thundercracker, who smiles fondly back at her.
“You are kinda naughty. Not gonna lie.”
“You gotta be a good example for the new guys,” Thrust continues with a nod to the shiniest among them. “When you gonna grow up and learn some responsibility, for their sake?”
Grinning even more mischievously, Skywarp offers her servo.
He takes it, scoffing.
She interweaves their digits.
Empress observes the process of chirolinguistics with awe.
“Oh, that’s real funny.” Thrust clearly gets the message, but his frown of big brotherly disapproval dissipates when Skywarp says something more with the motions of their interlocked digits, stimulating his sensory network until he smiles. “Love you too, you bolt-head.” He does not only say it with his words, but he answers her through his touch, provoking her to kiss his knuckles and nuzzle his inner wrist. He is a reserved, bitter sort of mech, but he went to the effort to learn for her so as to communicate, and so she adores him for it.
Slipstream assesses the bright yellow paint transfers with some amusement, some melancholy.
“Got something to say?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Out with it, then.”
“How was Bumblebee?” she asks softly, massaging scented oil into her joints. The heat of her body will disperse the cologne throughout the course of today, although she will reek after enough hard labour. Combat frames do tend to produce potent fumes with exertion.
“Great,” Shadow Striker answers gruffly, passing the buffer back and forth over her besmirched panels, effectively hiding her softer emotions with crudities. “Guy can frag with the best of–”
“Okay, that’s more information than I strictly need, thank you.”
“What, you don’t wanna know all about your bestie’s game?”
“Not really, Sir. I was rather enquiring about how he’s doing.”
“In berth, he’s doing great, is what I’m saying. Fragged me up.”
The Seeker tiredly frowns at the mercenary, who grins back.
“Doesn’t this turn you on?”
“You’re awful, Sir. Primus.”
“Help me get him off my aft.” Shadow Striker turns around, giving her hips a mocking wiggle. “Can’t reach back there. Too much to buffer.”
“Oh, dear. Such a burden.”
“I like you best when you get sarcastic with me.”
Slipstream wipes off her servos and takes the buffer, trying not to imagine Bumblebee interfacing as she carefully erases his yellow paint transfers.
“In all seriousness, though, he seems fine. A little tired, a little less cheerful, but he’s still warm and kind and fun to be around.”
“Thank you, Sir. So long as he’s doing okay.”
“He misses you a lot.”
“I miss him more.”
The old mercenary grunts softly with sympathy despite herself, leaning into the pleasurable massage the buffer provides at this low setting.
“Did you see her, Sir?”
“Yeah.”
“How is she?”
“Keeping it together, doing her best to seem invincible like she’s got something to prove, but the strain is there. She’s looking for you, her optics search faces, but you’re so hard to get.”
“She promised not to give up on me, but I wonder if it’d be kinder to let her go.”
“Could you ever imagine yourself doing that?”
“No,” the Seeker mutters, working the buffer with gentleness and skill, “I’d rather die.”
Shadow Striker turns her helm to gaze back at Slipstream, scope whirring as it turns a moment later, narrowing its focus, lens flickering. “The love of a good femme will do that to you.”
“Sometimes, I wish I’d never met them. But can you imagine how unfulfilling my life would be, without aching like this for her, for him? I can’t go back to that. They give me a reason to persist.”
The mercenary’s perpetual scowl softens.
“Of course, I’ve got Flamewar to think about now. I gotta keep going, for her, so I can take care of her when this is all over. She wants to be with me and I’m okay with that.”
“You’re serious about her, right? You’ll take her with you, keep her close, care for her, long after I’m gone. You realise the responsibility, don’t you?”
“Yes, Sir. I had a chance to leave her, and I came back.”
“Because Windblade turned you down.”
“That’s part of the reason, Sir.” The Seeker leans in to kiss a streak of yellow. “But even when I was with the love of my life, I had another femme on my mind.”
“Oof.”
“Yeah, Sir. Oof.”
Shadow Striker moans as the buffer passes over her aching spinal seam, under the edge of her rear kibble.
Slipstream smiles at that. “These circumstances are really fragged up. I probably wouldn’t have befriended Flames so closely, without getting reassigned to your team first, Sir, which necessitates Starscream’s wrath and this punishment, because I dare to love anyone more than I already love him.”
“Screw that guy.”
“He’s not evil. Just damaged. I can’t hate him, I just pity him.”
“But you do resent him.”
“I’m not perfect.”
“Well, you’re with me, and I gain from his loss. Dumbaft’s gonna regret giving you away, someday.”
The Seeker kneels in order to buffer the mercenary’s aft and thighs.
“Oh, yeah, that tickles a bit. Thanks for doing this for me.”
“It’s my pleasure, Sir.”
“I bet it is.”
Slipstream grunts as a servo reaches back to slap her playfully atop the helm, ruffling her affectionately as she works.
“Good girl.”
“Yeah. I am a good girl.”
Shadow Striker is nasty and crude and generally unpleasant, attuned toward her own survival and satisfaction as a necessity of her mercenary profession and traumatised defensive measures. She is not a good person. But despite herself, she has grown attached to her subordinates and she is respected here, she is actually liked and wanted. Even Bumblebee – no, do not think about him. That will only make her sad and sultry. She is already enough of both. Still, he let her stay the night and she let him hold her until the morning. She was gone before he woke up.
“Sir, did you think about running away, too, while you were up there, on the surface?”
“Yeah. That might be desertion and a cruel thing to contemplate doing to the lot of you, but it’s just thought crime. You can forgive me for that, can’t you?”
“I don’t blame you to begin with, Sir.”
“Well, good. Try not to let this Sparkache fester. Easier said than done, sure, but you gotta do better than I did, at your age. I know you can.” The old mercenary caresses the disgraced Seeker’s bowed helm, on her knees and cleaning her best friend’s streaks of cheerful, maddening yellow from her commanding officer’s body. “I’m gonna be real distraught if you ever turn out bitter like I am. You deserve so much better than that. Inflicting your pain on your friends would be a real shame, when you reach my age.”
“Sir, do you often imagine me, what I might be like, when I'm your age?”
“More often than I should. I sometimes imagine Flamewar, Thunderblast. Demolishor is ancient already.”
“That’s kinda sweet, Sir.”
“You are gonna be fine as frag, that much I do know.”
Slipstream forgets to actively manupulate the buffer, caught up staring into a yellow streak of Bumblebee, smiling at a tender place over the curve of Shadow Striker’s inner thigh.
“Gonna sound presumptious here, but I sorta hope you’ll have a mentee to make you proud, somebody who’s all well-adjusted and a productive member of society, whatever society even looks like by then. Seekers rarely ever got such a privileged position, far as I know. You’d be good at it. I think that might help you feel more okay with yourself. Not like a legacy or an investment or whatever other selfish nonsense people say.”
The Seeker makes a whimpering sound, as if she just hurt herself, the forgotten buffer unsteady in her grip.
“What?” Alarmed, the mercenary twists to glare down at her subordinate. “What’s the matter?”
“Everything.”
“Can you narrow that down a little, into something I can work with, here, with you?”
“I… I just had the most disturbing criminal thought, Sir.”
“Whassat?”
Slipstream shakes her helm.
“Was it something I said? Did I upset you, to make you think something upsetting?”
“Yes, Sir, but I’m worried I’ll say something that upsets you, based on my thoughts, my feelings, because of all you have said to me.”
“Your thoughts and feelings,” Shadow Striker echoes, astonishingly carefully.
“Yes, Sir.”
“Look, I’m not so delicate, but if you trust me enough with your thoughts and feelings, for frag’s sake, just speak your mind. I told you before.”
“You think about me. You really do.”
“Yeah, so?”
“Sir,” the Seeker intones huskily under the mercenary’s palm, in warning.
“Would you just be out with it? Got me spooked, femme. Primus! It can’t be so bad, whatever you gotta say.”
“I love you.”
Shadow Striker sucks in air, going entirely rigid all over.
Slipstream sinks where she kneels. “It’s not a choice, Sir.”
The mercenary recoils with a sneer of disgust, snorting from her flared enstrils and blinking her optic rapidly, scope rolling aside.
“I’ve been stuck here, with you.” The Seeker stares at the tiles.
Shadow Striker retreats to the other end of the wash racks, leaning over a metallic sink to splash her face.
“And it’s mostly Starscream’s fault, but it’s also partially my fault, and it’s partially your fault, and it’s partially my best friends’ fault.”
She hears the words despite the pounding of her own fuel pump, the screaming of her Spark’s pulse.
“Love ruined my life.”
“Shut the frag up.”
Slipstream finally looks up.
Shadow Striker does not look back, bent over the sink, rigid yet trembling.
“Can you give me some sage advice, Sir?”
“Cast it from your mind. It’s the dumbest thing you’ve said yet, and I won’t tolerate it. I’ve been too damn sweet on you. This stops here and now, for your own good. Understood.”
“No, Sir. I don’t understand any of it. I expect you to reject me, and I’m at peace with that. I can’t ever imagine you loving me back. Liking me, yes, clearly you do. It does still hurt, that there’s such an imbalance in our feelings, but I don’t blame you for–”
“Forget about it. This whole conversation never happened.”
“Yes, Sir.”
The mercenary turns and stalks out. Most of the yellow is gone from her.
The Seeker puts the buffer to her Deceptibrand in some futile effort at scrubbing it off. All she does is render it shinier and brighter than before.
“The Grand Cybertronian Taxonomy,” Windblade mutters, squinting as she scrolls through the first few entries within the greater database recording every Cybertronian citizen online and offline, listing their alt-modes, their professions, their social allowances, their commendations, their crimes, detailed profiles of their movements and social spheres.
“Amazing, isn’t it? Our life’s work. Primus’ work.”
Her friends are in here, she realises with a chill, their usefulness to society and livelihood thus dictated, already decided. Before, such a record could be disregarded, but no longer so – for now, faith is government, capable of enacting itself to control the populace. She had her reservations about Functionist rhetoric, until today. Today, she feels sickened by it. “You cannot possibly expect everyone to just abide by this!”
“We do, yes.”
“It’s wrong. You’re wrong.”
“You are not from here, and so your ignorance as to our ways can be excused, as long as your Spark is open to being corrected.” Two-of-Twelve speaks softly and patronisingly, as is typical of the higher rank within their order. “However, if you are to continue your alliance with the Functionist Council and your residency within Cybertron, you will be required to register and attain proper citizenship, which I would be happy to arrange on your behalf. That is why I asked to speak with you.”
“This is insane. How can you not realise that?”
“As you are from a colony, your blasphemy will be forgiven. Please speak carefully from now on, Cityspeaker. For every shape, a purpose. Such is the will of Primus. Shall we begin?”
“Such is a load of aft, more like.” Windblade tosses the datapad aside and rises with a huff. “No, thank you.” She turns and stalks off, much like Ariel has done so many times before.
“Perhaps another day.”
“Absolutely not. Never.”
“You must register with us, Cityspeaker,” is called out. “Truly, it would be an honour to record your form and function. Your kind is so very rare.”
“What’s going on with you and boss bot today?”
Slipstream likes to spend her free time with Flamewar.
“She seems really mad at you about something, which is weird since you never do anything worth getting mad about.”
The Seeker makes herself useful by lugging over a canister of something oily that smells bad.
The bike dips a previously soiled rag into the substance and wipes down some part of a disassembled gun, then reaches for a file to shear the metal into shape.
“I said the worst thing I could’ve possibly said and I’ve ruined our entire relationship, such as it was.”
“I’m sure she’s just processing. She’ll pull through. Boss bot is one tough old glitch and she likes you a lot more than she’ll ever say upfront.”
“Yeah. I hope so.”
Flamewar pauses to smile reassuringly up at Slipstream.
The Seeker tiredly smiles back.
“I’d offer you a kiss, if you don’t mind the muck.”
“I never mind your muck.”
The bike sighs into plump, warm dermas as they meet with her scarred, crooked smile in a sweet little kiss that lingers a while. “What did you say to her?”
“I love you.” Slipstream sighs.
Flamewar’s optics widen. “Oh.”
“I said it, and I meant it. She’s a wretch, but she’s been strangely good to me all this time.”
“That’s a lot to process, for someone like her. She might take a while to, uh, accept it.”
“I don’t think she ever will. I don’t think she can. Not that she’s incapable of loving someone, but because love has got her so badly hurt before, she won’t open herself up to being hurt like that ever again. I can’t blame her for that. It’s just very sad.”
The bike exhales shakily at that, nodding once. “Yeah. She’s determined to die alone.”
The Seeker bumps their forehelms together. “Flames, I love you too. Is that okay? Can I say that, again?”
Flamewar simply bursts into tears, throwing her arms around Slipstream’s neck.
“Only a villain could strike a righteous servant of Primus,” the Functionist representative intones on-screen whilst Sentinel looks very uncomfortable in the background, avoiding Ariel’s sidelong glare, Orion’s sad frown and Alpha Trion’s ancient exhaustion. “We are not given to vengeance, however, for ours is an institution founded upon love. Our way is forgiveness.”
“Oh, please,” Starscream mutters. “Tell that to the Cityspeaker who tortured me, yet allies with you crazy people. Besides, that preacher struck first.”
Megatron growls lowly, grinding his jaw and glaring at the holoscreen.
“The Decepticons shall be moved by our grace and turn from their wickedness in time. Be patient, oh faithful, and join us briefly in collective meditation as we call upon Primus to touch their Sparks. There is hope for the misguided, perhaps even for Megatron the seducer himself.”
“That’s quite the title,” the Captain remarks with a sardonic smile. “I’m merely a villain.”
“Orion! Ariel! Sentinel! My dearest friends, you stand there, indulging this drivel!” the leader of the Decepticons suddenly bellows, throwing the crystalline remote at the holoscreen with enough force to shatter. “It is mortification!”
“Shall I send my Seekers over there to disrupt them, my love?”
“No. We will merely reinforce the public perception of us. Seekers are too distinct, too feared.”
“But you surely cannot let this slander go unattested, my love.” Starscream inclines his helm, huffing. “It makes us all appear weak, but yourself? You appear the weakest of us all. You will lose support.”
Megatron seethes, but does not argue otherwise.
“It is time you did something… perhaps a little drastic, dearest.”
“Something I do not wish to do.”
“Are we still having a lesson today, Sir?” Slipstream asks quietly, stood in the cramped office before her superior officer’s desk.
“Come, now.” Shadow Striker does not look up from her datapad. “Use your brain module. What do you fragging think.”
“Maybe tomorrow?”
“Go away.”
“Yes, Sir.” The Seeker withdraws with a tired little sigh. “Also, I’m sorry. I’ll pretend like I never said what I said, if you could just pretend like you never heard what you heard. But we both need to keep up the pretence or we’re not fooling each other, let alone ourselves.”
The mercenary does look up, but only when the other femme is gone.
“You seem upset,” Ariel says in her blunt, but well-meaning sort of way.
“I’ll do my best not to let this get to me,” Windblade replies sternly, but not unkindly. “I’ll stay on task and teach you as best as I can, if you promise to be patient with me.”
“Of course. Ready to go when you are.”
“Thank you. Let’s begin.”
Shadow Striker has been generally malignant to everyone else the entire day, but she snarls when Slipstream passes by a little too close, reaching for a canteen of the last Energon ration.
The Seeker’s wings droop and she ducks her helm, retracting her servo as if bit, without claiming a ration of her own. She assumes she will just go hungry.
The mercenary looks murderous, but in a really depressed way. She is pushing back, and hard, but only out of fear.
“Hey!” Thunderblast glares aside at them from over her polished digits, briefly forsaking the meditative, therapeutic little item of her extensive self-care routine. “Whatever the frag is going on between you two, it’s been going on all day and you’d both better get over it already. You’re making us all uncomfortable. Quit it.”
Demolishor grumbles his agreement.
Flamewar slouches rudely at the table, biting her bottom derma with a wicked fang.
Shadow Striker bristles, but concedes by simply walking out, taking her canteen with her. So much for pretending.
“Bolt-head.” Thunderblast shakes her helm, scoffing. “The whole point of taking Energon together is to maintain group cohesion, not just monitor our rations. What crawled up her tailpipe and died, anyway?”
Demolishor very kindly passes Slipstream her ration.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Don’t take it to Spark, okay? She’s clearly dealing with stuff.”
“Yeah, speaking of. Sweetie, what’s going on between you and her? She seems especially ticked off with you for some reason. You’re so unerringly pleasant all the time, like, what could you possibly have done? She looked like she was gonna bite you, seriously.”
“Dreamboat, maybe we should just, uh, leave it alone. At least for now.”
“Look, I can tolerate the boss bot’s usual grumpiness level, but if this goes on, I’ll make a scene until it stops. A crew needs to get along with the captain, or mutinies happen.”
Flamewar does not even flicker at the insinuation of Thunderblast having been a pirate once.
“My friends are in there! Their personhood reduced to productivity and purpose! Primus, you kept telling me it’s bad, but it’s somehow worse!”
Squinting against the downpour of hot oil, solvent dripping from sensory spires like horns upon the helm, Ariel relishes the physical strain following another workout session after already helping the collective Rack'n'Ruin neatly rearrange their growing Energon reserve.
Sentinel wants them prepared to stockpile supplies to endure in case of the worst coming to pass, which seems likely now that Megatron is losing face before his own Decepticons. Always was very sensitive to criticism, old Megs, always intolerant of embarrassment, of being perceived as weak, foolish, or incompetent. Sentinel knows it, thus he prepares and instigates, vicious enough to strike at a moment of weakness and cunning enough to capitalise off of failure for self-gain, all in spite of their love.
“Primus, I can’t believe what’s become of Cybertron, my other home.” Windblade’s bad mood is tangible. It has been tangible throughout their practice session. She is quite intimidating when she gets like this, her gentle and soft-spoken nature giving way to a righteous rigidity that would cut down her foes.
“I’m sorry.”
“You don’t owe me an apology.”
Ariel sighs and glances aside at the shapely silhouette of the neighbouring Cityspeaker, stood beyond a privacy screen to bathe herself within the adjoining shower cubicle. The older femme is not much good at being comforting and offers dumbly, out of some desperation, “Wanna hug it out?” Instantly, she feels ridiculous
Windblade is silent for some time, motionless beyond the privacy screen.
“I’ll, uh…” The older femme mutters an unladylike curse. “I’ll be ready and waiting with a hug, I mean, once we’re done here, if you want.” She douses her helm under oil and smiles out of nervous reflex.
“I’d love that hug, here and now.” The privacy screen slides aside and the Cityspeaker bares herself to her neighbour, slick with oil and frothy with dissolved solvent, smiling lopsidedly. “I get the feeling that’s what you really meant.”
Ariel whistles a tune. “Damn, okay.” And opens her big, strong arms, one of which bears a tattoo of a shapely femme laid out languidly upon the pink bicep edged in gold accentuation.
Windblade sighs as she snuggles against the bigger femme’s firm, broad bosom and belly, leaning into a brawny embrace, engulfed within those incredibly poweful arms. “You remind me of her.”
“Chromia?”
“Mmyeah. Her, too.”
Something hard and slick prods Slipstream in the hip, nuzzling against her as Flamewar shuffles closer, claws upon digits, interweaving. Optics flutter open and fangs glint within a smile.
The recharge slab is always cold.
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
“Make love to me.”
“Here?”
“Yeah.”
“But we share this berth with everybody else.”
“Never stopped dreamboat from giving spike in the shower block. That oil is recycled, y’know.”
“Eew.”
The bike shifts closer, dragging her erection against her best friend’s hip joint, dipping shallowly into a transformation seam.
The Seeker is thinking about other femmes as she retracts her valve covering and swings her thighs wide. “You’ll help me clean up, like this never happened, right?”
“Right. The others won’t know. Wanna top me?”
“Sure.”
“Awesome. Crush me underneath you.”
“Flames.”
Flamewar giggle-snorts quietly as Slipstream mounts her.
“What is it with you and being flattened under bigger femmes?”
“I dunno. It’s just hot to think about. I like the weight on me, the pressure. Flirting with danger, I guess.”
The Seeker rolls her hips, sliding the trough of her warm, wet valve against the ribbed curvature of the bike’s spike, in particular brushing her glowing anterior node to regularly spaced sensory clusters also aglow. In the process, lubricant and pre-overload intermingle and spread, offering slickness to alleviate the coming friction.
“Beautiful.”
“You, too.”
“Ohhh, yeah, I want you so bad.” Flamewar arches her back strut as the tip of her spike is gently engulfed within Slipstream’s mesh, thrumming with virility, flush and fertile. “It’s like your valve’s giving my spike a little kiss.”
“That’s a nice way to put it.”
“Damn, you got a fat valve.”
“Thanks. Your spike is big.” The Seeker begins to slowly sink, shuddering, internal calipers rippling. She is unmodified and entirely standard-issue as per Seeker build, but that is alright after all. “Almost too big for the rest of you.” She bottoms out with a flush and a flutter of her optics.
“You love my massive spike.”
“I do, yes.”
“As much as you love the rest of me.”
“Of course, Flames.”
The bike sets her claws upon her friend’s hips and coaxes her up and down, moaning softly as the pace is set, bouncing heavily upon her lap with a moist slapping churn, soft grunts and panting vents, cooling fans activating with a quiet roar.
Slipstream is comfortable topping and bottoming. She switches roles entirely dependant on pleasing her lover. She eases back on her haunches and lifts her servos above her head, touching the ceiling whilst bouncing herself, impaled upon a friend.
“Squeeze me.”
She obeys, clenching her valve and her thighs, until she hears metal creak and feels the spike twitch with another plunge.
“Oh! Damn!”
“Don’t overload yet.”
“Kinda tempted, whew!”
“Don’t do it.”
“I won’t, I gotcha!”
“Overload when I say so.”
Flamewar whines, engine barking throatily, nodding her helm and wincing as thighs and valve clench again, hard enough to hurt a little because she is so much smaller and lighter and less armoured. The real danger of being damaged, but trusting her partner not to do her harm, has her on the edge of oblivion already and she relishes it.
“Here.” The Seeker is not doing anything special. She just happens to be special. “Give me your claws.”
Flamewar obliges immediately, grasping for Slipstream’s bigger servo.
The Seeker coaxes those claws into the mesh of her plunging valve, over the swollen anterior node lit with life and inner Energon.
“Careful,” the bike intones, tensing warily despite her pleasure. “Primus, you’re so wet, but I could still cut you.” The hesitation can be felt in her flinching claws.
“You didn’t cut yourself when you jerked off.”
“Yeah, but I don’t care if I do end up hurting myself. I don’t wanna hurt you.”
“You won’t.” Slipstream stoops to prop herself on Flamewar’s breastplate, large palms pinning her fiery bosom beneath the bigger femme’s immense upper body weight with a groan of living metal. “Make me overload. Take me there.”
“Take me with you!”
“I’m not going anywhere without you.”
“Crush me, I wanna die underneath you!”
“I won’t kill you. I don’t want the light to leave your optics. You have such a bright, beautiful light.” The Seeker gazes down at the bike, thrusting atop her. “Look at me.”
Flamewar manages to lock gazes with Slipstream even as the charge is released, valve spasmodic and bigger body lurching with a mewl, claws plucking at the anterior node like a bowstring, spike drenched and pulsing with urgency.
The Seeker’s deep voice takes on a higher-pitched, feminine quality when she is being spiked. She squeals as another overload chases the first far too quickly, intensifying.
The bike does not look away, does not break optic-contact. “Close,” she utters through clenched fangs. “Please, Slippy! Lemme ’load!”
“Yes,” Slipstream moans, gripping fistfuls of Flamewar’s breastplate and squeezing, bulging metal betwixt hooked digits. “Do it, now! Do it for me, let me see you!”
The highly tuned engine chokes on itself as the bike bucks upwards hard and deep once, twice, thrice, then holds position with a final upward thrust. Her heel struts scrape as she kicks over the berth, scrambling to force her spike in as deep as possible whilst releasing her transfluid. A palm grips herself by the neck, claws squeezing her own fuel lines to deprive her brain module.
The Seeker feels a molten injection within her channel and instinctively ejects her wings, fluttering her delight, preening in that typical flier way despite her modesty. She kisses her lover’s face plate and forehelm, murmuring reassuring, positively affirming things. “You’re beautiful when you overload. Such a handsome spike, so deep inside me. I love you.”
Flamewar purrs as the claws are removed from her neck and she is promptly scooped up off the berth and lifted into a hug, allowing Slipstream to comfort and console from a seated position, twitching spike still snugly embraced within the quivering valve.
Slipstream’s words dissolve into sounds that say enough. She purrs and preens, mopping sweat from her friend’s face plate and nuzzling against her helm, delighting at every shudder and sigh. This goes on for some time.
“I feel at home, inside you.”
“Mmyeah?”
“Mmyeah. Can I fall asleep like this? Can you sleep with my spike inside your valve?”
“I haven’t tried that before.”
“Can we try it? Please.”
“Okay.” The Seeker retracts her wings and flips them over, so she is below, laid out on her back, the bike splayed atop. “Here.”
Flamewar’s whole world rolls over as Slipstream desires it. Claws cling to bulk, spike oozes within valve, and pauldrons collapse as big arms tighten this hug.
“Cuddle me.”
“Frag, yeah.”
The Seeker keeps the bike close and inside, softening and slackening, consumed within hot and throbbing and still so very wet mesh, the larger femme kissing her friend and making these soft sounds of instinct.
“This is it.”
“Mm?”
“This is love.”
“Mm.”
At the end of the day, Bumblebee is cute and charming enough to get away with resting his helm in Chromia’s lap, enjoying her digits upon his sensory horns. They listen to Windblade rant about things Cybertronians of the middle and lower classes have had to contend with for millions of years, speaking passionately from her position of privilege over a flute of high-grade.
“Would you consider accompanying me to the red headlight district this fine night?”
“No, thank you.”
“I would’ve laughed, had you said anything different. Do you mind if I come in?”
“You are always welcome here, old friend.”
“I just felt like… I mean, I just feel like…” Sentinel’s chin quivers as he drags his tired, heavy body across the threshold, the door sealing automatically behind himself. “I might need the distraction.”
Orion sets his datapad aside and steps out from behind his desk. He moves with the gentle grace of a large, powerful mech who does not mean anyone any harm.
“But Alpha Trion is not really suited to what I need right now, and Ariel hardly even meets my optics any more, so that just leaves the red headlight district, or you.”
“Sentinel, I…”
“Forgive my impropriety, Orion. A pleasure frame doesn’t mean the things they tell me. They just tell me whatever I pay them to say. But you love me, don’t you?”
“Of course I do.”
“You, uh, know what I am referring to, yes?”
“I do. Though, it has been some time, since we were intimate.”
“Yeah. After everything, I’ll understand if you turn me down tonight.”
One old mech captures another’s cheeks in both palms, bringing their forehelms gently together.
“But if I don’t disgust you, like I disgust her, then I could really do with the distraction, being with someone who still loves me.” Sentinel is not given to displays of humility, but he is trying. “You’re all I’ve got. This really isn’t setting much of a mood, is it?”
Orion kisses him.
Millions of years ago, Megatron would have sat in Ariel’s lap whilst passing a cy-gar and some high-grade between them, talking about love and lust and life, casually observing Sentinel laid out beneath Orion, writhing and sighing. They always found time to be together, back then. Their little group seemed invincible. And now, they are all old and lonely and estranged to varying degrees.
“My desk?”
“Your desk.”
Orion takes the time to neatly remove his stationary and personal effects, setting things carefully aside to make space. He then pats his desk invitingly, with a handsome, kind smile. “Would you like much foreplay, or shall I get to the point?”
“Get to the point. Uh, please.” Sentinel flushes and hefts his huge self atop, laid out on his back, thighs apart, peering over his breastplate as the other mech stoops to kiss his modesty panels, hot and tight and trembling. He promptly retracts his panels, spike pressurising impressively, valve already clenched on nothing. His optics roll back as a fist settles upon the base of his shaft, a glossa circling his anterior node.
Nuzzled beneath a friend’s spike, delving a little deeper face-first within his plump valve, the retired archivist sets his fist to a pumping motion upon the shaft and inserts a large digit within the channel to caress the internal sensors whilst kissing upon the crowning node.
“Tell me I’m good,” the leader of the elite guard mewls, dragging his digits over his own bosom and belly. “Tell me I’m a good mech, and mean it. Please.” A masculine voice, pulled taut with strain.
Orion sighs softly, lifting his slick, patiently smiling dermas from the twitching valve for a moment, optics upcast to look beyond the spike that oozes over his forehelm and brows. “Sentinel, you are good. I know you are a good mech. I mean these words with my whole Spark.”
“Hahhh! Say you love me!”
“I love you. I always have. I always will.”
Sentinel squirms, his weight sinking upon the desk with a metallic creak. There are tears in his optics and his polished chin quivers. He is agonisingly aroused. Mostly, it is agony. “Tell me I’m enough!”
“You are more than enough, old friend.”
“I just want to believe!”
Chapter 36
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Over the days that follow, life in the Pits continues to spiral further and further into mutual misery.
“Move,” Shadow Striker commands with a sneer. She is not nice, she has never been nice, and she is definitely not a good person. She is out to prove this to her long-suffering subordinates, some more willing to suffer her unpleasantness than others.
Slipstream does her best to obey, pressing her large self up against the curved wall of the tunnel, contorting her blocky shape within the pipes and cables and averting her optics deferentially. “Sorry, Sir.” Handsome and adorable, rendered ridiculous and unfortunate.
The mercenary feels a stab of something eerily akin to guilt, then a surge of hot, acidic frustration in retaliation. She roughly shoves past, squeezing through without consideration or gratitude. “Fool,” comes out through bared dentas, for no reason at all beyond reaffirming the hierarchy and boundaries in a hurtful way.
The Seeker flinches. “Yes, Sir.” She remains like this until those echoing steps turn the bend, then lets out a soft sigh and peels herself off of the curved wall. With dropped wings and slumped pauldrons, she resumes her trek to fulfil her next obligation.
Shadow Striker’s tactic here is obvious. She is trying to be unlovable. And in doing so, she is hardly better than Starscream, whose tantrums are borne of a desperate desire to be loved more than anyone else.
Slipstream would honestly prefer just getting shot in the back and thrown into the mercury to drown. She could accept rejection, accept some distance between them, accept a cold pauldron when forced to interact, but death would be preferable because it puts a decisive end to things. But the actual hostility, which goes on and on without any obvious conclusion, is so much worse.
“Now, then. The first item on today’s agenda is the matter of–”
Whilst Sentinel drones on, Bumblebee fidgets in his seat until silently retrieving something from under the table, which he had kept hidden by his pedes until now.
“Cube!” Hot Rod exclaims with unabashed delight, utterly ruining any attempt to take the meeting seriously before it could even begin.
The others present all turn simultaneously to stare.
“Indeed,” intones Orion, “that is a cube.”
“What’s Cube doing here?” enquires Windblade with a fond smile, although it is weighed down by fatigue and stressed at the edges. “Planning a game in the meeting room, Bee?”
“Maaaybe.”
“Not in our meeting room, by the light of Primus,” Sentinel bemoans through dentas, optics narrowed upon the offending Cube. “This is the workplace, and our work is vital, scout. This is neither the time nor the place for toys and games. And I do not appreciate interruptions.”
“Sorry, I just wanted to free up some room for my legs down there. I was getting one of those cramps in my knee, you know the ones.”
“Take that outside and return once you feel mature enough to continue our meeting.”
“Aw, I’m sorry, don’t be mad!” Bumblebee offers one of his winning smiles, which Sentinel is still unfazed by. “I was just gonna propose something at the end of the meeting, I’ll hide Cube until then. The cramp won’t matter really, since I’ve still got the other knee. Please carry on, Councillor.”
“You have a proposal?”
“Yeah, but it can wait.”
“Cube!” Hot Rod exclaims again, so very handsome that he can be forgiven.
Ariel pats him fondly atop the helm.
“You have quite derailed proceedings, scout. Might as well have the floor and get it over with.”
“Okay, sweet, thanks! So, like, work is important and Primus knows we work hard. But play matters too. Wouldn’t want all this work making anybody dull, right? And by dull I mean boring but also miserable. We gotta lighten things up a bit, boost morale, build teamwork.”
“That is… valid. And you propose we achieve all this with Cube, scout?”
“Cube!”
“You sound doubtful. Observe.” Bumblebee spins the battered old Cube upon his digit, balancing the bulk effortlessly. “Seriously, check this out. Feels good, right?”
“He is rather skilled at that,” Alpha Trion murmurs, his wizened expression opening up with elderly awe. He taps Orion on the arm, as if to get the other old mech’s attention. “Look at him, look.”
“Indeed. Our Bumblebee is exceptionally skilled with, uh, cubes such as that one.”
“Not bad. I can do that, and better,” Sentinel boasts, folding his brawny, gleaming arms and smirking. “I used to be quite the player, a few million years back.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Pass it here, scout.”
“You better impress, tough guy.” Bumblebee tosses the cube over, sailing across the meeting room. “Go for it!” He winks at Windblade, who giggles and shakes her helm.
Sentinel, having unfurled his mighty arms to easily catch the cube in a huge fist, proceeds to roll it across the broad expanse of his pouldrons without fumbling before spinning the cube on a digit.
Alpha Trion gasps.
Orion inclines his helm, smiling handsomely. “I never quite understood the appeal, however your mastery over a cube is still just as impressive as it was back then, old friend.”
“Cube,” Hot Rod corrects, with a particular tone.
“Yes, that is what I said.”
“No, no, no. You’re referring to plain ol’ cube. This? Is Cube,” Bumblebee reiterates, gesticulating at Sentinel, who is currently amusing Ariel with displays of his athletic proficiency, all the more impressive on account of his age and lack of practice since the years rolled on and on and they all drifted apart.
“Cube!”
“We’ll work on it, big guy.”
And for a little while, nobody is miserable.
Thunderblast irritably shrugs off Shadow Striker’s advances.
“Sorry.” The mercenary huffs, stepping away with raised palms. “Clearly, you’re not in the mood. My bad.”
“Of course not. You’ve been mean to me. That is your bad.”
“Some girls like those tactics. Preying upon feminine insecurities to get laid is a common strategy in this market.”
“Gross.” The boat upturns her olfactory sensor. “Not a turn on. Creep.”
“You told me you like it when I make you feel insecure.”
“That’s twisting my words.”
“Sure, okay.” Shadow Striker rolls her scope, though she feels like scrap for all she has said, knowing what she is about to say. “But you’ve suddenly got thin skin, considering.”
Thunderblast slams down her tools and swings around to face her superior officer, golden optics fierce. “You wanna get smacked?”
“Ooh. Depends where the smack lands.”
“Go screw yourself.”
“Guess I’ll have to.”
“I may be epic, but I am still a person, same as you. Afthole.”
“So, no more hookups?”
“None, Sir.”
“Please?”
“No.”
“You give me a helmache, femme.”
“Don’t do that. Getting me started again! You tick me off. We keep going in circles, bickering like an old married couple, unhappily married. And it’s your fault, Sir, not mine! Do not act like I’m being unreasonable when this is all on you!”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”
“You must know this is all on you! Throwing your weight around, talking to your guys like we’re trash - what happened to us, Sir? We had a good thing going, all of us, and then you just turned bad!”
“Been bad the whole time. Bad girl.”
“Being a bad girl is a mindset, Sir, not just an act. After all the good you’ve done for Slipstream and Flamewar, you really expect me to believe you’re as awful as you’re making out to be?”
“Yeah, actually. You and the lot are all getting funny ideas. Stand corrected.”
“No way. What’s got you so scared all of a sudden?”
The mercenary looks away. “I fear nothing.”
“Well, then you really are just an unrepentant jerk!” The boat scoffs. “Sorry for thinking better of you than this! My mistake, clearly! I guess we were all wrong about you! You just suck, after all! Thanks for clearing that up! Gonna make your job keeping us organised, productive and altogether in good morale way easier!”
“Look, I just wanna get off, spare me the rest. I’ll do the thing you like. Hey, mommy?”
“Nah. Not working. Especially not with that sad look on your face. Pathetic.”
“I just gotta take the edge off. C’mon, I always take care of you, give it to you real good. You can bang out out all your frustration into my aft.”
“Go away. Be lonely and alone by your own choice, someplace where I cannot see you.”
Shadow Striker makes a small, soft sound, still somehow unable to meet Thunderblast’s golden glare.
“Still here? Fine, I can keep talking. I mean, for the love of Primus, you have a supportive network of damaged people here who care about your surly aft. If you won’t tell us whatever the frag’s been making you act up so bad, then do everyone a favour and just get over yourself already and cope! This place sucks bad enough without your bad attitude stinking things up for us. Of course, I can’t speak for the other guys, but I speak for myself, and I am not a lackey. I do not appreciate being spoken to so disrespectfully. I expect an apology.”
“I don’t apologise for scrap. You gotta problem with how I lead? Go ahead, submit a report, see if it helps, see if I care.”
“You’re being a bully, not a leader. You know the difference. And maybe I will report you! Horrid old glitch, it’s so painfully obvious you’re just really mad at the whole world, yourself included.”
“Toxic middle management vibes, huh. You know where the door is.”
“Oh, frag you!”
“Ha! You wish.”
“Actually, Sir, I have standards.”
Shadow Striker and Thunderblast are almost literally butting helms. Their confrontations have been increasingly frequent these past days.
“What, this isn’t doing it for you any more?”
“Do you really want me to stoop so low?”
“Sure! Not like you’re some shining beacon of virtue!” The mercenary exhales hot air from her vents, drawing close to the boat’s cheek. “Lay it on me.”
“Fine. You used to exude power and confidence. You had style. I liked that. Now? You have a great body, sure, but as for the rest? I always knew you could be bitter, resentful, harsh, but you’ve taken every good character trait and smothered it in a rotten loathing for life and everyone around you. You are very unattractive at this point.”
Shadow Striker hates herself for feeling stung.
“I work damn hard, I pull my weight around here, and even if I didn’t, I’m a person with thoughts and feelings and I’m a part of this team! I don’t deserve your scorn. What did I ever do to hurt you? Why are you taking it out on me?” Thunderblast scoffs prettily, turning her helm aside with disgust. “Ohh, but I’m a soldier now, so I’d better act like it!”
The mercenary grimaces, clenching her fists.
“I’d better just shape up and take your abuse, right? So goes the hierarchy! Soldiers aren't people, soldiers are weapons and tools you can just throw at the enemy and subject to meaningless chores, whilst living off of scraps and mistreatment. It builds discipline and hardened Sparks!” The boat rubs her brows. “Ugh. My vibes are way off.”
Shadow Striker is taller, built bigger, and yet she flinches when Thunderblast suddenly jabs a digit into her Deceptibrand, a stabbing motion that really hurts.
“Look, boss. I signed up for power, but you’re not acting powerful, you’re just being pathetic. It’s really nasty and gross. Like, eew. Major ick.” Another jab.
Another flinch.
“You keep this up, and you’ll frag up. We’re a small unit, Sir, and we’re trapped altogether down here. Ever speak to me like that again and I’ll make you regret it, your authority be damned. And cut it out with bashing on the others already. Whatever your problem is, don’t take it out on the rest of us. Resolve it, or get over it. Leaders are only as effective as those they lead. Lose our respect, Sir, and you’re sunk. Got that?”
“Yeah. I goddit.”
“Good. Now get your helm out your own aft and do your job right.”
“Yes, Sir!”
“Cute. We’re all disappointed in you, that’s no laughing matter, but there’s time to change that. We’re willing to let it slide. Just do better next time.”
The mercenary watches the boat turn and saunter off with power and purpose, privately very impressed by her.
“Anyway! I’ve got work to do, don’t bother me until I’m done doing it. See ya.”
“The ball-bearings on that glitch.”
“Big brassy ones, Sir!”
“Nuh-uh-uh! See this?” Met with stasis cuffs and the prospect of capture, surrounded by disabled goons and scattered inventory marking this toppled empire within the abandoned warehouse in a poor district close to the docks, Swindle still keeps his senses and taps himself on the bosom, indicating his Deceptibrand with a suave smirk. “You can’t touch me. I’m on Megatron’s payroll, sweet Spark. You don’t wanna upset the big mech, trust me, bad idea, even for a big bad bounty hunter like yourself. I’m too useful to him. Get me, and he’ll getcha. Goddit, yeah?”
Roulette narrows her optics from behind her lens.
“Yeah, you do. You’re a smart femme. A survivor, like me. Not gonna take unnecessary risks. I’ve got my aft covered. Whatever bounty they got on me, I’ll even double it, if you let me go and just walk away, leave me be from now on. Deal?”
Her sharp jaw tenses a little further as she looms large and possibly lethal.
“Besides, I’m a civilised businessmech, but some of my cohorts? Whew! Now, you think I’m rotten, you’re wrong. I keep the enterprise stable. You take me out and you’ll just give the real nasties more room to operate. Most of them are Decepticons too, so we’re all in this together. You catch my drift? Cybertron’s no place for wildcards like you. You’re running outta room.”
“Stop talking.”
“Easy, girl. You know I’m right. World’s changing, your line of business will adapt or fall back into irrelevancy. Pretty soon, you’ll be working for the big mech just like me, because who else will pay your rates when the Decepticons are are at the top of the food chain? So I’ve just got one final offer.” Distracting the femme with his good looks and oozing charisma, she surely does not notice a compartment within his forearm quietly opening to expose the barrel of a hidden weapon mounted discretely within his person for special occasions just like this. “Hey, I’ve worked with bounty hunters before, cut me some slack and in exchange, I could show you real profit, get you in on a fat slice of the pie. You like pie?”
“I love pie.”
“Me, too! See? We got so much in common.”
“But I don’t do this just to get paid.”
“Oh. One of the sanctimonious few. Pity. Gonna have to forgo those pesky morals eventually, or someday soon, your brand of morality just won’t be profitable in the changing market.”
“You’re not ticked off with me too, are you?”
“Permission to speak frankly, Sir.”
“Granted.”
Demolishor turns in place and peers down at Shadow Striker, expression grim.
“Well? Out with it, then. Lay it on me.”
“You come across like you’re afraid of something, Sir, and trying too hard to scare it away by being scarier yourself. That doesn’t inspire my confidence.”
“What does it inspire, then?”
His mismatched optics flicker as he blinks. “Pity,” he says in such a gentle, warbled undertone, laying a huge palm over her pauldron.
She bares her dentas, but does not retaliate, simply turning and stalking off with a huff.
The world is unkind to Minicons. They help maintain Cybertron, doing the jobs that bigger bodies cannot, offering precision and expertise, and yet they are treated like lesser beings among the greater populace, with limited rights and freedoms and social mobility granted by those who consider themselves superior. Minicons who are capable of lending their power and functionality to bigger bodies are collected as mere accessories, to be utilised as living tools, or worse than that, sentient weapons.
“Aftholes…”
The world is unkind to Minicons, indeed. It seems that even wearing a badaft Deceptibrand does not spare an ambitious Minicon from mockery within her own faction. The bigger bodies – her fellow Decepticon brethren – think it is funny to keep things out of reach, such as the datapad that she needs to do her job.
“I do the work of three of those fraggers combined, and this is the thanks I get...”
Starscream’s shrieks send subordinate Decepticons scrambling and his high heel struts click-clack closer. He is in a foul mood, as Megatron has gone off to do something secretive again, and they promised not to keep secrets. Not from each other.
The grumbling Minicon pauses, in the process of pushing a huge chair over. She perks, for she knows the Seeker Captain’s distinct auditory cues. She had assumed herself condemned to shift furniture into place, so as to climb her way up and reach, but here he comes, swooping into the room in a foul mood, intending to yell harshly at someone, anyone.
Starscream’s optics fall upon the Minicon and instantly his entire countenance softens. “Oh, Sureshock, hello there.” Instantly he is pleasant and composed, politely aloof but not unfriendly. The transformation in his attitude would give most people whiplash from doing double takes.
She flushes and stutters a reply, managing to gesture to the datapad. He is just so gorgeous and nice to her, when he is gorgeous and horrible to most people. What is a femme to do?
He plucks up the datapad and passes it to her with a warm smile, lacking any of the patronising edge to it that his feigned acts of kindness would impose, because he is not pretending. He was never the sort to torture Minicons.
She murmurs her thanks, the standard datapad a bit bigger in her servos than his own, and during the exchange their digits brush briefly together. She almost explodes.
He registers the spike in her internal temperature, notices the flush in her faceplate, and does not tease her. But he does linger a while, making conversation and making himself useful to her, his imposing presence protecting her from the jeering Decepticons as he accompanies her about her shift.
She knows it will never lead to anything more than this tentative friendship, but this is really nice, too. And so she engages him in this talk and allows herself to have this one small highlight to her busy workday.
“C’mon, boss bot, Slippy is gonna just get even more depressed over you. She knows the score already, she’s willing to play along with whatever makes you comfortable. You’re the one acting up. Forgive her and let this go. Please.”
Shadow Striker answers that by tossing one of her beloved knives with skill and precision, embedding the Energon blade into a crudely drawn target on the farthest wall, within the central mark, indicating a killing blow.
“Damn, good throw.”
“Thanks. Wanna try?”
“Later. Boss bot, I’m serious.”
“Ugh.”
“Don’t ugh me! I mean it, stop pushing Slippy away. My cuddles can only cure so much and I’m getting upset by proxy because that’s my girl you’re hurting.”
“You have no idea the stuff that’s going on in my helm.”
“Talk to me, then.”
“Ha!”
“Maybe I don’t geddit, but I can listen, I can try. Besides, how can I judge? I’m not exactly sane myself and she loves me too, but hey, that’s okay with me.”
“You’re different.”
Flamewar rolls her bright optics and groans. “Oh, please.”
“I’m a nasty piece of work. Sure, you’re fragged up, but you’re fragged up in a hot way.”
“True. Messed up of you to say so. But true.”
“Me, I’m a baddie, but I’m ugly where it matters. She wants none of my dysfunction.”
“Boss bot,” the bike intones patiently, "try to see it from her perspective too.”
“Why do you think I’m so delighted with all this, right now? That poor fool. I got no patience.”
“Hey. Loving someone is not a choice, some switch you can flick on and off.”
“She doesn’t have what it takes to tolerate me,” the mercenary snaps back. "Neither do you.”
“Weird. We all got on great before you went and wrecked us.”
“So don’t you ever tell me you have those dumb fragging feelings for me, too!”
“You’re trembling.”
“I know that!”
“Love isn’t a crime, boss bot. And it’s not a weapon.”
“Encouraging her, or you, or those other two idiots, would be cruel. Intolerable! I can’t reciprocate, okay?”
“Boss bot.”
“I just can’t.”
Flamewar flinches as Shadow Striker suddenly hurls her entire machete at the target with frightening ferocity and awesome accuracy, the Energon-laced blade sinking deep into the wall.
“Got me fragged up, you fools. Frag me. Frag this.”
“Boss bot, nobody’s asking you to act on what she said. You don’t have to feel for her the way she feels for you. And even if you do love-”
A blade is held to a chin.
“Whoa.”
“Don’t.”
“Fine. You aren’t the mushy type. Nobody expects you to be mushy. Get that outta my face.”
The knife withdraws.
“But you used to be cool. You were fun. We liked being bossed about by you, because you commanded our respect, not just our bodies, boss bot. Not anymore, though. Not lately. Nowadays, you just act really mean and you make us all worse. Keep this up and we might learn to hate you eventually.”
“Exactly.”
“Is that what you want?”
“It’s for the best.”
“But is that what you want?”
Silence, for some time.
“You miss us, don’t you. You miss our talks, our hugs, our frags.”
“It must be this way.”
“Dude.”
“You should thank me.”
“That isn’t the real you, boss bot. Is it? Is this really who you are? The grumpy old glitch who let me sit on her lap and comforted me after I bit you bad enough to bleed would disagree, at least I think so. But you know what? I’m here for you, boss bot, no matter how bad you get. I’m still your girl. Nothing lasts forever. We’ll figure this out, bit by bit. Soon as you get outta this funk-”
“Shuddup.”
The bike sighs.
The old mercenary is rummaging through her assortment of weaponry, laid out on a rickety old table in an orderly fashion, seeking something entertaining from her collection, feeling disturbingly dispassionate about her beloved gear. None of it expresses her inward violence.
“All that’s being asked of you, is that you act civilly around her. She doesn’t deserve your scorn.”
“She doesn’t deserve me, plain and simple. Keep out of it.”
“That’s not possible. Slippy is my girl.” The bike sits on an overturned storage crate, slumped in on herself, always impolite when seated. “You think being horrible to her is gonna make her stop feeling this way, but what’s the use if she just grows to despise and fear you instead?”
Shadow Striker stops, sighs, spinal strut sagging.
“Maybe you and Starscream oughta have a chat. I thought you prided yourself on being better than him, but sounds like you guys might have stuff in common.” Flamewar barely gets the last word when something is thrown at her helm with force, thus she throws herself on all fours in a feline crouch to dodge the makeshift missile, unharmed.
“Shuddup.”
“You tryna kill me? What was that!”
“No. I threw my canteen at you. It’s empty. Would’ve just bounced off your fat helm.”
“You afthole. You’ve got all your blades out, you could’ve triggered my combat protocols, I might’ve attacked you for real.”
“Sorry.”
The bike huffs, rising to her full height, which is not much. She saunters on over to retrieve the canteen, squinting down at the makeshift engraving upon the well-worn surface, etched in place without the proper tools to do a neat job of it.
“I didn’t mean to throw that at you. I’m just… I dunno anymore.”
She pries open the cap and sniffs within, pulling a face. “Eugh. That’s medical grade. Harsh stuff.”
“Yeah.”
“I hope you use it to disinfect wounds and not to take sippy-sips.”
“I take sippy-sips and use it to disinfect wounds. Mostly sippy-sips.”
“I see. Are you siphoning your own booze from our medical supplies? That’d be a serious blemish to your service history.”
“You gonna tell on me?”
“Would you even care if I did?”
“Go on, submit a report.” The mercenary will not make optic-contact, pauldrons buckled and jaw trembling. She looks so miserable. “Get me terminated. The pay is barely worth it.”
“We’re just that awful to be around, huh. You’re just so sick of us. You’d rather die than face how we make you feel. The moment someone says she loves you–”
“Frag off.”
“Well, I don’t believe it.” Flamewar sniffles, limping back to Shadow Striker. “We’ve come too far for you to pretend, now.”
“I gotta pretend.”
“You’re doing a scrap job of it, then.”
The mercenary feels claws capture and manipulate her servo, unfurling her fist to bare her palm, setting the canteen within her grasp, then tightening her digits about it.
The bike proceeds to give the bigger, older femme a hug about her torso, scuffed cheek resting between gorgeous headlights.
Shadow Striker moodily drags an arm across her optic. “Dammit. I’ve sprung a leak.”
“That’s called crying, boss bot.”
“I don’t cry.”
“Okay.” Flamewar nuzzles that ample breastplate, offers a final squeeze, and then eases away and looks up with kindness. “If you say so. But I say, crying doesn’t make you weak. Letting yourself be vulnerable around other people – people you care about, people who care about you – shows a lotta strength. Like, on the inside. Strength of character sorta stuff.”
“Pfft. That’s so dumb.”
“Heh. Yeah. Make yourself short for me real quick.”
The mercenary stoops to level herself with the bike, accepting a lick to the cheek, glossa swiping the trail of tears.
“Mm.” Flamewar churns her jaw and tastes the tears, then nuzzles Shadow Striker’s cheek. “Bittersweet. You’re really not so bad, boss bot, no matter how bad you feel, no matter badly you think you deserve to feel. I promise you that.”
“I’m bad enough. I’m awful.”
“We know that. But we see your good side, too.”
“I’ll hurt her. I’ll hurt you.”
“All relationships are risks. We can take things slowly. You can stay hardcore. Just stop being so needlessly nasty to us. We gotta be on the same side, or what’s the point? The war is out there, topside.”
“This is toxic. Don’t let me get too close, I don’t mean to let you draw so near to me. This shouldn’t have happened, it shouldn’t be happening. Help me make it stop.”
“Do you really want that, boss bot?”
“I’m not built for anything else.”
“You make things seem so hopeless. It hurts.”
“Hence why I need to cut you both off. Thunderblast and Demolishor are fine, they don’t touch me inside, in all the places it thrills me and frightens me to be touched. But you two…”
The bike grunts as large palms cup her face plate on either side and squish her facial rigging between, distorting her adorably.
“You two are going to regret this. You’ll both regret me,” the mercenary murmurs softly, scope a pinprick of venomous heat and light, optic narrowed and oozing tears afresh. “Mark my words.”
Flamewar’s reply is to contort her facial rigging further as she puckers her dermas and places a little kiss on Shadow Striker’s olfactory sensor.
“Frag’s sake. You wanna do scrap like that, but then you’ll get mad at me for calling you cute. Impossible.”
“Yup.”
“It is a pleasure to be close to you again, old friend.”
Ariel nods against Megatron’s chassis, tracing her digit over the ornate pattern engraved within the gunmetal grey armour, very subtle unless one draws especially close to him. He got that design etched within himself as a consequence of one two many drinks and had a laugh at his own expense, millions of years ago.
“I am delighted that you called me, and not the other way around this time.”
“I need you to speak sense to me, Megs. I dunno what to think or feel about Sentinel any more, and Orion just goes along with it like it doesn’t hurt him, and Alpha Trion says it’ll all work out somehow but… I just don’t know.”
“Hmm. It is… difficult.”
“That’s a fragging understatement, old mech.”
“Perhaps Orion might come around to see things my way, once the true horror of his current trajectory sets in and he can no longer hope to negotiate more rational terms with the inherently irrational. I hope to persuade him yet. Sentinel, however, values his career and public image too much to allow me to win without a fight. And so, I shall fight.”
“What should I do about all that, Megs?”
“You know what you should do. Join me.”
Ariel is in a strange room, sharing a strange berth, with someone who should not feel strange to her. This meeting is secret, clandestine. Not even Starscream knows, apparently. Although they do seem very passionately involved, she ponders how Megatron is already losing faith in his love. “The guys are under a lotta pressure. So are you.”
“I do not wish to impose such burdens on old friends. Yet I deny Alpha Trion’s wisdom, I cannot accept Orion’s terms for the future, I will not compromise my values to appease Sentinel’s respectability, and you cannot convince me to surrender. Please, Ariel. I am angry, so angry.”
“I know. Me, too.”
“Then join me in our righteous rage. I hold the Functionists and their allies in contempt, as do you.”
“Part of me wants to tear everything down, just in the hope that we could build something better, free of the Senate’s scrap and that Functionist rhetoric.”
“And we shall, together.”
“But the guys need me.”
“I need you.”
“Megs.”
“Ariel.”
She lifts her helm from his breastplate, gazing up at him as she gazes down at her.
“When my wrath befalls Cybertron, do not force my servo upon you.”
“You’d never hurt me.”
“No, never. I would rather die.”
The femme shudders at that, shuddering against the mech.
“When all of this is over, I know you have loved me and will always love me, and so I will recall my eternal love for you.”
“You love the guys, too.”
“Yes. And my love is greater than my loathing. I will treat my old friends gently even as I tear the pillars of power apart. I will be merciful, once I have complete control. But you will be my enemy, old friend, and eventually my prisoner, if you do not join me at my side.”
Ariel’s sensory spires twitch adorably when Megatron plays with them.
“You know I must do this, but you know my capacity for kindness.”
“We’ll still be friends at the end. All of us.”
“Of course, my love. Always friends.”
“I feel so lost, Megs.”
“Oh, Ariel.”
She always liked their cuddles, back then. Despite his fearsome countenance, he would indulge her physically, wrestling playfully with her and sitting upon her lap and holding her in berth without the obligation of interfacing that most mechs and femmes require as repayment for such easy intimacy. Even now, in this strange berth within a strange room, he is familiar.
The artificial light flickers above.
“Hey, Megs?”
“Yes, old friend.”
“You remember when we used to play Cube, and Sentinel always got the highest score, so anybody who paired off with him was bound to win every match, as an extension of him?”
“Ah, I do remember. Such fond memories. He rarely ever wanted me on his team. Our competition was fierce.” Megatron does not challenge her beyond murmuring into a kiss, “So interesting that you would recall such a thing, at such a time as this, and see fit to remind me of it as well. Are you trying to imply something?”
“Nah,” Ariel lies quietly, having snuck off to be with him in secret despite being forbidden. “No reason.”
“Hey.”
Slipstream stops what she is doing, arms filled with fresh cabling to replace what has decayed in this dank environment. Thankfully, living metal does not rust unless plagued. “Sir.”
“Put that down.” Shadow Striker’s grimace is intimidating. “It’s time for a lesson.” And yet this is some indicator that she may yet relent, at least a little.
The Seeker is faintly relieved, but does not intend to spoil this turn of fortune by getting her hopes up that she may be forgiven and accepted again sometime in the near future. She would be glad just for the bare minimum. “Yes, Sir.” And so she obediently abandons a task unfinished and follows the mercenary, who does not say anything until they reach the training room.
“I don’t wanna lose your respect.”
“Sir?”
“I don’t want your pity.”
“I don’t understand.”
“But I will warn you, as I’ve already warned you before, and I do hate repeating myself, so listen closely. Don’t come crying to me when I inevitably leave you worse off than before you fell for me.” Shadow Striker withdraws the hilt from her framework, then extends the blade of her machete with the press of its trigger. It hums softly, emitting light and heat.
Slipstream’s gaze lowers, her combat protocols reacting to the weapon, running assessments of its capabilities to determine the threat level and decide upon some strategy of self-defence and disarmament. In turn, she draws upon not only her instincts, but also their lessons. Outwardly, however, she remains very calm and composed, almost defeated.
“You trust me, trust that I won’t hurt you, but you shouldn’t, you should fear me, I should lead by such an example.” The mercenary twirls the lethal machete with a dispersal of heat that sizzles in the still air, cut by the Energon-infused blade. “It’s not your fault we’re like this now. It’s mine.”
“No, Sir.”
“No?”
“It’s my fault, too.”
“Okay. That’s fair.”
“Sir,” the Seeker intones after a brief pause, “we don’t train with live weapons.”
“I am a weapon.”
Slipstream does the wrong thing. She bursts into husky, handsome laughter.
“Oh, so that’s funny, huh?”
“I’m sorry, Sir, it’s just your delivery, and the look on your face, and that machete!”
Shadow Striker lunges.
The Seeker neglects her soldierly programming and is thus thrown easily to the floor, landing in a heap with a low grunt of surprise and pain. That was not a gentle throw and she was not prepared to land properly. Sparring matches rely on some choreography, to avoid severe injury or death.
“What, am I not funny any more?” The mercenary looms above, blade humming as she gives her machete another playful twirl, the hilt dancing betwixt her large digits.
“Sir?”
“You stopped laughing.” Her expression is chilling as she plants her heavy pede upon her opponent’s pauldron, pushing down painfully within the joint.
Slipstream is laid out, gasping, grasping at that ankle joint. “Sir!”
“How do you love me, now?” Shadow Striker draws the curved edge of her machete before an angular cheek, close enough to leave a slight burn due to proximity to the weaponised Energon, just far away enough to avoid cutting the younger femme’s synthetic facial membrane. “You gotta be crazy, fragged in the helm. Of course you are. You’re in the pits, trapped with me. You poor fool, so unfortunate, desperate for a mentor figure to make everything awful feel alright.”
The Seeker stares down the length of that blade, optics wide, vents hitching.
“I’ve stopped being nice. Nice isn’t really who I am. I just like you, I feel bad for you, and I acknowledge a life debt after you fragged your future to give me another shot at mine, plus I think you’re hot. But do not mistake who I really am.”
“You’re scaring me, Sir.”
“Exactly. That’s who I am. I’m a mercenary, I kill for profit, I align myself and my services with the highest bidder and I only sign my life away to meet the terms of the most generous contract. Our soldierly camaraderie is cute, but make no mistake, if someone put a high enough price between us and you got in my way, I’d just try my best to end you quickly. Note that I didn’t say painlessly. Death is rarely painless.”
“You’re hurting me, Sir.”
“Yeah. You gotta learn. Call it tough love if that helps.” The mercenary removes her pede and withdraws her machete, taking a few slow steps back, offering no help to the femme who curls in on herself upon the floor, trembling. “If you can still love me after that. Don’t you geddit, now? I’m doing you a favour. Did Scream teach you that toxicity equals love? Did he twist your notions of what love should look like, feel like? Would your darling Windblade ever do this to you?”
Slipstream glances between the machete and the bot who wields it, back and forth, trying to distinguish between, to determine where her fear and anger and revulsion ought to be directed as her combat systems roar inside herself.
“If you can love me, after this, then you are dooming yourself to a cycle of abuse. Break that cycle. You don’t gotta hate me instead. We can work well together.” Shadow Striker turns away, yet her scope remains fixed upon her foe. “I’ll stand by you in battle and teach you how to stand on your own. I’ll frag you senseless and listen to you when you tell me what’s on your mind. But do not forget yourself, do not forget me. When this is all over, maybe I could call you a friend. Never bothered much with those. All my war buddies are dead, and we were only buddies because of desperation and despair.”
“Decepticons,” the Seeker says quietly, sitting up with clenched dentas, palm to her pauldron. She feels a dent close to the joint, which is painful, inconvenient, and also deeply upsetting.
“Yeah. That, too.” The mercenary sighs, resisting the urge to offer a servo in help. “Lesson’s done. Go get that dent buffered out, then get back to work.”
“No.”
“What?”
“No.”
Shadow Striker turns back to Slipstream, sharp brow arched above a narrowed scope.
“That’s really all your love is? You expect me to believe that?”
“Let me go. I’m gonna break your Spark someday, you know I will.”
“If you don’t want me, fine. Just say so.”
There is a very pronounced silence.
The Seeker straightens herself, assuming her full height without slouching. She is still shorter, but built to be just as big, heavier. She could do serious damage, if she really wanted to. Does she want to? She hates these thoughts, recognising this to be the voice of the warrior she was forged to be, instinct she has resisted her entire life beyond playful sparring matches and practice of aerial manoeuvrers with her fellow Seekers.
The mercenary narrows her optic, widens her scope, and grinds her jaw. Her machete glows ominously against her dark curves.
“I see.”
Shadow Striker curls her upper derma, scowl intensifying.
“This isn’t a lesson you’re teaching me. You’re doing this to remind yourself. Convince yourself.”
“Shuddup.”
“I didn’t save your life and ruin mine, I didn’t fall in love with you and tolerate all the scrap you’ve put me through, just so you could tell yourself to be unhappy until you believe it’s all you are, all you could be, and then put the blame on teaching me the lesson to hate and fear you.”
“I’m trying to spare you.”
“Spare me of what? Yourself?”
“Yes!”
“I deserve better. But you can be better. You can do better than this. And you don’t have to do it for me and my love. Do it just to accept a little happiness in your life. Do it for yourself. You deserve better, too.”
“I’m fine!”
Slipstream looks utterly unconvinced, unimpressed.
“I’m strong, I’m skilled, I’m solitary, I’m a survivor! I’ve been doing this just fine without anyone else to slow me down, since you were just a glint in the AllSpark!”
“You want me to take care of Flames, because you intend to dump her the moment you can. You’re gonna walk away and exile yourself with whatever scraps Megatron deigns to toss at you. If you even live to see the end of this war and Decepticon supremacy. You’ll never be my friend, you have no space for me. It’s just you. All you. Liar.”
“Yeah, so what! Whatcha gonna do about it? You wanna fight, glitch?”
“No. You’re not worth it.”
Of all the things the Seeker could have said, perhaps that cuts the mercenary deepest. Deep enough that the machete feels like a toy to wield, yet inspiring fear to behold.
Slipstream shakes her helm and strides past, giving Shadow Striker a wide enough berth.
The mercenary is being left behind. Soon, she will be left alone. Her Spark feels like it is exploding within its chamber and her fuel pump seems to drop into her digestive tank. “Wait.”
“Why should I? You made yourself very clear, Sir. Besides, I have work to get back to.”
“Wait!”
The Seeker grunts as a servo seizes her wrist.
“Wait,” Shadow Striker repeats in a strange tone of voice even she does not recognise.
“Let me go, Sir.”
“…I just… I’m…”
Slipstream wrenches her servo back, but the grip on her wrist does not withdraw, tightening painfully.
The mercenary’s face plate is torn, her machete hums within her trembling grip, and her other servo crushes the Seeker’s wrist.
“Let me go, Sir!”
Shadow Striker does not know what is happening right now. Her confusion must be visible.
Slipstream’s wrist aches even as the digits drag downward, ensnaring her servo instead, interweaving.
“Good girl?” the mercenary manages quietly, an uncertain echo of what is fond and familiar.
“Go frag yourself, Sir.”
“C’mon, don’t be like that. We can still work this out, right? We gotta good thing going on, don’t we? If you just forget about this I love you nonsense, it’ll go back to the way it was.”
“How little self-respect do you think I have? Be honest, Sir.”
“You’re an easy mark.”
The Seeker glares down at their joined servos, sniffling wetly.
“I like you. Isn’t that enough?”
“I would’ve settled for that, Sir, like I said before. You’re the one having second thoughts.”
The mercenary bares her dentas as if indicating aggression, but her optic is flooded with hurt, her scope quivers in its socket fearfully, and her entire being trembles in the cold, digits tightening about the hilt of her machete. In turn, tightening about the other femme’s servo.
“I feel very sorry for you, Sir. But I could still admire you. I know, deep down, you’re very strong. You’re just a little fragile on the outside right now. Compose yourself and come talk to me again when you feel ready. Now, let me go, please.”
Shadow Striker moves suddenly, leaning in as if for a kiss, yet swinging her machete as if to strike. Her intentions are mixed. She may not even know what she intends to do.
Slipstream twists back on the servo that clings desperately to her own, painfully contorting the attached wrist as she lashes outward to seize the other arm and redirect the blade, a terrible pain erupting within her wing that blinds her to all else but the urgency to fight back. She bends herself with a roar, diving below the taller femme’s jaw, shoving painfully into her neck helm-first.
The mercenary chokes, stumbles back, attempts to rebalance herself, topples when the Seeker does not stop pushing back.
Joined altogether, they fall in a combined heap.
Slipstream subdues Shadow Striker below, snarling into her fuel lines.
Sputtering, the mercenary forces her own instinct to kill to submit itself to rationality. “Wait!” Her voice comes out strangled. “Wait, wait, wait!”
The Seeker gnashes her dentas against a cable, but stops herself from biting down hard enough to cut, remembering herself with a sickly sensation.
“Wait. Please. Wait.”
Slipstream spits out Shadow Striker’s neck and pulls back with a hiss, wing buckled in agony.
The mercenary squeezes the Seeker’s servo as tears fall with frothy flecks of spittle.
“What… did you do… to m-me?”
“Your wing.”
Instant nausea sets in as Slipstream turns to find the blade has embedded shallowly within her beloved wing, barely cutting, the heat of weaponised Energon bubbling within an intricate network of sensors, more keen than an entire interface array combined. “G-get it… out!”
“Okay. Hold still.”
“Out! Out! Out!”
Shadow Striker carefully withdraws her machete, which has instantly cauterised the small cut in the wing.
The Seeker howls, scrambles to dismount, and throws herself against a wall in her urgency to make distance.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to–” The mercenary stops herself, laid out on the floor with a dazed expression. Did she mean to?
With a dented shoulder and nicked wing, Slipstream thinks about how she could have just bit down on that fuel line and hates her combat protocols for reprimanding her weakness, running a damage assessment in her background processes as she keeps basic self-control in the forefront. The battle is over and she survived, regretfully. Victory means nothing to her. But at least she did not kill Shadow Striker.
“Good girl?”
“Go to the Pits!”
“We’re already here.”
The Seeker watches as the mercenary rises slowly, carefully.
“I’m a weapon. You saw it just now. You reacted.”
“Despite what you m-m-might think, I am not d-defenceless, Sir!”
“No. You could do some real damage, if you wanted to.”
“I don’t w-want to!”
“You’re a strange femme. Or maybe I’m the strange one.”
“You’re a f-f-fragging stranger to me!”
Shadow Striker still holds onto her beloved machete, even as she holds out her other servo. “Good girl, I did you wrong just now, I’m sorry, really, I dunno what came over me, but I do want you safe and sound, yeah, and I know I’m dangerous, but–”
Slipstream contorts herself against the wall, avoiding being touched.
“Please don’t–”
As digits gently ghost across her cheek, she vaults off of the wall.
The mercenary cries out as the Seeker twists an arm behind her back, shoves into the joint of her knee from behind and forces her leg to fold, then yanks on the wrist attached to the servo that grips the hilt on the machete until the digits reflexively twitch and loosen enough to drop the weapon with a clamour of impact.
The sound echoes in the chamber.
“I am n-not safe right now!”
Shadow Striker does not bother trying to struggle, painfully aware of Slipstream’s sheer bulk and the incredible strength behind it. Struggle would likely escalate the situation, leading to worse injury.
“Don’t test me, Sir!”
“Easy. Good girl. Take it easy, now. That’s it.”
Flamewar taught Slipstream breathing exercises to help with panic attacks. She employs them now, to calm down, and eventually releases Shadow Striker.
“Wow. You subdued me twice in one lesson. You just might survive after all.”
The Seeker does not answer, simply turning and fleeing the chamber.
The mercenary is left to linger on one knee, alone. “Wait,” she says quietly. “Please.”
Notes:
Armada Starscream was kinder to Minicons/Mini-Cons than the rest of the Decepticons, which is a character trait of his that I really like and wanted to bring back (call me basic, but I adore that version of Starscream because he has nobility you just do not see in the overall archetype that is 'the Starscream'). Sureshock was Alexis' assigned partner Minicon in Armada, so I was like, yeah, sure, why not? I just went with the RID (2015) route and made Sureshock more like those Minicons in that she does not speak in robotic warbles and is different in overall scale. Starscream's fondness for Minicons will be a recurring theme in this story so I hope you like that. Thanks for reading and otherwise engaging with my work! I truly appreciate the support, it might seem small to you, but it means a lot to me.
Chapter 37
Notes:
Shadow Stiker really fucked up last chapter, huh. Don't worry, she gets worse. Way, way worse.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Shadow Striker is absent from the table as her subordinate Decepticons take their communal first ration of the day. This is unsurprising, as over the past few days, she has avoided everyone at all times.
“It looks a little swollen this morning,” Thunderblast murmurs, reaching over to gently brush a digit over the unexplained nick in the blade of Slipstream’s wing, which jerks irritably away.
“Ow.”
“I told you before, and I’ll tell you again, sweetie. You’d better slap on some sealant, just to be safe. I know you’ve been avoiding doing that, but if you refuse again, I’ll do it for you. Today. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Will it heal on its own?” Demolishor enquires gently. “Do we need a medic?” His love was a flier, who tended to refuse medical attention out of some morbid self-sacrifice.
“It will only heal properly if it is attended to properly.” Thunderblast sighs, finding Slipstream’s larger servo and gently intertwining the blunt digits within her slender, glossy alternatives. “We’re not trying to scare you, sweetie.”
“We just care about you.” Demolishor reaches over and rubs Slipstream’s helm. “You’re our comrade.”
“I know.”
“If you gotta go see a medic, we’ll make sure you’re seen to.” Flamewar rests her cheek on Slipstream’s arm. “Don’t worry, Slippy.”
Thunderblast draws up the scuffed knuckles and kisses them.
Slipstream manages a feeble little smile at that, but it barely reaches her dulled, downcast optics. “Thanks, guys.”
Thunderblast looks over at Flamewar, who is anxiously scratching marks into the table, which is better than scratching marks into herself, before looking up at Demolishor, who grimly shakes his helm, his broad pauldrons collapsing heavily.
“Hey.”
They turn together to frown collectively at Shadow Striker, emerging from the gloom like an encroaching nightmare or some awful memory recalled.
Slipstream shrinks where she sits, wings folding into her back strut.
“Well, you look like scrap, Sir,” Thunderblast notes drily, less than sympathetic due to recent events. “Now that you deign to be seen, at all. Where you been hiding yourself?”
“I feel it, too.” Shadow Striker stands over them, hesitant to take a seat. “I’ve been around.” In the beginning, she had refused to sit with them on principle, but as she had gradually grown to tolerate them, then eventually learned to like them, she had naturally taken her seat among them. Now, she hesitates.
“Didn’t get much sleep, boss bot?” offers Flamewar a bit more diplomatically, claws dragging lines over the dull unliving metal of the table. “You been sleeping, at all?”
“Not a wink, these past few days.”
“Perhaps you should take a little extra Energon,” intones Demolishor in his warbling, distorted undertone. “Might make up the difference with fuel. My scanners tell me you’re starving yourself.”
“Nauseous. I’m running just fine on fumes.”
Slipstream says nothing.
Shadow Striker finally takes a seat, after standing there and staring at her subordinates for a spookily long time. The only available seat happens to be immediately opposite the Seeker, which the mercenary thus fills with her dark, ominous bulk.
The bike and the tank share a meaningful look between themselves.
The boat imperiously sips from her canteen.
“Could I just say something, and ask you all to hear me out? Please.”
Thunderblast quirks a pretty brow.
Flamewar stops scratching the table.
Slipstream offers absolutely no reaction.
“Of course.” Demolishor nods once, curt and soldierly. “We’re listening, Sir.”
“I just want to… apologise.”
The Decepticons exchange glances.
“As your commanding officer, and… whatever the frag else you lot perceive of me. Mentor figure, friend, I dunno. Whoever I am to you, I sincerely and humbly apologise,” Shadow Striker mutters through her perpetual grimace, “for my behaviour, my attitude, and the way I’ve treated you. I don’t usually say it, but here it is, and I mean it this time – I’m sorry.”
There is a collective exhale.
“You don’t have to pardon me. I don’t expect anyone here to let me off the hook. I just need to set things straight, so we can all get along, work together, do our jobs, like it was before I fragged us all up.” Their commanding officer sighs heavily, shaking her helm. “We can’t move forward as a unit, if I’m the one that’s keeping you all back, dragging my aft behind you lot when I should be leading. You reminded me of what an effective leader entails. Leaders lead by example. I set a poor excuse for an example and I failed you all. I’m a mess. Not even a hot mess. Just a mess. I gotta clean up my act.”
Thunderblast narrows her optics critically.
Flamewar utters a soft, sad sigh.
Demolishor is grim and stoic.
Slipstream just sits, silent.
“I’m not promising miracles. I can only do so much, but I wanna make things… better.” Shadow Striker looks to each of her subordinates, sullen and sour. “I’m being realistic about this. I can’t really make it right, and you all know I can’t, no matter how much credit you may wanna give me still. I’m too wrong. But I can be better. I can do better.” Her scope whirs, roving between their faces. “Think you guys could gimme another shot? Would you take me back, better than before?”
“Wow.” Thunderblast offers a slow, sarcastic applause. “The bare minimum.”
“Dreamboat.”
“Way to go, Sir. Look at you.”
“C’mon, boss bot’s trying. Don’t be like that.”
“I’ll be however I damn well please, after the way she acted up. But! That being said. Apology accepted. Don’t frag it up, m’kay?”
“Yeah, Sir. I forgive you, too,” adds Demolishor in his crude yet kindly way, softening. “Thank you for apologising.”
“We’re cool, boss bot.” Flamewar winks, producing a clicking sound out the corner of her fanged smirk. “All good. Well, maybe not all good, but it’s gonna get better, like you said. We’re gonna make it better. A little time mends some wounds, at least.”
Slipstream, however, is silent. Her silence is deafening. She cringes as optics befall her.
Shadow Striker, in particular, is waiting for an answer. She winces when nothing of the sort is given to her.
“…Slippy?”
“Oof,” Thunderblast and Demolishor utter unanimously.
Slipstream does not withhold forgiveness out of cruelty or petty self-indulgence or simply to take care of herself, because nobody is owed forgiveness, an apology never deserves pardon no matter how sincere. Her intake feels dry and she does not possess words to speak in these moments. She shakily takes a sip from her ration and softly clears her vents.
“You.” Thunderblast gives Shadow Striker a glare, accusatory. “It was you. You hurt her.”
“Boss bot?”
“Yes.”
“No!”
“I’m sorry.”
“But…” Flamewar looks adorably bereft. “But why? How could you?”
“Because she’s a piece of scrap and she took it out on someone else,” Thunderblast snaps back, slamming down her palms and rising from her seat to loom threateningly over Shadow Striker, still seated. “You fragger. And after you finally apologised. Gimme one good reason not to beat the scrap out of you.”
“I can’t. Go ahead, if that’ll make us even.”
“Fair enough!”
“Stand down!” Demolishor swings a huge arm between the femmes. “This is not how soldiers conduct–”
“I don’t give a frag! Lemme at her!”
The unwilling, unwitting source of discord yet again, Slipstream timidly escapes from the table with what is left of her ration, dignity in tatters, thoroughly emasculated, led away to safety by the very upset Flamewar.
“Abomination!” cries the preacher at the podium, to a chorus of condemnation from the assembled early this morning.
There are Decepticons being dragged into view of the holoscreen, presented as terrified captives betwixt the huge frames of the armed and armoured Functionaries.
“Examples must me made, to teach the difference between right and wrong. Primus is patient, but we cannot permit that such perversions remain unpunished. Observe, beloved, and learn from their mistakes. Know that this is an act of love!”
Sentinel does nothing, beyond grabbing Orion by the arm to stop him from doing anything to stop this himself. “Leave it.”
Orion’s optics plead, yet he does nothing except to rumble, “This is not right. We cannot go on like this.”
“It’s temporary. Remember that. This, too, will pass, once I am victor. Until then, play along. We need them.”
“You need them.”
“Ariel, silence.”
One of the Decepticons anxiously ejects the contents of her fuel tank onto the stage, in the path of the pacing Functionist preacher, interrupting the sermon by stepping into the vomit.
The preacher thus stops the sacred march back and forth, peering down with disgust, irritably shaking a limp ankle joint to shake off some of the filth whilst airily gesturing at the attending Functionaries.
Still recovering from the nausea, the Decepticon femme cries out as she is struck across the helm with the back of his huge servo.
Some gasp. Others cheer.
“Frag you and frag this.” Ariel turns and strides offstage with a twisted expression, but she does nothing of use. “You’re all fragging crazy!”
“Ariel! Dammit, get back here! We need to look unified! Old fool! No, Orion, you stay here, with me! People know your face next to mine, the people love us!”
Alpha Trion does nothing but follow her out, intending to console her, just as useless.
“Behold, seducer!” The Functionist preacher grabs a captive Decepticon by the chin and tilts back his helm, forcing optic-contact with the camera. “This is your work!”
Sentinel glares aside at Orion when he seems about to protest, silencing him.
The Deceptibrands mourn upon the heaving bosoms of the captive Decepticons.
“Contemplate the sins of what you have done! Meditate with us now! Repent!”
Megatron does not mourn. Not now, not after so much prolonged mourning. He impulsively crushes the replacement remote within his fist, shattering the casing into shards that get between the armour plating of his clenched digits and dig into tender joints without his notice.
Starscream sighs, getting out of his seat to turn off the holoscreen. “Darling–”
“Do not speak.” There are tears in furious optics. “I am convinced.”
A palm caresses a cheek, only to be brushed aside roughly. “My love-”
“Leave me. I must prepare.”
“But-”
“Go.”
“As you wish, my love. Though I do hate it when you direct your anger at me. Direct it at the enemy, not I.” That said, the Captain huffs and strides out, leaving the leader of the Decepticons to his own company.
“Indeed. So I shall.”
Flamewar contemplates her claws with a grimace. “Slippy, I’m not sure I can do this without hurting you worse.”
“I can’t reach the wound. I need you to do this for me.”
“But your wings are super sensitive, and I’m so sharp.”
“I love every sharp part of you, Flames.”
“I love your sensitivity, Slippy. But I...”
Slipstream is sitting on Shadow Striker’s chair, the medkit open and its contents laid out over her cluttered desk.
“I’ll go grab dreamboat.”
The Seeker he pries open the tub of sealant and grimaces at the stink of it.
“She’s got real nice servos.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
The bike nods once, turns, and encounters another body in the doorway, barring exit. “Oh. Boss bot. Ouch.”
“Did Thunderblast punch you, Sir?”
“Yeah,” Shadow Striker mutters, an ugly bruise of flushed Energon pooling beneath her narrowed optic. “Got me good.”
“Did you punch her back?”
“No. I didn’t do a damn thing to defend myself or retaliate. Demolishor intervened, or she might’ve really laid into me. She won’t be reported for it, even if it’s protocol. I think this makes us even.”
“I’m sorry she hit you.”
“Don’t be. I deserved it.”
“That doesn’t bring me any satisfaction, Sir.”
“Of course not. You’ve got a gentle Spark, a kind mind. You’re my good girl, you wouldn’t wanna see me get hurt, or anyone else.”
Slipstream mutters something under her vents, turning away sharply and folding her wings against herself.
Flamewar sighs. “Step aside, boss bot. I gotta go get dreamboat.”
“She’s cooling herself down, right now. Maybe I can help.”
The Seeker stiffens as she senses the mercenary drawing closer, slowly and carefully.
“I’ll be gentle, I promise.”
“Boss bot,” the bike utters softly, unsure.
As Shadow Striker holds out a servo, Slipstream turns back, glaring at those digits.
“Here. Gimme the stuff. I’ll put it on for you, like I did for her.”
“Different circumstances, boss bot.”
“This is my frag-up. Let me fix it.”
Flamewar still hesitates, lingering in the doorway.
“I want to take care of you, after I hurt you before. I know how that sounds, I know I’ve been sending mixed signals and contradictory messages lately, I know it’s toxic and I do feel bad about it, I feel bad about myself. But I really just want to protect you, in my own awful way.” Shadow Striker ever so carefully curls her digits about the tub of sealant.
“You really are awful, Sir.” Slipstream watches as the medicine is taken from her.
“Yeah. I’m the worst. But I can improve myself.”
“Don’t just do it for me, okay?”
“Okay. I’ll do it for you, for the rest of them, and for myself too.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
“Don’t thank me yet.”
The bike sighs, relieved, relaxing.
“I wasn’t in my right mind, before,” the mercenary mutters as she dips her digits into the sealant and then reaches for the Seeker’s wing.
Slipstream yelps.
Shadow Striker makes a soft, apologetic sound, soothing with a little kiss to the younger femme’s sweaty forehelm, applying foul sealant to the small cut in her wing. The wound looks minor, but a wing is a precise instrument of flight that can suffer terribly from blemishes and deformities, filled with keen sensors that may be erogenous or agonising.
Flamewar finds another chair and falls into it, slouched, sagging, staring.
“But I’ve mostly calmed my aft down by now, and I’ve seen reason. If I can yet reason, I can yet recover myself, at least in bloody bits and pieces.” The mercenary is very gentle, to her credit. “I’ll do what I can with what I scrounge up that won’t mistreat you, and as for the toxic rest of me, I can only seek forgiveness and patience. I wanna be the best version of myself that I can be, but honestly, I don’t have all that much to offer. So if you wanna drop me and move on, I can’t blame you.”
“You didn’t want to let me walk away.”
“Obviously. I tried to stop you, despite myself.”
“You didn’t have to do what you did.”
“I got a little crazy. It won’t happen again.”
“Can you promise me that?”
“No.”
“Great.” The Seeker scoffs. “Nowhere for me to flee to, now. My bridges are burnt or burning. Stuck down here, with you. Had to fight back. Hated it. You did that, to me. You made a weapon out of me, weaponised my personhood. Just like you set out to do, when you offered me our first lesson. I was a sceptic, back then. Turns out, I am changing, after all.”
“Yeah, you fought back, and you fought well. Yet you showed restraint.”
“I had to, Sir. Hurting you...”
“I provoked you. Showing me such mercy is foolish, but fond. That makes me feel funny things about you and it provokes me, too. I never asked for your love, it was the farthest thing from my mind.”
“Afthole.”
“Damn right. You had me, back there. You had the power over me, the opportunity. That was brave of you. Showed real skill and strength, showed how you paid attention throughout our lessons, showed me your potential. Consider me impressed. You could’ve–”
“Well, I didn’t.”
“Because you… love me.”
“Unfortunately, yes, Sir.”
“Even now? After everything?”
“I told you, love isn’t a choice.”
“Is hate a choice?”
“I dunno. I don’t wanna know.
“All my grudges, I cannot let go. Do you think I choose to be this way?
“Your trauma isn’t something I pretend to understand, Sir. I just try to accept you as you are, but I cannot accept being treated this way.”
“Fool. You stood up for yourself, asserted your boundaries, and yet you let me blur and cross lines.”
“That is all on you, Sir.”
“You know what? You’re right. You need to pretend you don’t love me. You need to do that.”
“Yeah. I know that much.”
“Do that for me. Okay?”
“I said I would.”
“Please.”
“I can at least try.”
“I want you in my life. I need you to make this easier on me. I’m old, bitter and broken. I’m tired and fragged-up real bad. You could do better. Lemme be better.”
“It’s okay, Sir. So long as you try, too.”
“No, it’s not. This could never be okay.” Another kiss to the forehelm. “But thank you. I will try.”
“Better yourself, Sir.”
“Yeah. I want to.”
“Primus,” the bike mutters, rubbing her neck. “We need therapy, guys.”
The femmes are quiet for some time, after that.
Shadow Striker sobs once, all of a sudden, then clears her vents wetly and shakes her helm with a scowl, irritably focusing on her work.
Slipstream softens, sighs and leans into her commanding officer’s breastplate, wounded wing trembling as it is attended to. She dimly enjoys yet another vaguely maternal kiss to the forehelm.
“Good girl.”
“That’s me.”
Flamewar can only smile grimly.
“Are you alright, dear?”
Starscream is about to get rather vicious, until he turns and sees what almost look like actual sincerity in Empress’ expression.
“You seem close to tears.”
“It is nothing. Concern yourself with your work. I am fine.”
“Clearly, it very much is something, to upset you so. You seem quite the opposite of fine.”
“Then consider it none of your business.”
She gazes down at him in her uncanny way. Any concern she may have feigned, slowly melts into something predatory.
He glares up at her, uncomfortable in her company, in her proximity.
“I know you dislike me, and you know I dislike you.”
“Very good.”
“But I’m sorry that something is troubling you. These are troubling times. You’ll take care of yourself, won’t you, dear? It would be such a shame if you were to seem vulnerable.”
“You disgust me. You seek my ruin.”
The huge femme chuckles at that.
“And stay away from my Seekers!” The Captain jabs a digit at her, trembling. “I see you flirting with them, seducing them! They are mine!”
“Ah, that’s better.”
“What?”
“You sound more like yourself already. You just needed an outlet for all that rage and fear. Glad I could help.”
“Ugh, glitch. I do not fear the likes of–”
Empress moves suddenly, assuming a stereotypically monstrous posture, looming and reaching over Starscream as if to scoop him up and bite his helm off. “Boo!”
He scrambles away from her with a shriek, whilst swinging out to slap her harshly across the cheek with a crack of metal connecting with membrane.
She grins eerily. And it is quite evident that something is very wrong with her.
“You are evil, of this I am certain! You are a vile, wicked beast!”
“Have a nice day, dear.” With one cheek flushed from impact, she turns and lumbers off on heavy, sensual steps.
He grimaces at his palm. He feels the need to scrub himself clean.
“Um, Sir?”
“You require my assistance.”
“Yes, please,” Acid Storm mumbles, covering their face, helm turned aside, aggrieved optics burning within the gaps betwixt their encaging digits. “Sorry.” Their wings drop. Their body trembles. They breathe wetly. “I’m having some difficulty.”
“Do not apologise.” Shockwave leaves his work unfinished. “One moment. I will sterilise myself.”
“Thank you. That’s really not necessary.”
“It is a precaution I would prefer to take.”
“It’s real nice of you to help us out,” Rack says, mopping sweat from his brow. “These fuel cells sure are heavy.”
“Yeah, real heavy,” adds Ruin, accepting the very same sweat rag from his conjoined twin to mop his own brow with it. “Inventory management, whew!”
“It’s hard work you boys do, that’s for sure.” Ariel sets down another Energon storage crate with a low grunt. “Happy to help.”
“Uh, why are you helping, anyway?” asks one of the twins.
“What’s wrong with being helpful,” she replies, moving over to retrieve another freshly delivered crate to add to the growing stockpile.
“Nothin’! But don’t you gotta attend some sorta big speech today?”
“Yeah, that’s what I heard, too. Shouldn’t you be out there, with the other Councillors?”
“I bailed. Can’t stand it. It’s a nightmare, out there.”
“Oh. Won’t Sentinel yell at you?”
“He yells when he’s mad. I don’t like it.”
“Never mind him. Let him be mad, he can yell at me all he likes. I’m kinda fed up. Tired of everything.” Ariel sets the next crate upon the pile, its contents glowing, lighting her pink shell in ethereal blue.
“He doesn’t scare you?”
“Not even a little?”
“He scares us.”
“Nope.”
“Wow. You sure are brave. Is it because you’re so big?”
“Rack, that’s rude!”
“Oh, sorry! I was just asking, Ruin. ’Cause imagine how brave we’d be, if we were big too.”
“Hmm. That’s something to think about.”
“Don’t be scared of Sentinel. He’s mostly hot air.”
“We kinda fragged up, though. We dropped one of the cells and it broke, over there.”
“Good thing we got a clean-up crew.”
“Yeah, what a mess!”
One overturned, shattered Energon storage crate steadily seeps its precious contents across the floor, with a bucket uselessly propped against the leak with tape crudely stuck over the wound, overflowing despite the twins’ combined efforts.
“Sentinel is gonna have our aft when the requisition form goes out and he sees we’re short,” declare the collective Rack'n'Ruin with a grimace and a combined shudder. Their ability to harmonise is truly something else.
Ariel sighs, accepting their sweat rag to wipe her chin, neck and pauldrons. “Listen, guys. If he gives you a hard time, you lemme know, I’ll sort him out. He’s a bully, but he’s got a good Spark under all that. I know the guy. I can deal with him.”
“Thanks!”
“You’re really nice to us.”
“I like her, Rack.”
“I like her too, Ruin.”
“You guys are alright.” She smiles ruggedly at the twins. “I guess at least you don’t get lonely, in here.”
“We try to have fun.”
“Stacking crates is really satisfying.”
“You’ve got the right idea. This here? Hard work and exercise, simple and routine. This is what an old lady needs to clear the helm. Keeps me busy, works me out, gives my angry thoughts and pent-up energy a productive outlet. Win-win-win.”
“So, you get to be ticked off, make yourself useful, and keep fit all in one go,” a masculine drawl interjects casually from the periphery as a small red mech with sensory horns and a similar body type to Bumblebee swaggers on over, wearing a handsome smile and some sort of liquid vacuum cleaner strapped to his back strut. “Sorry I'm late. Just cleaned the shower block, all by myself. Big job, lemme tell ya.”
“Hey, Cliff!”
“Rack, Ruin. ’Sup. Ah, and Councillor Ariel. My lucky day.” Cliffjumper does bear some superficial resemblance to Bumblebee, only considerably more flirtatious and more of a brawler, though considerably less fortunate in the lottery that is life. “How’s it goin’?”
“Not bad. Yourself?”
“I’m all good, under this hood.” Being a sanitation engineer amounts to transferable skills fit for a janitor, according to Sentinel. Cliffjumper does not complain about his lot, however. He does not let life grab him by the horns. His is a free Spark. He will see some action someday, go on a grand adventure with good friends, fall in love, meet a glorious end in battle. He just knows it. “So, where’s the spill at?”
“Over there. Sorry about the mess.”
“We tried.”
“Nah, it’s no biggie. Just leave it to me. I got this.”
Ariel quirks an optic ridge when Cliffjumper winks at her and swaggers on by with a merry whistle, so much shorter than she is yet utterly unafraid of her imposing stature, let alone her status as a Councillor – to be fair, she hates being referred to as such, preferring to be just another guy.
“Ditched Councillor Sentinel, did ya?” The vacuum roars, but Cliffjumper yells over it, sucking up the spilled Energon with steady backward and forward motions.
“If he expects me to stick around, I expect to be shown some respect.”
“Nice. Got guts, and you stick by your principles unapologetically. I like that.”
“Uh, okay.”
“You busy later?”
“Uh! Okay!” Ariel is very fond of Bumblebee, who is charming in a cheerful, cuddly way with just a bit of a stinger within his attitude to go with his namesake. She feels a sort of motherly bond forming with him. Her interest in Cliffjumper is perhaps a bit less maternal, however. The guy is kinda cute and always chats her up when they happen to cross paths, as she always entertains him and has helped him on his shifts a few times, being just as willing to get her servos dirty. “Hit the brakes there, tough guy. I’m ancient.”
Cliffjumper gives Ariel a sidelong look up, down, up and down again. “Don’t look it to me.”
She laughs, slapping Rack'n'Ruin playfully across a pauldron, sending both twins stumbling into the stacked storage crates which topple. Thankfully, she is quick enough to lend her strength just in time to stabilise the lot.
“Your business is not welcome here, Captain.”
“Oh, bartender, you surely don’t get out that much due to your humble occupation, but have you seen the news on the holoscreen over there? It’s your responsibility to tune into current events that are occurring beyond these very walls. Things have changed. I, Megatron’s second-in-command of the Decepticon army, practically own this establishment by now, just as I own Iacon City, just as I shall soon own everything across the whole of Cybertron. You would do well to know your place and serve me and mine. We are your superiors. Isn’t that right, darlings?”
Seekers laugh and jeer nastily, easily swayed by their Captain, except for Thundercracker. He just offers a very forced chuckle with an apologetic expression.
Maccadam grimaces, for he knows their future. “My place.”
“Your place, yes!”
“It is you who will learn your place, Captain. All it takes it time, the fire in which we all burn.”
“So poetic.” Starscream smiles suavely, leaning on the bar with an assortment of big, tough, scary Seekers at his back, emboldening his arrogance further with sheer muscle and strength in numbers. “Do get us those drinks. It’ll make things that much easier on everyone. You don’t want any trouble, surely. My troops are thirsty.”
Maccadam sighs and retrieves their cups.
Seekers old and new cheer on their Captain loudly, Starscream preening at their admiration.
“He’s such a jerk,” Bumblebee growls from within the booth, gripping Windblade’s servo for support. “He doesn’t even like Mac’s. Why’s he gotta come here?”
“Why else? To tick us off, Bee. Get a rise outta us.” The Cityspeaker squeezes the scout’s digits, taking a moody sip of her drink. “Ignore him. That’s all we can do. I got us into enough trouble, already. I won’t take the bait again.”
“Hey, now. Nobody blames you,” mumbles Hot Rod with a soft frown. “You know that.”
“Right! The blame game isn’t helping anyone,” adds Arcee, arms folded atop the counter. “We’ve been over this.”
“Let us focus on each other. This is our own little circle of good will and cheer,” Grimlock intones wisely.
Hot Rod, however, casts his gaze over to Soundwave, who nods back from his place at the bar, offering reassurance from a distance.
“Go on, then.”
“Huh?”
“Go hang with your boyfriend,” Bumblebee intones teasingly.
“Whaaat?” Hot Rod puts on his prettiest, dumbest face. “You guys know I’m, like, perpetually single!”
“We know that’s not true,” contributes Windblade with a soft smile and a wink. “At least, not any more.”
“We’ve known about you and Soundwave for a while, actually,” adds Arcee, playfully prodding Hot Rod in the arm. “Dunno why you’ve tried to hide it, though. We’re your friends, silly! We love you unconditionally. Obviously!”
“Indeed. And as your friends, we trust you and support you to make your own decisions, even if your current choice in mech is perhaps a little, errm…” Grimlock pauses, searching for a diplomatic term to use to describe Soundwave.
“Guy’s a jerk.”
“Bee. Be nice.”
“Bee nice!”
“Point is.” Windblade huffs, looping an arm over Bumblebee’s pauldrons and pulling him close. “We’re cool with it. Please never feel like you have to lie to us.”
“Aw.” Hot Rod lays a palm over his fiery breastplate, his optics shimmering with warm, soft emotion. “Even though he’s a Decepticon, and their logo looks a lot like him?”
“If he makes you happy, we’re good.”
“I love you guys so much.”
“Also, you totes suck at lying, by the way!” Arcee giggles, flopping her wrist. “We saw through you, like, immediately.”
“Afraid so,” Grimlock intones, nodding gravely. “Not in the least bit subtle.”
The friends all laugh together.
It makes Starscream furious. “Look at those imbeciles over there,” he drawls to his surrounding Seekers, most of whom are too raucous and easily distracted to hear him or pay much attention to whatever he is so moody about this time. He took them out for an evening of fun, because he is so miserable, he might as well get drunk with his own kind, give Megatron some space to miss him and mourn his absence tonight. And yet Starscream is too miserable to enjoy himself, unless subjecting others to his misery as well. People might pity him if they were to realise this. “What a sorry lot.”
Some of the Seekers chorus their mindless agreement, tossing dirty looks as is expected of them.
“They’re alright, actually.” Thundercracker, who dares to be himself and think for himself, ducks his helm when this comment earns him scowls. “Uh, I mean, they’re not so bad, really. Heh.”
“Do you mean to tell me you associate with that lot?” Starscream’s optics narrow dangerously.
“Uh…”
“Are those fools your… friends?”
“…Nova, help.”
“We’ve had a couple conversations, I guess,” Nova Storm intervenes with a muscular shrug, trying to play it off casually, as if it is all quite unimportant. “Oh, and we’ve played Cube with the yellow cutie, what’s his name again? Wasp?”
“Bumblebee,” corrects Thrust curtly, prior to taking a sip of his drink. He knows she is playing dumber than she really is, to placate their Captain.
“That’s the one.” Nova Storm snaps her digits. “Yeah, he’s fun, I guess. Slip likes him. Oh, and she even got with that hottie with the face paint.”
“Windblade,” Starscream sneers with such vehemence, Skywarp silently shuffles a little further away from him.
Nova Storm and Thrust share a grimace, Thundercracker wishing to crawl under the table where he can hide.
“Uh, yeah, that’s her name, Sir.”
“She seems nice enough.”
“She’s so bad, though.”
“Yeah. Gotta wonder how Slip pulled that one.”
Starscream slams down his drink, thus ending that particular conversation. He has not bothered to tell his Seekers everything, thus they cannot be blamed for their ignorance. They do not know why he hates Windblade so much, let alone his more intimate history with Bumblebee. The Seekers just think it is the culmination in their Captain’s anti-grounder sentiment, as fliers are naturally superior beings and should not gallivant about with grounders the way Windblade gallivants about with Bumblebee and the others. Never mind that Megatron is a grounder. Starscream is still wrapping his helm around that particular detail. His affection for Knock Out and Breakdown provoke some internal conflict, too. Perhaps some grounders are better than others.
After more teasing and encouragement, Hot Rod departs the crowded booth and eagerly trots across the old oil house, finding Soundwave slouched handsomely against the bar.
“Hi.”
“Hey!”
The Decepticon’s angular visor flickers as he inclines his helm.
The fiery mech grins beautifully, settling close beside. “My friends all know, by the way.”
“Mm. Inevitable.”
“Is that okay?”
“It’s fine. I don’t mind. I kept our little secret for your sake, not mine.”
“Yeah, well, I was being dumb, ’cause I didn’t wanna get you into any trouble with the other Decepticons or something.”
“I do whatever I like, wherever I like, whenever I like, with whomever I like.”
“That means you’re gonna dance here and now, with me, right?”
“You do catch on.”
“So…” Hot Rod flutters his shutters, coquettishly biting his bottom derma. “You gonna ask me to dance, or what?”
“I was hoping you’d ask me first,” Soundwave croons in his synthesised undertone, flirtatious and suave.
“Ooh. Dance with me?”
“I’d be delighted.”
“Wow! Lucky me!” Perking, the mech offers a servo to the Decepticon without fear or shame. “You’re so hot, and we’re gonna dance the night away.”
Soundwave chuckles, allowing Hot Rod to pull him close.
Starscream watches this with critical optics. “I knew it.”
“They look good together.” Nova Storm grins. “Niiice.”
“Well! Good for them, I suppose.”
“You’re not mad about it, Captain?” asks Thundercracker as delicately as he can.
“Why waste the energy, darling? Soundwave can take care of himself, without besmirching the Decepticon name. I do not care.”
“Whew. Okay. Cool.”
“However, if any one of you were to do something to bring shame upon me or my cause, I would care very much.” Starscream glares over at Bumblebee and Windblade to illustrate his point. “Gentle reminder.”
The Seekers cringe collectively.
“You know what? Screw it. Night’s still young and so are we.” Windblade tosses her drink back, then sets down her empty cup with a less than ladylike belch buried in a fist. “Oof. Pardon me.”
Her friends gaze at her with affection and amusement.
“I feel like dancing, and badly.”
“You’re not so bad a dancer, bestie.”
“Thanks, Bee. So! Any takers?”
“Yass!” Arcee grabs Windblade’s servo and almost drags her toward Soundwave’s music. “I’ve been itching for a go with you for ages!”
“Well, that does it.” Bumblebee grins at Grimlock, then dips into a playful bow of invitation. “Shall we dance, handsome?”
“Oh, very well, then.” The bigger mech offers his servo elegantly for the scout to accept graciously in kind. “If you insist, beautiful.”
Starscream is only further incensed to watch the friends having fun together with Soundwave providing the soundtrack to their fun. Inevitably, others join in, and Starscream’s rage flares when a Seeker is among the lot to be entranced by the power of dance. “Thundercracker. Thundercracker!”
“Sorry, the music’s loud, can’t hear you, Captain!”
Nova Storm giggles and follows her lover, joining him on the impromptu dancefloor.
Starscream imagines all the methods of torture he might inflict upon those two, sourly scowling. And yet more Seekers depart from his awful company and he finds his companionship thinning, abandoning him to his pain.
Thrust rolls his optics and orders himself a shot of something very strong, tosses it back, then dance-shuffles his way on over to the other bodies in motion.
“How shall I subsist on such a sorry bunch of tinfoil turkeys! Bah! There will be more. Perhaps a loyal, loving Seeker shall be mine, someday soon.”
Skywarp finds Starscream’s servo, chirping at him.
“Oh, please. Go on, play with your brothers and sisters,” he grumbles. “Leave me be. By myself. All alone. Lonely.”
She pushes and pulls on his digits, his palm, his inner wrist, stimulating his sensory network to communicate what her optics are already telling him.
“I do wish you’d use your words. I don’t understand this language.”
She sighs and proceeds to pull on his arm, coaxing him to rise after her.
“Oh!”
She smiles and leads him over to the other dancers, gently enough that he could easily dig in his heels and yank back his servo.
And yet he does not. Instead, he falls into rhythm with her, his expression one of befuddlement that softens into pleasant surprise when dancing with her – with the others, too – is not so bad, after all. Dare he admit it to himself, he begins to have some actual fun, focused on her, focused on him.
Nova Storm, predictably, is delighted and nudges her hip against Starscream’s, coaxing him to pay her some attention, which delights her further, because he is actually smiling at her for a change, really smiling. When did he last really deign to toss a simple, sincere smile her way?
Reassured that their Captain will be okay, Skywarp links an elbow with the giggling Thundercracker and sways on over with him to join Thrust, who smirks.
“Sly as always, Warp. Sly as always.”
“Yeah, that was smooth! Nice job!”
She winks at the mechs, saying nothing, just dancing with them.
Bumblebee is laughing in Grimlock’s arms, pinned against him by Arcee’s comical gyrations.
Soundwave has his backup dancers who all copy whatever he does, because his dance moves are the trendy ones, but his servo is locked within Hot Rod’s, sharing in the greatest Decepticon’s limelight.
In all the motion and music, Windblade finds a different partner every so often, a dizzying array of faces and bodies. She turns again and falls against Starscream, stiffening as his smile fills her vision, to be replaced with a look of shock that mirrors her own, but not antagonism, none of their usual animosity.
Maccadam watches from the bar.
“Cityspeaker.”
“Captain.”
They are still, somehow, dancing.
“You can, uh, really move.”
“You are… sufficiently gifted in that department, yourself.”
“Please, I’m terrible!”
“Mmyes, well. I’m trying to be polite.”
Windblade laughs once, then grunts as someone bumps into her and she takes a step to stabilise herself, in turn staggering a bit.
Starscream catches her by her servo and rights her with a clearing of his vents, his digits a bit larger, and yet hers are more callused. She is not rough by any means, but his pristine shell is like silk compared to her own.
“Oh, thanks?”
“You’re welcome?”
The Cityspeaker and the Captain dance tentatively together, palms compressed, digits loosely interwoven.
“Wow, you’re kinda soft.”
“Excuse me?”
“I mean that as a compliment. You’ve got soft servos. It’s… nice?”
“Ah, yes, well, I am very strict about my self-maintenance. I use oils and such things before every recharge and I try to get others to do the physically hard work for me, to preserve my shell.”
Windblade chuckles at that. “It suits you, I suppose.”
“These calluses here,” Starscream goes on, tracing his thumb across a particularly hard patch. “What caused these?”
“Stormfall’s hilt. Wielding a sword for a few million years will toughen the servos a bit.”
“I see.” He smiles thinly, handsomely. “It suits you, I suppose.”
This makes her laugh again.
Bumblebee turns to find his best friend, sees her dancing with Starscream and apparently having a civilised conversation with him about something, getting along just fine for a change, and gawks. “Grim! Arcee! Look!”
“By the Thirteen, that is supremely strange.”
“Yeah, what the frag.”
“Such is the power of a good groove, I guess! Damn!”
Starscream says something that has Windblade briefly flash a grin, her hips swaying with his, a polite distance between their shifting bodies, beads of perspired coolant glimmering upon their beautiful frames like jewels.
Bumblebee, Grimlock and Arcee dance together with their helms turned to observe, mutually astounded.
“Are you sure you’re okay with this?” Shadow Striker looks aside. “Pretending you didn’t say what you said to me. Pretending I didn’t abuse you back there. Pretending there’s still hope for me, with you.”
“If that’s what it takes to fix things between us, Sir, then I’ll just have to suck it up.”
“What do you gain outta this, though?”
“I get to keep you in my life.” Slipstream squeezes her commanding officer’s pauldron, then turns and begins to walk away. “But please don’t push me to violence like that again, Sir. I already hate myself.”
“Primus. You really shouldn’t.”
“It’s all I know, Sir. Don’t reinforce my self-hatred, now. Because before, you made me feel a little better about myself. You made me feel like I really am a good girl, after all.”
“You are a good girl.” The mercenary looks up as the Seeker takes a turn around the bend in the tunnel, catching a brief glimpse of a wounded wing freshly sealed. “My good girl.”
Shockwave has his back turned when he feels a palm settle upon his spinal seam. He turns his featureless helm, finials erect with interest. “Yes?”
“Thank you. Again.”
“Your gratitude has been acknowledged. It is no burden on my capabilities, nor a significant drain on my resources to assist you. It is my calculated assessment that you are safer with my intervention, as I am suitably equipped to assist, after your prior instruction. We have already discussed this, it does not require repetition. Query – why do you return to this topic? What remains unclear to you?”
“Maybe I’m just being silly.”
“Negative. Your intelligence exceeds all data and expectations.”
“Heh. Thank you, Sir.”
“I request a more substantive explanation.”
“Okay. Well… I guess it’s just that you haven’t asked me why I am the way I am. You haven’t intellectually challenged my personhood. I keep fearing you might lose respect for me, but you don’t treat me any differently, day by day, month after month. If anything, I feel closer to you, Sir. I feel comfortable, here. Safe, with you.”
“Closer. Comfortable. Safe.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“With… me.”
They nod once.
He whirrs. “Your core competence continues meet the measurement of my satisfaction,” is his eventual reply, carefully worded. “It does not impair your work, doing what you feel you must do.” His singular optic rolls in its socket, peering unblinkingly down at their servo still upon him. “Our progress remains steady. Our cooperative undertaking bears greater fruit than our prior projections had indicated possible. Megatron is pleased with us. I am pleased with you.”
The Seeker smiles placidly at the scientist.
“However…”
“…However?”
“I do not protest your personhood, as I have no objection to who you are.” Shockwave exhales from his vents, lowering his finials flat against his cranial casing. “My mind is analytical, Acid Storm – but that does not equate to a narrow mind. Do not insult my intelligence. I am no bigot.”
They squeeze his pauldron, leaning in to gently brush their cheek against his.
It makes his body throb, but not in the way that hurts. He just keeps very still and permits the nuzzle. “Is that all?” Dare he request something more? Does he have hope that there could be something else, upon their horizon, trapped in a laboratory where the natural sunlight or the caress of the open air cannot reach?
“That’s all. I’ll get back to work, Sir, and leave you in peace to attend to yours.”
“Affirmative.”
Acid Storm then drifts away, calmly and quietly returning to their side of the lab.
Shockwave watches them go.
“You defended my honour.”
“Yeah, well.” Thunderblast rolls over upon their shared recharge slab so that their optics meet. “Don’t romanticise it, okay?” She gives Slipstream a little kiss on the cheek. “I’m nobody’s armoured knight and I’m definitely no hero.”
“Good. Because I don’t want you hitting anyone on my account, ever again.” The Seeker smiles faintly, finding the boat’s servo, squeezing her slender digits. “I don’t like it.”
“Ugh! You’re such a sap. Fiiine.” Thunderblast grumbles on and on for a bit, but melts when Slipstream stoops to push herself under her chin, cuddling closer against her, nuzzling into her breastplate. “Aw. You’re kinda cute, in your big, blocky way. No wonder I wanna protect you.”
The Seeker sighs against the boat’s chassis, squeezing her digits once more before powering down to fall into exhausted recharge within the warmth and refuge of her slender arms.
“Sweet dreams, sugar glider.”
“You have your next assignment,” Megatron says, projected from Shadow Striker’s terminal. “The particulars will reach you over the usual encrypted channel. I leave the details up to your discretion, but I want this to send a particular message. You may get creative, so long as my message is clear.”
She grimaces.
Notes:
My interpretation of Cliffjumper takes his charismatic personality from Prime and combines that with his generally rather unfortunate lot in life from the comics, particularly evident in the 2019 reboot where even Optimus mistakes Cliffjumper for Bumblebee as a sort of gag that becomes really sad upon reflection. I'm afraid Cliffjumper does die horribly in this story, as per tradition for the character. As for Shockwave, I could reference his G1 "FEMALE!" stance as well as his initial disdain for Terrans in Earthspark as examples of how bigoted he is canonically, but I prefer to think that early on in his career, he is much more open to acknowleding others as people too, thus he is more accepting. I figure early Shockwave is less twisted, being a mad scientist with some capacity for good still in him, until Megatron encourages/endorses experiments on Decepticons and Autobots and thus Shockwave becomes a villain. His intellectual superiority, insatiable curiosity, willingness to ignore ethics in science to achieve desired results, and general trauma will make him horrible later on. Ultimately, this is my story and if I want Shockwave to develop a crush on Acid Storm as his laboratory assistant and among the smartest of the Seekers, then so be it.
Thank you for indulging me thus far. I know my chapters can get rather large (like six thousand - ten thousand words large) and I do subject you to a great deal of emotional upheaval and political intrigue, plus I must confess that pacing all the things I have planned is the hardest part of writing this story (though I am enjoying myself and I hope you are too). I just thought I ought to mention I have some real action planned for next chapter, so I hope you're hyped for murder! Just joking. But seriously, there will be murder next chapter.
Chapter 38
Notes:
Possible trigger warnings: violence and death, descriptions of gore, mutilation of corpses, abuse of authority, manipulative tactics, workplace and relationship toxicity.
Chapter Text
“Oh, and Shadow Striker.”
“Yes, Megatron.”
“I am deliberating as to how I might release Slipstream from your responsibility.”
Shadow Striker is gripped with fresh dread. She shows it in her face.
“Your reports indicate to me that she has settled in with the others and maintains a productive schedule.”
“She’s made friends here. She pulls her weight and then some. I can’t fault her work ethic or her sociability.”
“However, you have not reassured me that she is capable of fulfilling an active role in the field, considering her temperament and the nature of your work. The others I trust to do whatever they are told, whether out of duty, convenience, or enjoyment.”
“She blew up the Grand Imperium and captured the sole surviving Senator. She isn’t innocent.”
“This is true. Yet I have my doubts. Starscream has proclaimed her misery to me. He is certain she suffers under your watch. I do not mean to prolong her suffering.”
“That smug little glitch can frag right off,” Shadow Striker snarls without consideration.
Megatron looks surprised, then amused. “I forget that you have a certain affection for her.”
“Let’s not push it.”
“Very well, then. But do you not agree that her talents would be better utilised elsewhere, with a team in which she might better flourish? We have more Seekers now, and many more shall soon join us. Experienced seniors will be needed to teach the little ones. Her personality would be ideal for such a thing, my dear Starscream’s pettiness aside. Whilst I grant him command of his Seekers, he does forget that I have the final say over all who carry my Deceptibrand.”
“I admit she’s not a great pick for this team, but she’s endeared herself to everyone. I’m personally training her in combat to ensure her readiness for battle. She just needs a bit of experience. I’ll get her on the field, guide her through the motions, keep her on task myself. Don’t reassign her. Let that be her decision.”
“Mm. For one such as you to show such concern… Very well, then. For now, I will leave her with you. If she should prove a liability, however, I do expect to know about it.”
“Understood.”
“Thank you, Shadow Striker. Oh, and good luck on your new assignment. It has been a bit of a while, I was hoping to avoid using you quite this way. Alas.”
“I don’t rely on luck. I have skill and a good team. We’ll get it done.”
“Excellent! Remember, keep one alive. Cull the rest.”
“Will do.”
With that said, the connection severs, leaving only the Deceptibrand as a placeholder background image.
Shadow Striker dismisses the holoscreen and stares into space for a while.
Chromia smiles indulgently, careful in the way she grasps Windblade’s ornamental crest betwixt two large, rugged servos, coaxing her helm to rise and fall a little faster between shapely thighs, wings ejecting from their sheaths to flutter and spin turbines hard enough to churn air.
“Yeah, bestie, you go get that spike. Chugging it like a pro.” Bumblebee kneels on the floor, chin atop the berth, giving him a great view of the action up close and personal, on their level. “Nobody sucks spike like you. You’re so good at that.”
The Cityspeaker moans wetly, muffled. She is easily excited just by servicing others, she enjoys praise for good work, but knowing that they have an audience has her performing more than usual. She arches her spine more than necessary, making a show out of contorting her beautiful body more than is strictly comfortable, rippling impressively under her curvaceous armoured sheets that shimmer with sweat.
The bike’s smile falters as dentas nip the tip of her spike. “Ouch. Be nice.”
“Hey.” The scout reaches over to offer a sharp little slap on the aft. “Be nice, like she said.”
Windblade answers that with a growl and does something that has Chromia writhing atop the big berth.
“Oh, Solus Prime! Ohhh!”
Bumblebee grins, then grimaces as a loud wet wretch somewhat spoils the romanticism of that moment. “Easy, bestie, don’t choke.”
The Cityspeaker swallows the initial burst of the bike’s overload, but pulls off just in time to catch a generous slop of transfluid to the chin, neck, breastplate, grasping her spike and manipulating it to aim the stiff yet pliant, handsomely engorged length where desired.
“Messy glitch.”
“Mmmhmm!”
“You’re such a slag for spike.” The scout giggles. “I love you. Both of you.”
Chromia collapses, twitching and gasping, but she finds Bumblebee’s servo and squeezes it in reply. Although they never interface, they do enjoy witnessing each other in the throes of passion, with Windblade as the typical instigator of these shared trysts, the one who frags them both.
“You gonna kiss me, now?”
The Cityspeaker proceeds to throw herself at the scout, slobbering all over his grin, smearing transfluid and oral lubricant across his cheeks, his chin, his jaw.
The bike is left languishing, flushed and deflated, at total ease. She watches them with amusement and affection and arousal. Her considerable spike twitches.
It is cold and dark outside, but warm and bright inside.
“Is she gonna be okay?” asks Thunderblast delicately, speaking below the hum of the shuttle acting as their transport this night. “I really think we should’ve left her back at base, Sir. No shade, of course.”
“She won’t frag the mission. It’ll be hard on her, but she needs to be productive on the field, like any one of us, if she’s to fit in and avoid Megatron’s notice.
“Megatron threatening to fire her or something?”
“You don’t fire cold constructs. You destroy them and replace them.”
“Oh, damn.”
“It’s a risk for her. He wants to reassign her out of pity, to fix what Starscream broke. But the risk is always there.”
“Poor girl.”
“I’d hate for that to happen.”
“I don’t wanna lose her either, but your attachment to her is as unhealthy as Flamewar’s, you know that? Assuming it is just a reassignment, think of it this way. Slipstream might flourish somewhere else, with a team of people who aren’t degenerates like us. Why deny her that chance?”
Shadow Striker grimaces. “Do you even know the Decepticon higher-ups? All aftholes. Soundwave is the only fragger with any class, and he is still an afthole.”
“Well, the other bosses can’t be much worse than you, Sir.”
“No telling who would take her, what they would do to her. She’s barely a Decepticon, not like the rest of us. She needs protection and supervision until she can mech up and manage herself. The potential is there, she just needs a little... nurturing, I guess.”
“Aw. Look at you, embracing those awkward and awful mentor figure vibes.”
“Whatever. She saved my life, I gotta watch over her while I can. I’ll keep an optic on the rookie. You just keep Demolishor out of trouble. He’s not built for what’s being asked of him, either.”
Slipstream says some soft sweet nonsense whilst stroking Flamewar, who is adorably flopped over and snoozing in the seat beside her, apparently lulled to sleep by the shuttle engines.
“I always feel sick in these things,” Demolishor grumbles, clinging to whatever fixture he can for support.
“Don’t hurl in here, sweetie. I will get upset in this confined space and you don’t want that, especially not whilst airborne.”
“Heh, no promises.”
“Come in.” Ariel looks up from her desk, Captain Snuffles asleep in the bend of her resting arm, her servos busy with assembling a fresh terrarium. “Oh. Hey.” Long tweezers manipulate little living things within the crystalline dome.
“Hi,” Sentinel says, trying a smile. His prominent chin and jawline render him handsome, in an easily mocked way. His huge form drawls closer slowly, until he spies the organic matter and he takes a rather timid step back, clearing his vents.
“Need something?”
“No. I just thought I’d, uh, check in on you.”
“You’re not here to yell at me some more?”
“Don’t be cruel. I’m trying, here. Okay?”
“Sorry.” The old femme sighs, setting down her tweezers and pushing the terrarium aside, giving the old mech her full attention except for the digits that make a fuss over Captain Snuffles.
“That creature is so… furry. Doesn’t it bother you?”
“I like it. He’s soft, ticklish, and warm.”
“Eugh.”
“Just pet him once.”
“Absolutely not. I’d hate that.”
“How can you know you’ll hate it, if you never try it?”
Sentinel narrows his beautiful optics, giving the peacefully asleep Captain Snuffles a withering look, chin jutting out to become even more pronounced. “I’m quite certain, thank you.”
Ariel giggles, her strong digits dragging slow, soothing lines through the organic alien creature’s fur. “Can I interest you in a drink and some conversation, then?” From a drawer of her desk she produces a bottle, swishing the contents invitingly. “I got some Engex. It’s nice.”
“Now, that does sound tempting.”
“Sit your big aft down. No glasses, though, so we’re drinking from the bottle. You’re gonna wanna be seated for that.”
“You fiend. You ought to act your age.”
“Frag off. This old lady has plenty of vroom left over from the days of our wild and reckless youth.”
And so they sit together, chatting over a bottle, sometimes succeeding in getting one another to laugh.
Captain Snuffles sleeps through the whole thing.
“Uh, hello? You’re seeing this, right? Is this thing on?”
“We see it.”
“Okay, cool. So!” Flamewar’s claws drip Energon as she paces sleekly about the room like a predator driven mad within a cage. “Whatcha think?” Her silent steps neatly navigate furniture and fixtures, gaze upon the body, sharing her perspective from various angles via a private broadcast. “Check out the little Deceptibrands I carved. Pretty nifty, if I say so myself.”
“Mm. I think you’re a little psycho,” Thunderblast replies over their shared comms, speaking through Soundwave’s tailor-made layers of encryption, being the Decepticon communications specialist, spy, and social media guy. “You play with your food.”
“You play too much,” Demolishor intones with a sigh. “Did Megatron really sanction this?”
“He said get creative and kill in such a way that sends a message, right! This is symbolic!”
“Is your target still… alive?” asks Slipstream with audible nausea, despite utilising her internal comm link so as to be outwardly silent, thus her input is more akin to a thought than actual speech.
“Barely. You okay, Slippy?”
“Oh, I’ve been better.”
“Keep it together. You got this.”
“Kill him and be done with it,” Shadow Striker interjects in her grumpy, brusque manner. “And minimise chatter. Focus.”
Flamewar disconnects with a sigh. “Nobody appreciates how much skill goes into keeping someone alive in such condition. I’m really good, y’know. Makes me wonder, who am I – who was I? Will I ever know? Oh, but you don’t wanna hear my tragic backstory or lack thereof!”
The trembling mech fades in and out of rest mode, revived by the terror of his situation and the pain of his body as his attacker yet encircles him like he is prey, drawing close enough to brush sleekly against him.
“I hope Megatron likes this.” She caresses a slender, fragile neck in passing, almost lovingly. “Shh, shh, shh.” Slicing fuel lines with the scalpels of her digits to spill a lethal quantity of Energon on her way out, careful not to step in any of the downpour, she pauses at the viewing port, opened a crack to let in a cool draft, which gave her easy access and proved his doom.
He flails, his struggles hastening the spillage from his slit throat, unable to plug his wounds with his servos cut off and stuffed in his intake, symbolic of his to be eternal silence. The severed stumps of his wrists stab uselessly, every bend of his elbow joints increasing the pressure of freely flowing fuel.
She listens for the distinct death rattle, wet and gurgling, then makes her escape into the dark of the early morning. So as not to leave a dripping trail of his lifeblood, she licks her claws clean. The cloak integrated within her framework will render her almost invisible to the outside world. Any lingering symptoms of her presence, such as her own Energon trail, will dissipate over the hours. She will have vanished and be long gone by the time the body is finally discovered.
Hot Rod slumbers in the glow of Soundwave’s datapad, the Decepticon scrolling through his socials with his lover laid over his breastplate, helm tucked in the crook of his neck.
A meow draws attention to the sleek black cybercat in the doorway, optics round and glowing.
“Fine. Stay out of trouble. Be back by morning.”
A slow blink, which communicates affection in felines, betrays Ravage before he hisses meanly as if to contradict that and turns to depart on silent paws for a solitary walk. He is fattening up nicely under the indulgence of his caretakers, shell glossy with restored health, temperament just as feral, although he is gradually acclimatising to being touched and talked to in silly voices.
“Love you,” Soundwave calls musically after the cybercat, then chuckles at the spitting hiss that answers him.
Hot Rod mumbles something in his sleep as a palm rubs his back strut.
Revived from his drunken stupor on the couch after another argument had exiled him from the berth, woken by a cut-off screech of agony he recognises as his lover and the thud of something hitting the carpet in the berthroom they sometimes share, the foggy mech is smart enough to move slowly and carefully as he grabs a weapon and tries to stay hidden, but too stupid to attempt calling the police or making an escape to spare himself of whatever has invaded this home. Perhaps he fancies himself a masculine hero, about to have his moment. Perhaps that is the high-grade still burning in his systems. Slowly he draws closer to the source of the disturbance, to discover a scene of turmoil. He steps on something that cracks under his pede and glances down at a crystalline portrait of himself and her, taken at a happier time, overturned and thrown to the floor in the struggle.
“Scrap, now I feel sloppy,” mutters Shadow Striker, still cloaked and communicating internally, an outwardly invisible and inaudible terror poised over the twitching body of his femme. “She’s got a mech.” A rueful grin is aimed at Slipstream. “And here I thought I did my homework. Sure, I’m no assassin, but as a professional, I try to account for innocent bystanders. Oops.”
The mech takes some time to process what he is seeing, then unsteadily totters closer to the body, overcome by stress. “What the-?” Only to bump into something, or rather someone.
The Seeker blocks the way, towering over him. She sees the knife. “He’s armed, Sir.”
“Disarm him, then.”
“I might hurt him.”
“Yeah, big fragger like you, I reckon you just might.” The mercenary watches whilst subduing the dying femme, generally unbothered. “Too bad, for him. Shoulda escaped while he had the chance, but he wants to be the hero. Too late, for her. She’s already almost dead.”
Mystified, he slowly reaches forward and waves a trembling servo in front of himself, brushing his digits over the cockpit in passing. His grip on the knife tightens. “How?”
“He stinks of booze.”
“I can smell it from here. Remember, never underestimate a guy with a knife. Get control of it, before he gets lucky and sticks it in you.”
The mech tentatively shoves Slipstream, who is utterly unaffected. “Hello?” In his drunken state, he imagines this is just a very realistic dream. Surely he is confronting a phantom of his own imagination.
She promptly grabs his frail arm, trying to be gentle as she attempts to pry the knife from his servo.
“N-no! Frag you!” Instantly irate, he drunkenly punches, slaps and kicks wherever he can reach, deaf and blind to his assailant. “Geddoff! Lemme go!” His blows are ultimately harmless, but annoying and painful.
“Ow. Gimme that. Ow. Stop it. Ow.”
“Graaargh!”
Shadow Striker seems to find this altercation amusing, because she giggles creepily.
“Sir, this isn’t funny. Ow. He’s really - ow - putting up a fight.”
“Oh, please. You’re at least three times his weight. Stop playing nice.”
The drunk mech resorts to biting the fist that easily restrains his entire arm. He cannot penetrate the armoured knuckle, but he does scrape the paint, catching flakes on his bared dentas.
“Ow!"
He spits. “Show yourself, coward! Fight me like a mech!” As he cannot see them or hear them, he cannot know he is outnumbered. But he does realise he is hopelessly outmatched.
“What do we do about him, Sir?” asks the longsuffering and reluctant Seeker through her internal comm link, aware that he cannot perceive her, thus she has the advantage over the knife he brandishes, a small and pathetic Energon blade intended to help cut soft unliving metals in the preparation of meals, but lethal if used right. She is impressed by his ability to cling to the hilt whilst clearly intoxicated.
“Kill him, what else?” The mercenary scoffs. “He’s in our way and he’s with a Functionist fool. We only need one prisoner, and that’s up to Thunderblast and Demolishor, not us.”
In a lapse of judgment, Slipstream loosens her grip and turns to glare back at Shadow Striker. “But Sir–”
“D-don’t touch me!” The mech pries himself free and swings the knife wildly at nothing.
“Whoa! Too close!”
“Idiot! I taught you better than that! Never turn away from your opponent, always keep the weapon in your sights. Basic stuff.”
“I’ll kill you!”
“Ugh. Primus. You got this one or what? I’m a bit busy.”
“Sir, please don’t make me do this.”
“I’ll deal with him myself if you feel you really can’t. But you know I want what’s best for you, yeah?”
“How is this what’s best for me, Sir?”
“You gotta toughen up, or I can’t protect you from those other authority figures who don’t care for you like I do.”
The mech looks about wildly, knife slashing the air as he backs up against a wall, too terrified to come any closer to the invisible and inaudible killers.
The femme laid out on the floor reaches for him, gurgling. She seems crushed under a terrible weight.
That weight is Shadow Striker, cloaked. “I can only teach you so much, but you gotta do some things yourself if you wanna learn.”
“I don’t wanna learn this!”
“Then do it because you have to. I need you to work with me, here. C’mon, it’ll be easy for you. I’ve almost finished her off, and he’s a wimp, clearly civilian. Consider it another step on your new career path. Or do you want Megatron to find someplace else to dispose of you? Because we both know Scream won’t take you back, so your aft is fair game to anyone who feels like taking you, for whatever purposes. If anyone else wants you, that is. Soon, problematic Seekers like you will be easily replaced. Being decommissioned is always a prospect. But with me, you have worth, you have individuality.”
Slipstream sees the sick sense in this, the awful truth, as horrific and hurtful as that is to admit to herself.
“Let me take care of you.”
“Sir, this is a lot.”
“I know, good girl. I know.”
“You come a-any closer and I’ll–”
“I’m sorry,” the Seeker says.
“W-what?”
“I don’t want to.” She says it out loud. “But I have to.”
He looks at her, although he cannot see her.
“Don’t struggle. It’ll only make this hurt you worse. Please.”
The mercenary sighs, patience wearing thin.
In a drunken panic, able to determine Slipstream’s location based on her voice, he lunges with the knife thrust out to stab.
She sidesteps, seizing the mech by his wrist and twisting it harshly aside, snapping the frail joint. A Seeker's strength, as with any military unit, is akin to a mountain in comparison to a fragile civilian.
He drops his knife with a howl and swings blindly with his other fist, crushing his own digits against her reinforced chassis. He howls harder.
“Shut him up.”
“Yes, Sir, just–”
The mech falls to his knees in defeat, sobbing, broken servo pinned against his own breastplate, twisted wrist flopping uselessly as the invisible fist releases him.
“Oh, no! No, no, no.” The Seeker trembles, restraining the instincts of her combat programming. “Please don’t cry.”
The mercenary rubs her brows, hissing through her grimace.
As a servo touches his cheek, he proceeds to scream.
“Frag! What do I do? Sir!”
“First off, stop freaking out. That helps nobody and it annoys me.” Shadow Striker makes an impatient noise, kneeling atop the femme who gurgles back to her screaming lover. “Second, actually decide for yourself if you can spontaneously grow the ball-bearings you need to finish the job. Do I have to do everything myself?”
“I’m trying, okay! This comes easily to you, not me!”
“Do you want Megatron to send you away? Do you wanna lose me, lose the rest of them?”
“No! Of course not!”
“Then act competent for once!” The mercenary has actually avoided yelling at her subordinate. This becomes obvious when she does raise her voice, forgetting her internal comm link to bellow outwardly, “I can’t shield you from everything, forever! For frag’s sake! Do it already or get outta my way, fool!”
The Seeker flinches. “Yes, Sir,” she mumbles very feebly.
The mech will not stop screaming, not even as he is hoisted up and pinned against the wall by an invisible force bigger and stronger than he is. As a fist closes about his neck, digits hooked over his jaw, his scream is choked.
Slipstream intends to snap his neck, which she has never done before, until he manages to clap a palm over her audial. In the painful ringing that follows, already in a poor state of mind that seems to worsen all the time as her connection to her inner soldier is solidified, she lashes out instinctively, driving her other fist into his face.
His jaw crumples crookedly inwards and he instantly shuts down, silent save for his wheezing vents and whirring cooling fans.
“Not how I would’ve done it, sure, but whatever works for you.” Shadow Striker’s scope settles on the dangling mech. “Primus. Got a mean right hook. Hit him again and you just might kill him! Don’t be cruel, now! Finish what you started!” ”
Slipstream withdraws her fist and sobs once. “Y-yes, Sir.”
“Wait-”
She throws another punch, sinking her reinforced knuckles in deeper, transferring paint within the mech’s mangled face plate.
“By the light of the Thirteen, that wasn’t an order! I was joking! Don’t literally beat him to death!”
“Oh.”
The mech is unrecognisable. His face plate is rendered concave, a crater sunk deep into his helm. Brain module seeps from his audials, enstrils, the sockets of his burst optics. His buckled jaw hangs open upon its dislocated hinge.
“Well, that did it.”
She feels hot Energon upon her cheek. Some of it gets in her intake when she reflexively licks her dermas. It turns something inside her, something she knows is permanent.
“Ugh. Big, beautiful, brute.” Shadow Striker shakes her helm slowly. “What am I gonna do with you?”
Slipstream drops the mech and slowly backs away.
For a while, they are silent and still.
“Sir, I thought you said you like me best when I’m gentle.”
“I didn’t lie when I told you that. I hate seeing you like this.”
“Then why are you turning me into this?”
“Because if turning you into the weapon you were meant to be, is what it takes to keep you safe with me, to ensure your survival, to give you some chance at a better future with a happy ending, then so be it. Besides, you clearly need my help. This soldier stuff will never leave you. It was always inside you.”
“So, then I was born a monster.”
“Not a monster. A weapon.”
The Seeker barely registers a pat on her back strut, the mercenary having drawn close to her.
“What you ultimately choose to do with your weaponry determines how monstrous you become. You’re young and inexperienced, a little bit outta control. Give yourself room to grow and settle into it. You could be a good soldier. A great soldier. You’re no butcher. For now, though. Think you can manage one more?” Shadow Striker nods aside at the femme, dragging herself across the carpet.
Slipstream sniffles, nods mutely, and trudges over.
“Just break the neck this time, okay? No more punching.”
There is a whimper, then a wet metallic crunch.
“That’s it.” The mercenary offers a thumbs-up. “Quick and clean, after I roughed her up for you. Good girl.”
The Seeker holds herself.
Shadow Striker smiles grimly. “Leave the rest to me, okay? I gotta mutilate the body.”
“Please don’t.”
“Sorry. I gotta do it. Big mech’s orders. We gotta impress, see? We can’t be too outdone, or our little maniac’s gonna look like a zealot.”
“How can we call ourselves the good guys?”
“We call ourselves Decepticons.”
After pondering this momentarily, Slipstream throws up her servos. “I hate my life! Aaah!” Fortunately, these upmarket habitation suites are designed with excellent noise cancellation in mind, being soundproofed so as to ensure the utmost comfort and privacy.
“I know how you feel.” Shadow Striker scoops up the dead femme. “I’m trying to acclimatise you to death and dying, sure, but even this is fragged up. Like, this is dirty work, even for me. I sincerely worry about whatever is going on with Megatron. But at least this is an easy score to get you a little experience.”
“These are people! I just killed two people!”
“Just like back at the Grand Imperium. You got over planting those explosives.”
“No, Sir! I just hid my horror!”
“This is no different. I offer no excuse for my part in this, I do what I have to if it gets me paid. You can’t take the heat and do your job, then fine. You wanna leave me? Wanna leave the whole gang? Wanna crawl back to try your luck with Scream, or try coax your girlfriend to abandon all she cares about to run away with you? There’s the door. But you know what that entails.”
Slipstream glares at Shadow Striker.
“Go on, run for it. Escape while you can. I won’t stop you.”
The Seeker snarls, then scoops up the dead mech, throwing him over a pauldron with a regretful pat on his limp back strut.
“Staying?”
“No point in leaving, is there? We’ve been over this before. I’m one of yours.”
“That’s my good girl.” The mercenary chuckles. “Knew I could count on you, after all.”
“Let’s not make this difficult,” Thunderblast mutters through pretty, perfect dentas, bared as she jabs the taser into the mech’s lower back and pulls the trigger yet again. “Maybe this is a better spot. C’mon, switch off already. This stinks like burning, so nasty. Why are you still conscious? Is this thing working right?”
“That stuff really hurts.” Demolishor gets residual shock as he holds their struggling prey to the floor, muffling cries in heavy armour and carpet. Being so large, it would take more than this to disable him, but clearly he dislikes the sensation. “Please hurry.”
“I’m doing the thing as best as I can! He’s just not passing out! I dunno how sugar glider managed!”
“Gimme that. Lemme try it.”
“Whatever!” The boat tosses the taser to the tank. “Good luck!”
His tubed digits fumble to catch it. He then proceeds to whack their target across the helm with the butt end of the taser just once, but this proves effective.
“What an elegant solution, sweetie.”
“Thanks. You got the cuffs?”
Thunderblast retrieves them with a smirk, twirling the stasis cuffs about a slender digit. “Kinky, right?”
“Sure. If you were a leggy mech with a great rack, I’d fall for it.”
“Ooh! If I ever find a mech who’s leggy and has a great rack, I’m sorry, sweetie, but he’s mine! Not sharing that!”
“Spoilsport. Cuff him, then let’s get outta here.”
“Yes, Sir!” She comically salutes, to her companion’s amusement.
“You gonna puke?”
Slipstream gags a bit, but shakes her helm, averting her gaze from the body.
“Get it together. Like I said, you gotta get used to killing and gore if you’re gonna work with the rest of us out in the field. Leave the cutting to me. Just keep yourself together.”
“I know. And like I said, I don’t want to, Sir.”
“Tough scrap. You’re gonna do it anyway, like it or not. I’ll help you.” Shadow Striker rubs the younger femme’s back strut, murmuring intimately into her audial. “I can’t shield you from our purpose forever and I don’t wanna give Megatron fuel to reassign you. I’ll ask you again - you wanna get sent away, to whoever the frag?”
The Seeker shivers and shakes her helm. “N-no, Sir.”
“I thought not. Considering the Decepticon higher-ups, I figure you’ve got it bad with me, but you could have it worse with someone else. I’m taking care of you, okay?” The mercenary brushes her dermas against a sweaty cheek. “It’s gonna be over soon. Help me finish it quick and clean. We can’t hurt her, now. She’s already dead.”
“Y-yes, Sir.”
“You goddit under control? You solid?”
“I’m f-f-fine.”
“There, there. You’re just in shock now, after the kill. It’s a side-effect of prolonged exposure to the adrenaline protocols. It’ll purge eventually and you’ll feel better. Just focus on my voice and put your servos to the task of hauling that body for me. Flip her over. Hold her steady for me.”
Slipstream is delegated to the dumb muscle, gingerly getting her big, strong servos on the deceased, rolling the corpse over and pinning it in place.
“That’s it. Good girl.” Shadow Striker extracts her knife. “Close your optics.”
The Seeker squeezes them shut, whimpering. “She’s still w-warm, Sir.”
“Hush. She’s gone.” The mercenary uses a soft, scarily patient undertone. “Disable your olfactory sensors. It’s gonna stink real bad when I breach the gut.”
Thus Slipstream is temporarily blind and cannot smell a thing, but her other sensors remain online. The corpse is jostled in her grip as the shell is sliced into with low grunts of effort, protoform mesh sizzling due to the heat, wet squelching indicating that the belly is being carved open and peeled apart.
“You’re doing great. I’m proud of you. I know this is hard for you, but you’re–” Shadow Striker stops and sighs as she hears the younger femme wretch and swallow her own vomit so as not to contaminate the scene they are setting. “That was disgusting.”
“S-sorry, Sir.”
“Gimme a second to get the guts out, then help me string her up. You might have to peek.”
“Oh, n-no.”
Megatron is wide awake, watching Starscream sleep.
The Captain is the most beautiful creature, when he is silent and still and soft.
The old gladiator hates himself for feeling such flourishing frustration, such mounting annoyance.
Shadow Striker looms in an alleyway. “Status?” She does not need to speak aloud.
Slipstream leans back against the wall, peering at the garbage disposal unit, contemplating climbing inside.
“Job’s done!” Flamewar replies cheerfully from her internalised comms. “But you already knew that, huh? I’m so badaft.”
“The big guy and I got one, a live one,” Thunderblast purrs, sounding quite proud of herself. “We’re ready to make the drop-off.”
Shadow Striker nods. “Good work, team. Initiate the final phase.”
Slipstream scoffs, drawing her commanding officer’s attention.
“You ready to go?”
“Yes, Sir.”
The old mercenary steps closer, quiet and huge, cloak briefly disengaged to preserve power. “Hey, now.”
The disgraced Seeker allows a digit to hook under her chin, tipping back her helm and forcing her to look up into that gruesome smile.
“We did good. Megatron is clearly getting desperate, making us do these things, but we got it done and it will be effective. This is gonna freak out the Functionist Council and send the lot into a mad panic. Panic makes people do stupid scrap. People frag up when they panic, make mistakes that cost them.”
“She had a mech, Sir. Someone who cared enough to spend the night with her.”
“Okay, well. It doesn’t take much care, to coax someone to spend the night. All it takes is persuasion.”
“He could’ve been her husband, maybe.” Slipstream drags an arm across her face plate, sniffling.
“Stop that. C’mere.” Shadow Striker opens her arms with a grimace.
The Seeker flops forward against the mercenary, sighing against her breastplate.
“I wanna take care of you, good girl, but I can’t keep mothering you like this.” Shadow Striker kisses Slipstream atop her helm, rubbing her back strut. “You gotta accept that this is your job. That’s all this is, to you. A job you gotta do. Get used to it and you’ll make it easier on all of us. Team effort, yeah?”
“I know, Sir. I’m sorry.”
“Hush. Let’s just get outta here.”
“You really shouldn’t sneak off to see me like this. And at such odd hours! You need your sleep, you know. As do I. This is becoming a bit of a problem.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“The fault is mine, not yours.”
“You do things to me, things that make me weak.” Nova Storm falls into Empress’ arms. “I can’t resist!”
“Dear, you have a mech who loves you.”
“Thunder wouldn’t deny me anything!”
“Then, you have his blessing?”
“Yeah! Of course! He’s just a little scared of you, like most mechs are, but I don’t understand it, how could anyone fear someone like you?”
“Quite easily, my dear.”
“They’re dumb.”
“Oh, Nova, darling.” The gladiator caresses the Seeker’s cheek with a large, blunt thumb, kissing her softly upon the forehelm. “You’re so strong, but sweet. I like that about you.”
Nova Storm’s optics flutter as she almost overloads just from that.
“Let me escort you back to your Seekers.”
“But–”
“No buts.” Empress silences protestations with a playful poke to the olfactory sensor. “Off we go.”
The Seeker looks distraught, until the gladiator easily picks her up and carries her off like a bride, headed for the Seeker barracks with a giggle.
“Stop that.”
Slipstream’s paint is scraped horribly by her endless scrubbing, agitatedly trying to scrub her servos clean.
“I said stop, dammit,” Shadow Striker snaps, seizing the younger femme’s thickset wrists and wrestling her away from the sink. “You’re hurting yourself. You’re clean, trust me. It’s all in your helm.”
The Seeker says something unintelligible.
“C’mere.” The mercenary pulls her into a crushing hug.
Slipstream buries her face plate in Shadow Striker’s neck.
“I’ve gotcha. I’m here. I’mma keep you safe, teach you to be strong and tough. Some lessons are just harder to learn than others. That’s okay.”
“I’m a bad person.”
“You think you’re bad? Look at your team. We’re all bad people down here, in the Pits, where we belong. You’re the best of us. Demolishor’s not so bad.”
“Windblade and Bee wouldn’t recognise me, now.”
“No, but they’re not here, they don’t know.”
“I wanna die.”
“Don’t tell me that. I like you. I’ll like you better alive. Besides, you go ahead and kill yourself, and it’ll just hurt Flamewar. She’d be lost without you.”
The Seeker is guided to sit on a plain metal bench, the mercenary kneeling on the tiles before her.
“Slipstream, look at me.” Shadow Striker offers a crooked, surly smile as dull optics rise to meet with her own, scope widening its focus. “Good girl.”
“I’m not good, Sir.”
“You are, compared to me.”
Slipstream’s servos ache as they are squeezed, then kissed.
“Ugh, frag’s sake. Look at that handsome face, all sad and scrap. C’mon, now. You only followed orders. You did what a soldier does. You don’t owe yourself any condemnation. Blame me instead.”
“Sir.” The Seeker twitches as the mercenary reaches to stroke her cheek. “Can I please go lie down?”
“Sure. Take an hour. You want me to send Flamewar?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“She’s capable of such vile things.”
“Hey, now. She’s a little crazy, but she’s on our side. And she loves you.”
“I love her, too.”
“Don’t tell her anything else. It’ll upset her.”
“I just want to lie down, Sir.” Slipstream rises unsteadily, teetering. “I don’t feel so good.”
“Lemme help.” Shadow Striker is the reason her subordinate has managed thus far. “Gimme your arm. Attagirl. One step at a time, remember? Like I told you before.”
The trek to the recharge bay is thus agonisingly slow.
The Seeker retracts her wings and collapses on the slab, curling in on herself, hiding her face from the world.
The mercenary lingers, standing over her, gaze downcast and brows furrowed.
Slipstream makes a low sound as a digit brushes over her hip.
“Can I stay, a little while? Or do you wanna be alone?”
“Dunno.”
“Ah. I see. I’ll stay, then. Move up a bit.”
Slipstream awkwardly shuffles aside. Moments later, she feels a great weight settle on the berth, close behind her.
“Wow. Thunderblast wasn’t exaggerating. This is uncomfortable as frag.” Shadow Striker grimaces, laid out upon the cramped, cold surface, unforgivably unyielding. She looks over at the femme laid out beside her. “Hey.”
“Sir.”
“You managed yourself well, out there. It will get easier with practice, I promise. Eventually, this’ll all seem kinda pedestrian.”
“That’s awful.”
“Yup. Get some sleep. I’ll frag off in five minutes, when you’re out. I’ll make sure the others leave you in peace.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
“You’re welcome.” Except the mercenary does not leave this berth, as she said she would.
The Seeker does not care, either way.
Chapter 39
Notes:
Possible trigger warning: discussion of suicide (in particular talk of robots essentially drowning themselves) - please note that I am not encouraging or in any way debating suicide, as this is a work of fiction intended for entertainment. Please read responsibly.
Chapter Text
Slipstream wakes to a familiar pressure upon her bosom and belly. She peels open her tired, dull optics and peers down herself to find Flamewar curled atop her, having slipped in stealthily for a cuddle, taking some advantage of Shadow Striker’s tendency to be surprisingly indulgent of her subordinates so long as their work is completed to her strict standards.
The bike is deep in recharge, engine idling with a constant low rumble, unobtrusive. She is a very strange, very sinister, but also very sweet little femme.
Compelled to pet her, the Seeker tries to lift her arm so as to apply a servo to the task, only to find it trapped. Her movement causes a grip she had not noticed before, to tighten about her bicep, almost vice-like.
“Don’t move,” the mercenary growls in the most absurdly chilling way, it devolves from alarming to amusing, somehow. Her perpetual scowl, nasty as it is, just completes the image so nicely. “I’m comfortable.”
“Oh, wow. Look at us.”
“Shuddup.” She has her helm tucked against Slipstream’s neck and is hugging her entire arm as if this is totally normal between them.
“Are you cuddling me right now, Sir?”
The bike snorts, but does not wake.
“Sir, you’re cuddling me right now.”
“Frag’s sake, femme.” Shadow Striker bares her dentas sullenly, scope rolling shyly aside. “Don’t make a big deal outta it. I can go away at any moment.”
“If you want to leave this berth, sure.” Slipstream is capable of clapping back with surprising effectiveness, albeit in her mild-mannered way. “You’re welcome to go, but I don’t mind if you stay.”
“I’m just kinda tired. I figure you and the others must be, too.”
“Yeah.”
“In a display of grace, I’ve decided to let the team rest up, until I feel better. Then it’s back to the grindstone for the lot of you.”
“Understood, Sir.”
“Good girl.”
Flamewar gets a nice scratch behind the audial with the servo that is not trapped in a hug. Her purring intensifies and she stretches out a long, shapely leg – she is blessed with her proportions, truly a femme of astonishing allure – but does not rouse beyond that.
“Big stretch,” the Seeker compliments the bike huskily. “Biiig stretch,” is repeated a little lower, with more emphasis.
The mercenary actually smiles at that. One of her rare, genuine smiles, lacking in bitterness or malice or ulterior motives.
Slipstream is miserable, but she is at peace now. Her inner soldier is quiet, the effects of the adrenaline protocols having finally worn off. She contemplates her lot in life whilst drawing comfort from the proximity of the femmes she loves, even if they are vile beasts capable of such destruction. She is, herself, vile and capable. She has found a place, here. She is accepted, wanted, loved.
Flamewar’s olfactory sensor twitches as a digit brushes across her scuffed cheek and upward, moving from cheek to cheek, intimately contemplating the darkness staining the lids of her shut optics.
“My little creature.”
“She is such a creature.” Shadow Striker pushes her face in deeper to enjoy the warmth of pulsing fuel lines and thrumming armoured plates, leaning heavily into her subordinate’s neck and pauldron. She embraces the burly arm a little more snugly.
The Seeker turns her helm to kiss the mercenary’s sharp brow, nuzzling against her.
The bike finally awakens, engine grunting as she yawns, then tapering off with a tiny squeak.
“Oh, frag off.” Shadow Striker grins, buried against Slipstream.
Flamewar just tilts her helm, optics readjusting with some flickering.
“You did not just make that noise.”
“What noise? I make loads of noise, except when I’m being sneaky.”
“It’s a marvel you can operate as stealthily as you do, considering… Well. Everything about you, really.”
“Yup, I’m unpredictable, an enigma. It’s part of what makes me irresistible to femmes.”
“Oh, is that so?”
“Ladies, either of you wanna kick me outta this berth?”
“Good point.”
“See? I goddit.” The bike lovingly rakes her claws over the Seeker’s chassis whilst smirking adorably at the mercenary, framed by fangs. “Seriously, though. My alt-mode is loud and proud and I can be rowdy with my shotgun, sure, but not every situation calls for explosive ordinance and stunts pulled at high speeds. My bow necessitates a little more tact, a little more stealth. I’m like a cybercat. Light on my pedes, until I knock something off the table, probably on purpose. Cybercats are aftholes.”
“You also turn into a liquid if I pick you up,” Slipstream notes mildly. “And you contort yourself to fit in all the strangest of places to take your naps.”
“Tripping hazard,” Shadow Striker mutters.
“It happened one time, boss bot. Demolishor already forgave me for that. He almost fell on me, like, I came this close to dying young and beautiful.”
“If only we could all be so fortunate.”
“You might be pretty old, boss bot, but you’re still beautiful. But you’re not allowed to die. You’re mine.”
The mercenary reaches over to lay her large palm on the bike’s cheek, caressing her with such fondness, it is unmistakable. “Yeah, I know.”
The Seeker sighs quietly, optics fluttering shut as she contemplates lazing away another hour.
“You okay, Slippy?”
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t gotta say it, if it’s not true.”
“I’m functional, then.”
“That’s a bit worse off than fine.” Flamewar climbs a little further upward, until her face hovers above Slipstream’s own. “Is there anything we can do?”
“Not really.”
“I wanna help, even if all that means is taking your mind off things. I know that mission was hard on you, Slippy, but boss bot said you did good.”
Shadow Striker grunts quietly in acknowledgment of that.
“So, can I distract you a little bit?”
“You’re very distracting, Flames.”
“I can be more distracting.”
The Seeker peels an optic open, narrowly, gazing up into the bike’s bright, round optics.
“Wanna frag?”
The mercenary perks at that, suddenly less tired. “Always.”
“Okay, boss bot’s in. Slippy?”
Slipstream is not all that much in the mood, with murder so fresh on her mind. She shakes her helm.
Flamewar is visibly disappointed. “Oh, okay. Wanna watch?”
“No, thank you.”
Shadow Striker lifts her helm and grimaces. Her own libido is so used to trauma by now, her tastes are surely shaped by it. She has always sought out decent lays after completion of missions as a matter of self-care.
“Then what do you wanna do?”
“I think I’m going to take a little walk by the mercury.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“Could you two please be sure to clean the slab when you’re done?”
“Sure. Of course.”
That said, the Seeker kisses the bike softly on the cheek, then bundles her up and neatly passes her over to the mercenary laid alongside, who accepts the smallest femme with a frown.
“Slippy, please don’t do the strong, silent thing and feel like you gotta self-isolate in fear of causing us offence or being misunderstood.” Flamewar nestles against Shadow Striker, watching Slipstream awkwardly heave herself off of the cramped recharge slab. “You know you can tell us what’s on your mind, no matter what. We’re your team.”
“I’m not sure what to say about anything right now. I don’t know how to process it. I’m just trying to come to terms with everything.”
“When you’re ready to talk, we’re ready to listen, Slippy.”
The Seeker nods once, then turns and walks out, closing the doors behind herself.
The mercenary turns to the bike with a sigh. “Still in the mood?”
“Not really.”
“Alright, then.”
“I’mma go after her.”
“No, let her be.”
“But boss bot!”
“She needs the space and solitude.” Shadow Striker kisses Flamewar’s forehelm, holding her close, bodily consuming her. “Give her that. It’s something.”
“Something she needs. But if feels like nothing.”
“Like there’s nothing to be done.”
“Slipstream did that?”
“According to Shadow Striker, yes.”
Starscream averts his gaze from the grizzly image. He wanted to be a part in reviewing the data packet sent within the report, following a successfully completed mission for the Decepticon cause. Now, he regrets his typical Seeker curiosity.
“I am surprised, myself. But not displeased. I can now confirm that this little ragtag assortment I selected, is effective. Indeed, I have assembled a team that generates results.” Megatron squeezes his second-in-command’s pauldron, intended to be reassuring. “It would seem young Slipstream does have a place on Shadow Striker’s team, after all. Perhaps you and I can now set our minds at ease.”
“No.”
“Star?”
“I don’t believe it. My little Seeker is too stupid and sweet to kill.”
“What about those explosives she set within the foundations of the once Grand Imperium?”
“That’s different.”
“How so?”
“It just is!”
“Your little Seeker may be grossly underestimated.”
“No!”
“Why are you so upset, Star? You ordered her reassignment. I merely honoured your wishes and permitted it.”
“As punishment, not perversion! I never intended this!”
“Perversion? Slipstream is doing her share of the work. I am pleased with her, in truth I am pleased with all of them. It is dirty work, ugly business, yes, but it is for the greater good, thus I will forgive and commend it.” Megatron rubs his chin, squeezing Starscream’s pauldron in thought. “I trust Shadow Striker’s reports, the bulk of which are positive. The bigger picture is clear to me, by now. I am familiar with these portraits. Flamewar in particular shows the most promise, though she is unstable and requires special attention. Even the elderly and refurbished Demolishor remains a fine Decepticon, loyal and obedient and disciplined. I would say that Thunderblast is an interesting case, as self-serving as Shadow Striker herself, yet more dangerous. All Shadow Striker needs is to earn her keep, which she does, most generously. Thunderblast lusts for power, however, and her propensity for cunning and cruelty can be most useful so long as her ambition is kept under my control, which should be a simple matter as she is apparently quite infatuated with me. Errm. My position of power, I mean. Not that I reciprocate her affections, of course. You are my only–”
“Slipstream is not like those degenerates! She suffers!”
“You can still take her back, Star.”
Starscream timidly glances at the projection, proof of what Slipstream is capable of, and then buries his face in Megatron’s chassis.
Bumblebee giggles, squirming as Windblade’s soapy digits tickle his wheels. “Bestie!” He presses against Chromia, clinging to her bigger framework, slick and fragrant with agitated solvent. “Stahp!”
The bike is generally very patient, even with her whole spike out, flaccid and dripping oil, dangerously close to the scout’s grip. Although it helps that the Cityspeaker’s luxurious lifestyle affords for a rather big shower cubicle, allowing for this play without it feeling too cramped.
Bumblebee buries his giggles in blue armour, wiggling his aft as he is now grasped about his hips and kissed behind his helm.
“I love you both.”
“We love you back.”
“Mmhm!”
Windblade is usually very graceful and aloof, but she has her moments, with the people she is closest to. She tilts her helm, distinctly avian, stooping to nuzzle the back of Bumblebee’s neck whilst smiling up at Chromia, the little mech pinned between them. Shapely brows wiggle suggestively above big blue optics.
“I want no complaints about how cold and hard the tiles are if you insist on being pinned against them,” the bike mutters handsomely.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m a pampered princess. But I’m your pampered princess.” The Cityspeaker winks. “What if I pin you against those cold hard tiles, huh, tough guy?”
“I am perfectly willing to endure.”
The scout dissolves into more giggles, melting between bigger femmes. His engine buzzes happily, as per his namesake.
“C’mon, turn that aft around, hike it up.”
Chromia obediently twists her powerful bulk within the confines of the generous shower cubicle, palms to the tiled wall, pauldrons forming a muscular arch. She sets her pedes apart, in turn pushing her aft back against Bumblebee. They do not frag each other directly, sure, but they do flirt a little.
“Ooh! Yum!”
Much of it is a performance intended mostly for Windblade’s benefit, of course. She delights in seeing him grab at the firm, shapely aft pressed against him, getting both his servos upon it, squeezing. She adores her best friends, they are so good to her. “How are those tiles, Chromia?”
“Cold and hard.”
“Uh-huh.”
The bike grunts as the scout gives her a smack upon the aft. Smirks at the hiss of pain that provokes.
“Ouch! Built like a… I dunno what, but something really firm! It always takes me by surprise!”
“Mind yourself, now. You just might break your servos on me someday, if you’re always this reckless.”
“Sure, there’s the risk, but it’d totes be worth it, though!”
The Cityspeaker reaches around her friends, seizing their spikes, stroking them to provoke Energon redirection, flowing into engorgement.
Bumblebee stabilises himself on Chromia’s firm aft whilst tilting back a bit to rest his helm against Windblade’s comforting bosom, sighing between the bigger femmes beneath a downpour of fresh hot oil. “Today is gonna be a great day. I can already tell.”
Thunderblast loves the mercury.
Mercury is pretty to look at, sure. Mechs take femmes on dates to the silicon beaches, but few dare tread deeper than their ankle joints when on romantic strolls. Anyone can see that there is beauty even in the lethality of it, but few can say they appreciate it.
She is among the few. Her alt-mode is rare, bordering on exotic. She can thank her mentor for that.
The moment he held her servo too tight and yanked her back despite her protestations, the moment he told her in all earnestness to listen to him for once and stay out of the mercury because it would destroy her, she knew.
She remembers him fondly now. But back then, she had realised he was fallible, vulnerable. He feared what he could not control, but she felt none of that fear, she sensed she would ultimately dominate, if she only could.
Her mentor did his best. He was not amused by her cheek when she scanned for herself a new image, designed to embrace liquids as a means of movement, just to spite being told no. But he was proud of her courage, for daring to be different. That was long ago. He would not be proud of her, now – his wayward daughter, defective from the moment he took her in as a lost cause nobody else could manage, unwanted and pitied and enfeebled by constraints of those who misunderstood her. He is dead, of course. Who cares for a dead mech’s opinion?
Not her. Or so she tells herself. She likes to live dangerously. She only follows rules if they benefit her in some manner, and she plans far ahead for certain eventual benefits, thus she only appears compliant for a time.
The sea has been charted through the efforts of brave explorers who went before her, the technological intervention of cowards since then, relying on satellite images and other such data translated into tedious graphs to make sense of the flowing veins of Cybertron. This is the natural consequence of landlocked frames being the overwhelming majority, because they would drown with mercury seeping into their vents, clogging their internal components, overheating their circuitry in the cold embrace of silver and silence.
She aches to touch the rippling mirror beneath her hull like a lover’s caress when she goes slow, she lives to cut her wake when racing the waves of the silver sea, she longs to submerge herself in it entirely when she dives below for a swim or to sink. To her, mercury is instinct. She instinctively craves contact with most liquid bodies. She can even withstand wading through molten Energon, although the rush leaves her overly charged and the hangover is unpleasant. She has found pleasure in being spat on, drenched in sweat and spattered by overloads. Just not at the table, or around food and the places in which food is prepared. That is nasty. She will eat aft and swallow transfluid, but she is a lady, after all.
Slipstream standing at the mercury’s edge, looking at her own reflection, unable to gauge exactly how deep it goes, poses a change in Thunderblast’s routine patrol.
“Hi, sugar glider.”
“Hey, dreamboat.”
One femme moves to stand beside another, slender arm reaching around to sling about narrow hips companionably.
“You said you were in search and rescue, oceanic division.”
“That’s right. Back in my heroic era.”
The Seeker purses her dermas in thought.
“Wait.” The boat’s sensory spires twitch as she tilts her helm a little to the left. “You’re not thinking about jumping in, are you?”
“I am.”
“Sweetie, I’ll jump in after you and save your aft, but then you’ll have to contend with not just my wrath, but also the big guy’s anxiety, the boss’ disappointment, and our little dirt bike’s broken Spark.”
“Yeah.”
“Y’know, half the guys I rescued back then were trying to take themselves offline and thought they’d do it by drowning. It’ll immobilise in seconds, but mercury doesn’t shut down the average frame immediately. You could be stuck down there for a while, slowly filling up, your shell bloating and buckling due to changes in volume and pressure, unable to move, or even hear yourself scream, totally blind. You could last long enough like that to be rescued, if you’re even found.”
Slipstream shudders, wings lowering. “That sounds horrible.”
“It is. And not just the act itself, but the damage it does to the people left behind, even if you’re found, rescued, and you survive the purging of all that mercury from your systems, the reconstruction of your shell, the replacement of bloated internal components.” Thunderblast pulls the other femme against herself, the statuesque boat stood a little taller than the Seeker even when not slouching, allowing for an easy kiss atop the bowed helm. “Tearful reunions with grieving families and friends, bringing them the body, alive or dead… I don’t miss it. I think my heroic era left me traumatised. Don’t do it to me, too.”
“I’m sorry. I was only thinking about it.”
“Hey, if you think life sucks now, imagine how bad it could get after surviving suicide.”
Slipstream wants to be alone. She is not sure what her intentions with herself really are in coming here, the edge of Thunderblast’s domain.
“You’ve got a girl waiting for you. When things get hard, just remember that your life isn’t worthless to someone else, even if you don’t value yourself.”
The Seeker looks up at the boat.
Thunderblast’s golden optics are scarily intense yet impersonal, especially up close, but she does have a reassuring smile, when she wants it to be, and she is capable of such genuine intimacy, these moments where her invincibility gives way.
“I love you,” Slipstream says, then looks away, cringing.
The boat sucks in air, holds it momentarily, lets it out slowly.
“You don’t have to say it back,” the Seeker mumbles shyly.
For a while, nothing is said, at all.
“Do you love Demolishor?” asks Thunderblast eventually, in a low, serious undertone she rarely uses, preferring instead to modulate her vocaliser with playfulness and flirtation.
“Yes, I do. I haven’t told him yet. I don’t think he’d mind, like, he won’t react badly to being told.”
“Shadow Striker did react badly. That’s what happened, why she went all peculiar for a bit, back there. You told her.”
“Yes, I did. I’m pretending like I didn’t, to make her feel comfortable around me. It’s a small compromise to keep her in my life.”
“She told you to pretend.”
Slipstream rubs her arm, nodding.
“That’s so fragged up.”
“She’s been hurt bad, before. I don’t blame her. I just wish she hadn’t done this damage to me, or you, or anybody else, because I scared her.”
The boat huffs, leaning in to rest her chin on the Seeker’s pauldron, holding her loosely enough not to feel inescapable.
Slipstream is just glad that Thunderblast is not losing her mind over an I love you.
“Been a long time, since someone said those words to me, and actually meant it.”
“You’ve been told many times before, haven’t you?”
“Ugh! So many times! They all love me, so they told me. But I knew they really didn’t. Liars, all of them. I’ve always known, they’ve always lied to me, to my face. I know how the world sees me. Pretty face, vapid personality, scrap for brains. I’ve hardly ever been loved by anybody, my whole life, for anything more than my body.”
“That sounds so lonely.”
“Yeah. It fragging sucks.”
The Seeker rubs the boat’s shapely back strut. “You’re wearing your kibble. Fancied a trip out on the mercury?” A gentle change in topic, to spare embarrassment.
“Yeah, and then I found you.” The boat delicately sniffs, then eases back a bit, brushing their cheeks together. She is not especially affectionate, but she has her cuddly moments.
“You know, it’s funny.”
“What’s funny?”
“With your kibble on, you look like a Seeker with your wings folded downward.”
Thunderblast turns to look back at the halves of her hull, at rest behind her. “Hey, you’re onto something there.”
“It’s comforting. Like I’m with another Seeker.”
“Aw!”
“Except downcast wings would indicate you’re unhappy or uncomfortable.”
“Aw.”
Slipstream’s own wings are low. She makes a conscious effort to lift them, smiling handsomely. “I should leave you to your cruise.”
“Mm. If you were Flamewar’s size, I’d offer to let you aboard.”
“That’s sweet of you.”
“I have my moments. Of course, I can carry you over the mercury, big as you are, but it’s really intended for life and death situations. Not very comfy. Sorry.”
“That’s okay. Thank you for considering me anyway. Keep safe and enjoy your cruise.”
The boat releases the Seeker with a kiss to the cheek. “I will, sweetie.”
Slipstream’s digits catch on Thunderblast’s in passing, clasping, caressing, and then breaking free.
“By the way, I love you too.”
“You do?”
“Yeah. And unlike the boss, I’m mech enough to admit it. I’m a baddie like that.”
“You are such a baddie, though.”
“Damn right I am! And you... You’re a girl I could keep as a friend, and a fragtoy.”
“Heh. Thanks. I guess.”
“Mmhm. I’ll add you to my consortium as my personal plaything, soon as I own the world and all who reside within it.” The boat does a few warm-up stretches, honed curves rippling muscularly.
“Shadow Striker.” The Seeker flushes. “You think she...?”
“Absolutely. It terrifies her. It should terrify you, too.”
“She didn’t hurt me on purpose. Or, she did, but her purpose was to protect me from herself. But she doesn’t have to, she only believes she’d hurt me for real.”
“You think you know her better than she knows herself, huh.”
“I know how that sounds. She just struggles sometimes.”
“Sounds like you’re making excuses for her. That wound in your wing was an accident, too?”
“I know she didn’t mean it. I don’t mean to excuse her actions. I just want to prove to her that she doesn’t have to be afraid of loving me, since she’s finally let her guard down around me again and that means something, it has to. She can love me, she can love people. I think a tiny part of her wants to. If she embraces that part, she might find some happiness. At least I won’t have to pretend like I don’t love her back, not anymore.”
“You’re too nice for your own good, you know.”
“Yes. Unfortunately, I can’t help it.”
“And asking you to pretend was not fair on her part. But it’s not your place or responsibility to fix her. If you wanna take her on, damn, I wish you luck with that. You’re gonna need it. Just promise me you’ll be careful with that one, okay? I know what a dangerous femme looks like, acts like.”
“I’ll watch my back.”
“Good girl.”
“Hey! No fair!”
Giggling, Thunderblast takes the plunge with perfect form and zero hesitation.
Slipstream ponders those words in all seriousness, and yet she has to smile when a sleek, generously propotioned speedboat bursts from the silvery abyss and playfully charges around the bend in the tunnel, roaring out of the Seeker’s sight.
“Two Functionists dead, one missing.”
“One of us, the Twelve, highest of the Functionist order. Our beloved Five-of-Twelve. The deceased were lesser members, may their Sparks find peace in the hereafter, reunited with the AllSpark. Finding and returning Five-of-Twelve alive and uncompromised is of the utmost importance. He knows too much, though he would never impart our secrets upon such sinners willingly. Our resources must go toward a rescue effort, with haste.”
Prowl and Strongarm exchange a stoic grimace, making their combined report to their government.
“And there is also a civilian casualty. That death lacks any ritualistic significance or Decepticon iconography, leading us to assume that killing was incidental. Wrong place, wrong time.”
“That’s it! He’s gone completely insane!” Sentinel slams his fist upon the table. “Damn him! First the Grand Imperium, and now this! And after we finally started getting back some influence! The tide was turning in our favour!”
“We cannot let such an abomination go unpunished.” Twelve-of-Twelve exchanges a sweeping look with the other Ten in attendance, quite unusual, as generally they prefer to send a single delegate at a time to attend these meetings. However, this is a situation demanding their full attention, the highest representatives of the Functionist faith all alive and accounted for, except for one. “The capture and imprisonment of Five-of-Twelve is a sin of the worse kind! I accuse Megatron the seducer, I hold his Decepticon monstrosity in contempt. Execution is the rightful penalty for the torture of a saint. We know what those monsters intend to do, to one of our very own. They must be punished swiftly and severely.”
“We do not execute anyone, for any reason,” Orion interjects, his optics wide upon the holographic projections of corpses as part of the gathered evidence. “Though your grief is immense, I must remind you that we are to do better than the Senate before us.”
Ariel is pale and trembling, slumped against Alpha Trion like a daughter resorting to her father figure for comfort as he turns his gaze away and blinks back his own tears.
“We demand justice be done!”
“You will have it. We will do what we can to save Five-of-Twelve, but we do not condone murder.”
“You would say so, Decepticon sympathiser! You have loved and lain with the seducer!”
“Calm yourselves,” intones Four-of-Twelve. “Let us not descend into chaos. That is what he expects of us, it is what he intends we do.”
“However we choose to retaliate, none of the public is to know about this,” cautions Eight-of-Twelve.
“Primus, no! It’d send people into a panic! We’d look like a complete joke!” Sentinel clutches at his chassis, grimacing deeply. “I barely wrested control after the Grand Imperium, imagine how the people would perceive me now, after learning about… all of this!”
“Indeed. My thoughts exactly. We must censor the truth, to maintain our dignity and dominance.”
“In other words, lie.”
“Ariel, if you push me right now, I swear to Primus–”
“Do not sear oaths in the name of our Maker. It is a sin to break a promise made to the divine.”
“Oh, whatever! You know what I mean! All of you, listen here, and listen well. None of this gets out. Nothing leaks to the press, nobody outside this room is to know! Family, friends, lovers, you tell them nothing. Do you hear me?” Sentinel slams both huge gleaming palms down and rises from his seat. “None of it! My career is on the line and I will not lose everything I ever worked for to some gossip!”
“Please be seated,” Four-of-Twelve intervenes wearily. “If we could all stop speaking out of turn, and with such unneeded volume… I believe there were recordings you mentioned?”
“Yes, that’s right.” Strongarm nods to Wheeljack. “You explain it. You’re technical.”
“Eh, yeah, sure.” He looks very reluctant, fiddling with his datapad. Although a charismatic mech, he tends to hide behind technology when he feels a little overwhelmed. “Those Decepticons were usin’ scramblers plus some sorta late gen cloak tech, so I couldn’t get any clear visuals on the security footage, but I did scrounge up some audio. Unfortunately, it’s not much. Must’ve been on internal comms, so we missed most of the argument. And I gotta warn ya now.” He looks up, frowning sombrely. “The voices are… familiar.”
Windblade and Bumblebee exchange a worried look. They are encouraged to attend meetings, along with Hot Rod, Grimlock and Arcee, due to Orion trusting them all implicitly and Ariel insisting that the younger minds are just as valid, despite the Functionists’ dismissive attitude and Sentinel’s impatience. Only the Cityspeaker and scout are in attendance out of their friendship circle, the others out running errands for the Council. Chromia is still reluctant to involve herself in Cybertronian affairs more than needed to take care of her best friend’s safety and well-being, but she always asks Windblade for important updates.
“Maybe you two oughta step out.” Wheeljack shifts awkwardly in his seat. “Might be upsettin’ if you stay to hear this. I never had much to do with ’em myself, but I know these were friends of yours.”
“No,” Windblade utters, tensing all over, her sickly suspicions peaked. “No, no, no.”
Bumblebee finds her servo and squeezes it for dear life.
“Alrighty, then.” When neither of the friends depart, Wheeljack presses a button on his interface display, producing an unpleasant noise. “Whoof. Pardon the interference. That’s the inconvenience of interpretin’ data through scramblers. Lemme make a few extra adjustments here…”
Everyone present in the crowded meeting room jerks with fright at a cut-off screech of agony.
Strongarm shakes her helm at the thud of impact, presumably a body thrown to the floor.
Prowl lays his palm upon her pauldron, squeezing reassuringly.
“There’s some dead air here, I cut most of it out. Give it a second.”
Sentinel nods grimly to Wheeljack.
“What the–?”
A metallic thud.
“Hello?”
Rustling sounds, indicating a struggle.
“N-no! Frag you!”
The blows of feeble resistance ringing dully against heavy metal.
“Geddoff! Lemme go! Graaargh!”
Listening to the mech struggle, the Functionists bow their featureless helms respectfully.
“Show yourself, coward! Fight me like a mech!”
Sentinel curls his upper derma with disgust, but his optics are sad. “Poor fragger stood no chance.”
“D-don’t touch me! I’ll kill you!”
A wet gurgling, digits scraping across carpet.
“You come a-any closer and I’ll–”
“I’m sorry,” Slipstream says.
Windblade sucks in air.
Bumblebee buries his face in her pauldron.
Wheeljack frowns softly at Orion, who is visibly appalled.
“W-what?”
“I don’t want to. But I have to.”
Slow, heavy steps.
“Don’t struggle. It’ll only make this hurt you worse. Please.”
Lighter steps indicate that the mech attempts to run, only to be stopped by the crunch of metal as it twists then snaps under pressure, evidently his wrist joint being broken, forcing him to drop his weapon and howl in pain, landing a punch with a clamour that shatters his fist, until all he can do is weep.
“Oh, no! No, no, no. Please don’t cry.”
The worst part is that Slipstream sounds like the gentle giant Windblade and Bumblebee know her to be, and yet the friends can only gawk in horror.
The mech is suddenly screaming.
“Frag! What do I do? Sir!”
For a while, there is only screaming and gurgling and panicked ventilation.
“I’m trying, okay! This comes easily to you, not me!”
Another awful pause.
“No! Of course not!”
“Then act competent for once!” Shadow Striker bellows, audible to anyone except Slipstream for the first time.
Bumblebee cringes against Windblade, whose painted face is torn crookedly with emotion.
“I can’t shield you from everything, forever! For frag’s sake! Do it already or get outta my way, fool!” Shadow Striker sounds so mean, but in a tense way that indicates she is feeling things she wishes she could not feel.
“Yes, Sir,” Slipstream mumbles very feebly.
The mech’s screaming is choked, then stifled with a dreadful screech of warped metal crumpling under a sudden impact, leaving him to wheeze and whirr his automatic bodily functions, barely alive.
“Not how I would’ve done it, sure, but whatever works for you.”
Windblade rises from her chair, pulling Bumblebee with her, dragging him out the meeting room.
Ariel watches them go, wanting to follow. When she looks to Orion, she sees the same struggle in his expression.
“Primus. Got a mean right hook. Hit him again and you just might kill him! Don’t be cruel, now! Finish what you started!”
“Y-yes, Sir.”
“Decepticons are something else,” Sentinel concludes lowly. “We will crush them all. It’s our duty.”
“And moral imperative,” interjects Twelve-of-Twelve loftily.
Orion and Ariel offer no contradiction.
“Don’t you worry about your image, my dear? Blowing up the Grand Imperium was one thing, but the way you had those Functionists butchered! I must say, a delicate constitution might be nauseated.”
“I have no use for those with delicate constitutions. I am already vilified and venerated in equal measure. Those fools will panic in private however, to save face in public. Worry not.”
Empress rubs her chin. “Oh, I see.” Her tail separates into segments, swaying behind her as she saunters in a slow circle around Megatron, assessing him from different angles. “You do consider everything.”
“I do, yes. I have planned this movement for a long, long time. They will rally their forces to destroy me according to some ill-conceived plan, in retaliation to what I have just done so effortlessly to demoralise them. They will try to persuade the populace to hate me through the dissemination of their propaganda and the strict enforcement of draconian policies, fuelled by faithful fervour. I know all this. I have nothing to fear, except…”
“…Except?”
“Except for the loss of friendships, perhaps.”
The femme draws close to the mech, touching his cheek with her thumb. “Is that a sacrifice you’re willing to make?”
“If I must. I gave them my friends my answer. Now they will reply.”
“Don’t you already know what that reply will be?”
“In all things, I will show mercy.”
Empress steps away, amused.
“But enough talk. It is all we have done, of late.” Megatron releases his Energon mace, twirling it upon the chain fused within the hollow compartment of his huge forearm. “I could do with some combat practice, for the battles I will win. Do you mind?”
The younger gladiator bows to her senior, but it is not a perfect bow. She has a certain gracefulness to the whimsy in the way she mocks others, teasing him, playful. “I would be honoured.” She retrieves a plain rod from a compartment within her frame, unfurling the two Energon blades comprising of the business end of her pickaxe, for she was once a labourer too.
Sitting at the mercury’s edge, Slipstream senses Windblade’s presence, a welcome guest. The mental door is always left unlocked and open to her, even if secrets are kept in dark corners of the mind, inaccessible without a stronger connection. Impressions of secrets can be sensed, although the lover is no mind reader.
“Hey.”
“Hi.”
“Can we talk?” the Cityspeaker asks tiredly. She feels upset, on the fringe of anger, restraining her temper and instead wallowing in depression. “We need to talk. Is now an okay time?”
The Seeker kicks at the mercury below her perch, skimming silver with the soles of her big pedes. “Sure. I’m alone with you, right now. Good timing on your part.” Except not really.
Windblade does not say anything more for several seconds. Having this silent presence in the mind, a beautiful person brimming with ugly emotions, is not easy to endure.
“…What’s wrong?”
“…I think you know what’s wrong.”
Slipstream cradles her helm in her servos now, aching. “Windblade, I–”
“Killed someone. We have security recordings, sound only. I heard you do it.”
“Yes.”
The Cityspeaker manifests a projection of her bust, bright against the grimy wall of the tunnel, flickering, frowning in such a way that has the Seeker shrinking, frightened before her goddess’ dismay. “How could you?”
“I had to. That’s all.”
Windblade’s blue optics widen in horror.
Slipstream cannot bear to meet that glare.
“The Grand Imperium. Was that you, too?”
“Yes. I set the charges. I subdued and captured that Senator.”
“And you never told me. Or Bee.”
“Operational Security. And I don’t want you guys seeing me as a monster. My life is bad enough without alienating myself from my best friends.”
“Primus. I should have never let you leave. Shadow Striker is making you do these monstrous things, for Megatron. She’s making a monster out of you, to do his dirty work. You weren’t just reassigned, Starscream sent you to a fragging hit squad. I am such a fool! I could’ve saved you, there and then! I didn’t try hard enough to convince you to stay!”
“It’s not your fault. And she’s helping me. And this monster still loves you.”
“She’s abusing you. I love you too, but I can’t do this with you, Slip.”
“Abusing me! Can’t do this with me! What does that mean, Windblade?”
“You know what it means.”
“No!” Slipstream clutches her throbbing helm, trembling above the mercury. “Please, no!”
“I will always love you, even if you lied about the monstrous things you’ve done, but I must preserve you, I have to protect myself and Bee.”
“I’m no threat to you! You’re the one hurting me!”
“I’m sorry. You’re hurting me too, Slip.”
“I need you now! You’re all that keeps me going, you and Bee, my best friends, my family!”
“I need to think. I need to prepare. But I promise, I still love you, I will save you from the Decepticons. Until then, I’m separating the femme I love, from the femme who scares me. Of course, this doesn’t mean I’m leaving you, I could never leave. Just... I’m preserving you, if that makes sense. As I fondly remember you.”
“I’m still me!”
“You’re not acting like yourself. You’re changing. I don’t like these changes, Slip. I don’t like the lies, the killings.”
“I had no choice! I have to survive, to be with you! I must grow strong!”
“You already were strong. You said you’d always choose me. I feel like you broke that promise, somehow. Or maybe you distorted it. This? This isn’t the version of you I fell in love with. This isn’t choosing my happiness or safety or wellbeing.”
“I did all this so I could survive and get back to you someday, without losing my Seekers or Flamewar! I did this for the people I love!”
Windblade clearly wants to say she is sorry, but she does not say anything.
“You don’t understand!”
“Yeah, of course I don’t!”
Slipstream sobs.
“You’re changing, Slip, and if you really chose me, then that makes this my fault! I don’t accept that!” Being naturally soft-spoken and composed, with patience for the people she loves, the Cityspeaker rarely ever yells unless faced with an opponent, confronting an enemy. “I don’t like these changes I sense in you! If you really put me first, you wouldn’t have killed in my name and lied to me about it for months! It may seem impossible, but you never have to do anything, nobody can force you, not Megatron, not Starscream, not Shadow Striker, not even me! There was another way, Slip, some other way aside from killing those people! There always is a better way to choose, no matter how difficult! You chose to kill, you chose to obey those evil orders! Don’t implicate me! How do you think this makes me feel?”
The Seeker digs her digits into her helm, groaning lowly. The presence within her mind is tearing at the seams, righteously enraged.
“I still love you, I always will! One day, I promise, I’ll have you back again! I’ll save you!”
Whatever there is still left over to save, Slipstream muses miserably, though she does not say it.
“But Megatron has escalated things to a fever pitch with the Council, you’ve got a Functionist in your custody so you can keep him prisoner for however long and torture him for information, or just to set an example out of his suffering, and I’m losing myself to all the things you make me feel! What next, Slip? Shadow Striker makes you cut out his fuel pump on camera while Megatron says something profound and poetic? Not for me! I can’t do this with you, Slip! You, and what those damned Decepticon scum are turning you into!” WIndblade is panting when she stops herself, sagging within the mind.
The Seeker sniffs wetly.
“Slip?”
“You’re right. Put yourself first. Take care of yourself. And take care of Bee, too. He loves you so much.”
“I just ruined everthing, didn’t I.”
“No. I did that all myself. I’m toxic. I’m bad for you. Forgive me. I’m sorry.”
The Cityspeaker tries to nuzzle in, only to be met with distance that she did not think was possible in this mental link. It has always felt so close, so secure.
“You should leave, now.”
“Not like this, Slip.”
“Go. Please.”
Windblade feels a shove, before the door slams shut in her face, locking her out upon the fringe of perception.
Slipstream ignores the knocking and the muffled pleading, until she is alone with her thoughts and feelings, contemplating the mercury.
“How’s our prisoner?”
“Quiet. Meditating, apparently.”
“Not giving you any trouble, then. Good.”
“Except he refuses to refuel.” Demolishor sits on a storage crate, browsing something on a datapad that is absurdly small in his hollow digits. He does not mind taking multiple shifts of guard duty, as it gives his old body rest whilst still putting him to some use, so long as he remains alert and does not take a little nap. Everybody gets the day off, for the most part. As a treat. Even he is lazy today. “He doesn’t have an intake – or even a face – and he won’t tell me where his induction tube is, or I’d force-feed him myself.”
“Meh. That’s a nuisance. Megatron still hasn’t told me what he plans to do with the Functionist. Our orders are to keep the prisoner alive until then, so starvation is not an option. Frag it. I’ll have to drip-feed him through a fuel line. He’s restrained, so that makes it simple enough.”
“His binds are holding, Sir. He’s not going anywhere.”
“Perfect. So!” Shadow Striker pats her subordinate fondly on the pauldron. “Whatcha looking at?”
“Pics of hot mechs.”
“Damn. Lemme see.”
The Decepticons jeer over pornography whilst a prisoner of war seeks salvation, doubting his faith now that it is finally being tested.
“Those voices from before. One of them belongs to my girlfriend.”
“Oh. Primus.”
“Ex, now. I guess.” Windblade huffs, rubbing her neck, shaking her helm. “I dumped her today, after the meeting. Didn’t even get to do it in person. Called her up, let her down. The hurt in her voice. At the time, I was so mad at her, even if that’s not even fair. She didn’t even join the Decepticons willingly. She got pulled into it by people pulling rank over her.”
Ariel sits beside the much smaller femme, Captain Snuffles having taken a liking to the Cityspeaker’s lap. “I’m sorry. A messy breakup is the last thing you need, right now.”
“But I had to do it. She killed that mech. She’s killed others, too. I can’t excuse murder, or pretend that she’s innocent. Some of the blame does fall on her, even if she thinks this is what it takes to survive, so she can see me again. I don’t want this, Elita. I don’t want her turning into this. This makes me feel sick.”
The Councillor’s sensory spires lower, pressing flat against her helm.
“I tried not to be cruel when I told her I needed to let her go. I do love her, still. I always will.”
“Did you tell her that?”
“Yes, but did she believe me? She’s in the jaws of the enemy and she needs someone, but I just can’t do it like this. She lied too much, but now, I know too much. I shouldn’t have to find out from Wheeljack that my girlfriend killed anyone.” Big blue optics swim within tears, looking up. “Do you think I did the right thing?”
“I do. You gotta take your mental and emotional health seriously, Windblade. You’re strong and your loyalty is unquestionable, but frag’s sake, you got thoughts and feelings, too. You’re a person. Nobody’s perfect.” Elita runs her large, callused palm soothingly up and down a slender back strut, careful not to leave pink paint transfers over red, though it would not clash horribly to do so. She tries to smile. “You did what you had to. If she loves you back, she’ll honour your wishes and let you go.”
“Oh, Elita. This really hurts.” Windblade flops over to bury herself in the bulk of the much bigger femme.
“You’ll be okay. Just keep plodding along, taking it day by day, like you’ve always done. You’re not alone. You have friends here, people who love you. We’ll face it together, yeah?”
“Yeah. Thank you for listening.”
“You’re welcome. No need to thank me. It’s what friends do.”
“You’ve got enough on your plate without a heaping of what I’ve got too.”
“I don’t mind.” The Councillor wraps her big strong arms around the Cityspeaker, giving her an all-consuming hug in pink with gold accents.
For a while, nothing is said.
“She would’ve liked you,” Windblade confesses softly.
Elita rests her chin against an ornamental crest and sighs.
“Still here,” Thunderblast notes as she transforms and swims closer in her root mode.
“Still here,” Slipstream echoes dejectedly, perched upon the edge, helm hung heavily. “Did you have a good cruise?”
“I did. I’ve been patrolling the branching routes, exploring these old drain systems. Had a little chat with some scavengers. They’re Decepticons now, like us.”
“That’s nice.”
“Sweetie. You seem worse now than when I left you before.”
“I keep getting worse.”
The boat lays her palms upon the Seeker’s dangling legs and eases the knees apart before pushing between those thighs to gaze up at her more closely from the mercury below her seat.
“You make moving through that stuff seem so effortless.”
“It is, for me.”
Slipstream reaches for Thunderblast’s sensory spires, ever so gently caressing them within callused digits.
“You keep that up and I’ll get turned on.”
“Sorry, I was just being affectionate, not alluring. I’ll stop.”
“Just between the two of us, I like a little rub under my chin. Makes me melt, without stirring my libido.” The boat winks.
The Seeker thus redirects her affection, dragging her large digits beneath a pretty jaw. “Like this?”
“Like that. Mm.”
“You’re so cute.”
Thunderblast tilts back her helm and pushes forward with her shapely jaw and slender throat, in turn leaning into Slipstream’s wiggling digits whilst gazing up at her with queenly optics. “But in, like, a bad glitch way, right.”
“Right. Just the baddest.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.” Hot Rod hugs Windblade tighter.
“You’ve got your own life.”
“And you’re a part of it.”
“You were on a mission. I understand.”
“Still. I love you.”
“I love you, too.” She kisses his cheek, sinking into his strong, handsome chassis. “You’re here for me, now. That means everything to me. But you don’t have to stay long. Soundwave will miss you, and Ravage too. I understand if you need to get back home.”
“He’s okay with me staying with you, for as long as you need me around. I’m with you.”
“Oh, Rod. You’re wonderful.”
Arcee and Grimlock are unpacking the supplies they prepared for emergencies such as messy beak-ups. They have snacks, booze, a massive collection of media to distract, blankets and pillows to cuddle in comfort altogether. A movie night is the plan, followed by a sleepover.
Chromia keeps a close optic on Windblade whilst ensuring Bumblebee is safely tucked under her arm. He is saddened by Shadow Striker, but devastated over Slipstream, as he would feel so devastated for any of his close friends. He really needs the cuddles.
They all do.
Chapter 40
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Days pass, each day as meaningless and miserable as the previous day, down here in the Pit.
On the morning marking the start of one such meaningless and miserable day, Shadow Striker approaches Slipstream, calling her into the office for a private chat, the older femme’s expression especially grim as she addresses her subordinate in secret. “I got bad news, or I guess it could be good news. It depends on you.”
“Sir?”
The femmes are both rather large and this office is rather small, a confined space filled with memories, some of which are fond if never quite happy.
“Scream wants you back.”
The disgraced Seeker’s dull, depressed optics widen.
“He’s applied to have you transferred outta here, back with the Seekers.” The old mercenary folds her arms under her ample breastplate, leaning back against a filing cabinet, grimacing. “Your reassignment is officially over, assuming he doesn’t suddenly change his mind just to frag with you. It’s fragging with me, his sudden change of Spark, that much I can tell you. Damn. I really thought you’d be mine, so long as I proved your mettle to Megatron, and you proved yourself one of us. Now this happens. Glitch.”
Slipstream pulls out a chair and falls into it with a creak and scoff.
“You don’t seem happy.”
“Damn right, I’m not.”
“Sorry to say, toots, but he’s not asking. He expects you to go back to him. He made that clear to me, though I did protest losing you. Smug little bolt-head.”
“What am I gonna tell Flames, Sir?”
“Yeah. My thoughts exactly.”
“She’ll be devastated if I leave, Sir. She’ll see it as me, leaving her behind.”
“That’s true, yet also an understatement. You’re her emotional support Seeker. She’ll flip scrap with you gone, and then I’m gonna have to pick up the pieces, put something back together outta this mess, mother her until she’s relatively functional again, and move on without you. Abandonment issues through the roof, with that one.”
“She loves me. She needs me. I can’t just up and go.”
“You haven’t got much of a choice, eh?”
“I’m starting to hate him a little bit, Sir.”
“That’s his fault, not yours.” Shadow Striker sighs heavily, striding on over and stooping to drape herself almost lovingly across Slipstream’s bowed pauldrons and bent back strut, adding more weight to the stressed chair that creaks its protests below them. “Hey, now. Don’t you start crying. I’m no good with that sorta scrap. You know me by now, you know what I’m like.”
The Seeker covers her face plate, digits clenched against her helm as if to stop her agitated thoughts from bursting out, palms muffling a hurt sound to repress it.
The mercenary wraps her arms around her subordinate just a little tighter and buries a wince in her neck.
“Did you call Slip this morning?”
“Yeah, of course I did. You know I call her every morning, every night. She still won’t let me in, Bee.”
“I’m sorry,” Bumblebee says over the comms, loud and clear inside Windblade’s helm, unaffected by the rushing air current or roar of her turbines. “I miss her so much.”
“Me, too. It’s been days now and I just keep hitting a mental barrier, like a door she keeps locked. She was always open with me before, even if she held so many secrets I could sense. I trusted her with my Spark, despite the lies. I dumped her for my own health. And now she won’t even answer me when I call. It’s not fair. I’m mad about it.”
“Your feelings are valid, bestie. But so are hers. Don’t give up on her.”
“I won’t. I guess I have to be patient. Keep trying. She’ll let me in eventually. But being rejected over and over again… I feel like a door-to-door salesbot. I’m paying the toll on my pride. It hurts to feel so uninvited. So… unwanted.”
“You’re very wanted, Windblade. She’s just got a lot to deal with and so do you, so that just, like, compounds everything on top of everything else. It sucks. Loads of suck all around, yeah?”
“Yeah. You’re right.”
“Sometimes I am.”
That gets a faint chuckle. Transformed in her exotic jet alt-mode, Windblade has to fly carefully, as the swelling Seeker numbers have claimed much of the airspace above Iacon City with proclamations that the sky is now restricted to Decepticons only, even if only to play death-defying games of aerial Cube when not practising flight formations.
Nova Storm, Thundercracker and Thrust give Windblade the most slack, with Skywarp having taken a sort of playful liking to the Cityspeaker. Those Seekers in particular are all decent people. Their Captain is the toxin, corrupting them.
As if summoned, Starscream surges past Windblade with a burst of heat and noise, triggering her automated combat parameters due to the aggressiveness of how closely and suddenly he passed her.
“Afthole!”
“Windblade?”
“Ugh. I’ll have to call you back, Bee.”
Another contact hails her comm link. Reluctantly, she answers.
“This is restricted airspace, Cityspeaker. What are you up to?”
“Nothing that concerns you, Captain.”
“Mm. So spicy, for one outnumbered.”
“You brought goons?”
“I always do. And these two are special.”
Two simply massive Seekers align themselves with Windblade’s wings, pinning her between them.
“I don’t recognise these goons.”
“They’re brand new. Prototypes. A little experimental.”
“Yeah, really shiny.”
“I knew you’d be impressed. Meet my latest acquisitions – Dirge and Ramjet, the coneheads.”
“The what, now?”
“Coneheads. Their helms are integrated within their cones, hence the term. It is readily apparent when in root mode.”
“Uh. Okay. Can you tell Dirge and Ramjet to back up? They’re making me feel a little nervous.”
“I could, mmyes. But I won’t.”
“I’m not in the mood, Starscream. Let me go and I’ll leave your stupid airspace.”
“Ah, but you’ll just be back again another time. I have optics everywhere, always watching. You’re scouting for something, or perhaps someone.”
“I do loads of things. Maybe I’m just having a nice flyover the city.”
“Windblade, do not insult my intelligence. I have far more processing power than all my Seekers combined, and then some.”
“That’s mean to your own kind, Starscream.”
“What are you after? Or who are you looking for?”
“I’m not telling you anything.”
“Hoping you’ll find where I stashed Slipstream, perhaps? Did you hear about that awful business with those dead Functionists? Are you aware of her involvement?”
Windblade makes a truly dangerous sound over the comm link.
Starscream sighs. “Give up, Cityspeaker.”
“Bite me, Captain.”
“She’s not yours. She’ll never be yours. She’s mine. But I can offer you one token of consolation – Slipstream is no longer working for that monstrous Shadow Striker.”
“Where is she? Who’s she with now?”
“Me. She’ll be returned to her Seeker brethren, whereupon she will teach them and nurture them. If she is still capable of such things.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“She beat a mech to death with her bare servos, Windblade, and snapped the Functionist’s neck like a twig. I don’t know how involved she was in butchering the bodies after. I hope that was all Shadow Striker, but I haven’t enquired, because I don’t want to know. I know too much already.” Starscream soars ahead, blocking off that direction as an avenue of escape whilst Ramjet and Dirge remain close to Windblade’s wings, boxing her in further. “I do not say this often, but I must confess… I may have made an awful mistake.”
“Oh, really!”
“Yes. Really.”
“So, that’s what it took for you to take her back.”
“Don’t tease me. I’m actually in a state of shock. I saw the damage done to that body, I now must live with the realisation that my stupid, sweet Slipstream is capable of such an atrocity.”
“Me, too! The femme I love did that!”
“Then we are both commiserating.”
“No, I feel no pity for you. This all goes back to your cruelty. This is all on you.”
“I grow bored of this talk. You’re an enemy invading restricted airspace. Come quietly and I may not need to destroy you.”
Windblade reorientates her spinning turbines and cuts her thrusters, suddenly surging backward whilst the Seekers skyrocket ahead, making distance rapidly. She is far more mobile than they are, although they are faster.
“What the–”
Amused by Starscream’s apparent confusion, she adjusts her turbines, reignites her thrusters and leans upon one wing, turning sharply and darting off into the distance whilst the Seekers are forced to arc after her more widely, left behind.
“That was actually impressive. I’ll give you that, Cityspeaker.”
“Thanks.”
“You would have made a fine Seeker. Such a pity it has come to this.”
“To what? You can chase me, but you won’t catch me. You’ll get bored or run out of fuel, whichever comes first. Me, I’m very fuel efficient for a jet.”
“You won’t outpace our missiles, my darling.”
“Missiles! Are you mad?!”
“Some say I am. Would you prefer plasma?”
“You can’t shoot me down! We’re above the City! There are people below us! What if I fall on somebody?!”
“Ha! Like I give a frag if you take out some unfortunate grounder on the way down. So long as you’re out of the picture, I can reclaim Slipstream and secure this airspace all in one go, not to mention how your death would demoralise all your little friends on the Council. Megatron will be so pleased with me!”
“You’re sick!” Windblade’s sensors alert her that she is being targeted. “Hey! No! Stop that! Aaah!” She desperately readjusts her trajectory, sailing higher above the skyscrapers, attempting to get away from Iacon City, her pursuers catching up quickly with their advantage of raw acceleration power. “Oh, frag me! Frag, frag, frag–”
“Scared, Cityspeaker? Good. You should be. But look at you, trying to minimise any additional casualties. Noble pursuit! I’m sure Bumblebee would be oh so proud!”
She tries to dodge the targetting reticles, but she has never done this before. Her combat training prepared her to defend herself with her sword, her body, but her instructor did not prepare her for being shot out of the sky. Due to her own inexperience, with three Seekers all aiming at her from behind all at once, inevitably someone locks onto her.
“Goodbye, Windblade.”
“Starscream, wait! Don’t! Please!”
“Appealing to my mercy, moments before your demise? Pathetic. You had your chance.”
All of a sudden, the most splendid jet she has ever seen careens dramatically between herself and the Seekers, sending them all scattering.
“Jetfire?!”
She recognises the name. She has heard it spoken before, with nostalgia. Now, she hears it squawked with terror.
With a string of curses, Starscream promptly cuts his comms. He sends out a command to his Seekers, for they all turn and flee from the scene, leaving Windblade alone with the magnificent Jetfire himself.
She accepts the hail to her comm link with a relieved, “Hi, um, thanks for the assist.”
“Hello, there! You are most welcome!” Jetfire replies with a big, booming voice bearing a lovably masculine melodramatic energy. “What happened back there? I recognised Starscream, my beloved, although I must confess, if not for his distinct Spark signature, I would not have known that exquisite jet was him! He seems rather different than I remember! He must have had a little work done! Good for him! But those other fliers are unknown to me! Why were they pursuing you? My sensors tell me they were intending to fire upon you! Are we at war? Please tell me we are not at war! I just got back home!”
“Uh, yeah, that’s a bit of a story. I’m kinda freaked out right now, so do you mind if we maybe, like, go grab a drink and sit down?”
“Of course! But first, allow me to introduce myself!”
“You’re Jetfire.”
“Oh! How do you know my name? Have we met?”
“Slipstream told me a bit about you. She’s a friend.”
“Ah! A friend of one of my Seekers is a friend of mine! What do they call you, friend?”
“Windblade.”
“By the Thirteen, that is impressive! What a beautiful yet lethal designation!”
Despite almost dying today, she finds it in herself to giggle. He is just that comforting to be around.
“Don’t go.”
“I must. He’s my Captain.”
“Boss bot is your Captain.”
“It doesn’t work that way, not for Seekers.”
“I don’t care!”
“Flames. You know this isn’t my fault.”
“He doesn’t deserve your loyalty! I do!”
“Please don’t make this harder than it has to be.”
“Choose me, Slippy! Choose us!”
Windblade’s words echo, like a spectre whispering in Slipstream’s mind, but the door is shut, locked.
Flamewar stares up at Slipstream, tears falling freely from manic optics that plead.
The Seeker stoops and kisses those tears away, but they keep coming.
“You’re m-my girl.”
“I’ll always be yours. But I’m his, too. My life isn’t mine to live. That’s become painfully obvious to me, by now. I’m just not supposed to pursue happiness for myself.”
The bike says nothing in response to that.
“I love you.”
Still, silence.
Slipstream scoops Flamewar up with ease, lifting her into a hug. “I love you so much, Flames. I don’t want to go without you. Choice is just an illusion, isn’t it? I’m a cold construct, I don’t get to pick my poison.”
The bike predictably goes loose-limbed within the Seeker’s arms, floppy like a lifeless doll, limp like a puppet with strings cut, such toys that amuse sentients.
“She said there’s always a choice, and I promised her I’d always choose her, but she chose differently. She’s gone, now. I’ve lost my love, my friends. So, I returned here. I came back to you. But I was… I went there, to run away. I’m so sorry.”
“I know, I forgave you,” Flamewar says lowly, speaking into Slipstream’s chassis. “I wasn’t your first choice. I know I’m not the femme you want. I’m just the femme you could’ve had.”
“That doesn’t make me love you any less. Your friendship has given me so much, Flames. Thank you. Can you forgive me again?”
“I dunno. You’re a selfish fragging afthole, Slippy. But you do things to me. I knew not to get attached and here I am, getting myself hurt again.”
“I have to go with him, but if I could choose, I’d stay in the Pits just to be with you.” The Seeker squeezes the bike real tight. “I mean that. And if there is ever a way to get back to you, if you could ever take me back, then that’ll be a happy ending I could survive to see. You’re worth all the suffering in the world, Flames.”
“You’re not allowed to die, Slippy. You gotta stick around this slaghole so’s you get to see me again, someday.” Flamewar drags her claws shakily over Slipstream’s bulk to commit her shape to memory one more time, leaving scratches in the paint, kissing a primary fuel line within her neck with such ferocity it feels like a bite, bruising the cable. “Just go. Leave me already. You’re the one prolonging the inevitable, Slippy.”
A choking sob.
“I see!” Jetfire does not have an indoor voice. He yells dramatically at all times. His bodily language is also performative, in some stereotypically heroic way. And yet it is entirely sincere.
Windblade already likes him. She thinks he is really hot.
“Much has happened in my absence!” He rubs his chin and frowns seriously off into the distance. Being handsome, with a flamboyant flair and a loud voice, as well as being physically quite big even for a Seeker, others are staring at the mech with bemusement and interest alike. “I fear that Starscream has been seduced and manipulated into villainy by this Megatron character! This shall not stand! I did not lay down my title and pass my power onto a successor, so that my kin may be led to war! Starscream, my beloved, promised an era of peace! He swore to ensure the well-being of our Seekers!”
“He thinks that’s what he’s doing. He’s got some crazy notion that he’s saving Seekers, restoring glory or whatever.”
“He misunderstands! I will speak with him myself! He always listened to me!”
“He might not be the mech you left behind those millions of years ago, Jetfire.” Windblade sighs, shaking her helm, tapping her cup with a dainty digit. “Slipstream said Starscream was always a bit eccentric, but that he’s worse now. He’s become bitter and cruel. His pettiness is hurting the Seekers more than Megatron’s push for power. You have to save them, but I don’t know if a good talking-to will be enough any more. Megatron and Starscream are lovers, promising the world to each other.”
“Starscream and I share a love that is as undying as the principle of hope itself,” Jetfire intones with a fist pressed to his cockpit, above his Spark chamber. “I will reach him! I know it!”
“Why did he flee from you before, when you saved me? You didn’t do anything to hurt him or even threaten him. He didn’t seem happy to see you.”
“He is ashamed! He knows I entrusted the care of our Seekers to him, yet he twists his promise he made to me all those years ago! He has always treasured my approval! We shared such affection, back then! But now, I disapprove! It vexes him!”
“Yeah, well, he’s easily vexed, for sure.”
Just then, Bumblebee throws himself at Windblade, hugging her fiercely, kissing her all over her painted face plate.
“Oh!” Jetfire smiles at that. “What an enthusiastic little fellow!”
“Bee!”
“Bestie! Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, thanks to Jetfire, here.” Windblade draws Bumblebee against herself, nuzzling him. “He rescued me.”
“Jetfire? As in Slip’s Jetfire?”
“That’s the guy.”
“Indeed, the very same! It was my honour to assist!” Jetfire throws out a huge servo. “Hello, there! Good to meet you, friend!”
Bumblebee smiles crookedly, stressed out yet grateful, evidently relieved. “Hi, dude! Name’s Bumblebee. Just call me Bee for short.” He shakes the much bigger mech’s servo. “Thanks for the rescue. I dunno what I would’ve done if he’d hurt her.”
“I must apologise to the both of you on Starscream’s behalf! He was a good mech when I left him, a good mech still resides within him! I know it in my Spark! He just needs help!”
“Heh. So that’s where Slip gets it from.”
“Oh, you flatter me! My Slipstream was far more of a mentor to the others than I ever was! I left them so young! It was clearly too soon! Starscream only acts this way because he suffers such pain!”
Bumblebee looks doubtful, whereas Windblade looks exhausted.
Jetfire clearly loves his Seekers. But he has not helped them all that much.
“I’m gonna miss you.”
“We’ll miss you, too, sweetie.” Thunderblast holds Demolishor’s tubes in her digits to reassure him as much as he reassures her, golden optics shimmering with emotion as his mismatched lenses solemnly gaze down upon Slipstream with more weary composure. “Keep in touch, okay? Let us know how you’re doing, up there.”
“Y-yeah. I’ll send you guys sappy love notes and stuff disguised as regular reports.”
“We wish you the best, comrade. It has been an honour serving with you.”
“Oh, Demolishor, you don’t need to salute me. But thank you. I love you, big mech.”
“I love you too. Gimme a hug.”
Slipstream crumples against Demolishor, to be joined by Thunderblast.
Shadow Striker keeps her distance, her optic fixed upon her subordinates, yet her scope peers down the tunnel in search of the one who is missing.
Flamewar is not here to say goodbye. She is sulking in one of her hiding spots. Though they all sought her out, they could not find her, as she does not wish to be found. She is, after all, a bizarre, disturbed, flashy little stealth unit designed to assassinate and infiltrate, even if she is inclined to blow stuff up and yell obscenities when mad at losing a game of Dead-Dark-Drone. She is mourning the loss of a friend, someone she is tragically in love with.
Eventually, Demolishor and Thunderblast release Slipstream, who turns to Shadow Striker.
“Wherever you go, remember me, won’t you?”
“How could I ever f-forget?”
“You’d better not. ’Cause I’ve got a place for you, up here, and I’ll be thinking fondly about you.” Shadow Striker taps herself on the brow, trying to smirk, but it falters. “And, uh… I’m gonna sound really fragging sappy right now, but it’s gotta be said.” She then lays her palm upon her own Spark chamber, thrumming under sleek, polished armour. “You’re in here, too. So maybe spare me a fond feeling every so often, yeah?”
Slipstream trembles, chewing her bottom derma, trying to be brave as her former teammates gaze at her with love and sadness.
“I know you’ll miss these guys, they’re alright, but I’m hoping you can extend your goodwill to this tired old glitch, too. Can you do that for me? Please.”
She manages a feeble nod.
“Good girl.”
“Are you gonna let me h-hug you in front of the team, Sir?”
“Just this once, I guess.” Shadow Striker winks in her weird way, opening her arms to catch Slipstream as she surges forth, burying her face in the older, taller femme’s pauldron. “That’s it. Make this one count. Squeeze me tight.”
Thunderblast turns away, discretely dragging her tears against Demolishor’s arm. When he brushes her cheeks with his hollow thumbs, she manages a fragile smile up at him.
“Tell Flames I’m sorry and that I love her, Sir. I don’t w-wanna go.”
“She knows that, but I’ll remind her. Don’t take it on, okay? You gotta be strong, tough, like I taught you.”
“Y-yes, Sir.”
“Scream can’t crush you like he used to, not if you just withstand his same old scrap with the new tools at your disposal. He’s stagnant, a pathetic little mech, but you’re still growing, you have such potential. You’ll be bigger than him, someday. Mark my words. Just survive until then.”
Slipstream and Shadow Striker hold each other for as long as they possibly can.
The Seekers watch dumbly as Starscream sashays back and forth rapidly in a panic, wringing his digits together. They also exchange dumb glances among themselves, shrugging helplessly and gesturing at each other.
“You wanna do it?”
“Pffft. No.”
But someone must address their Captain.
“Are you serious, Sir?”
“Do I look like I’m joking, Thundercracker! He’s here! He’s really here! My love, he’s returned to us! What am I going to do?!”
“This is great!” Nova Storm flinches when Starscream glares at her. “Uh, right? I mean, we all love Jetfire, we’ve all missed him. We should be celebrating, Sir, shouldn’t we?”
“You are all so terribly stupid.”
“True,” Thrust mutters, nodding to himself.
“Should Jetfire reject my way, he could destroy everything I have achieved with Megatron! I could be ruined! It is within his right to challenge me to command of the Seekers! I stand no chance, not against that beautiful, brilliant mech! Just thinking about him makes my Spark melt! I am so angry at him for leaving us, but it was his departure that got me this post to begin with! Now he’s back, I could lose everything!”
Skywarp thinks this is kinda over the top, but in all fairness, she has only got the data transfer to rely on, an impression of Jetfire without actually having met him. She chirps and bumps her helm lovingly against Starscream’s pauldron in passing, which is sufficiently distracting, as he stops to scratch her under the chin, his optics seared over, staring through her in his strange way.
“Little one, you were the first. You are my crowning achievement. Will he be as proud of you, as I am?”
“Why wouldn’t he be, Sir?” Nova Storm approaches Starscream with a rare shade of softness to her cruel optics. She is quite in love with him, generally the most willing to believe that he can do little wrong. “You’re bringing the Seekers back. We will multiply and thrive, thanks to you. You promised to-”
“I know what I promised him, I remember the words we used. But he hates war, our core function. I told him I would keep you safe, ceremonial reminders of the past, symbolic of the deaths and the killings we endured and perpetuated as mere weapons. But we are to destroy Megatron’s enemies one last time, one last war, and once we have won we will secure Cybertron for ourselves, forever, as is our right. Then we will be free, high above the filth. None shall ever dominate our kind again, especially not some warmongering grounders with ambitions, enslaving fliers to fight their battles for them.”
Thrust and Skywarp exchange a look at that. They are among the smarter Seekers, which is not saying much.
“This will be my legacy. But our victory cannot be achieved peacefully. I will have to convince Jetfire of this truth, garner his support. Such a blessing that would be! And if I cannot, he will intervene. I am... beside myself, my Seekers, contemplating that prospect. It has been so long that I have suffered without him, and now he returns to me, I cannot even be happy to see him! Anxiety grips my Spark. Hold me, someone. Anyone.”
Of course, all the Seekers move in and embrace their panicked Captain, smothering him in their ultimately unconditional love, differences set aside. They know not what they do.
“That damned femme cannot gallivant about like this! Not when Megatron’s assassins and thugs are out there, plotting against us! Are you certain she told you nothing of where she has gone? If I find out you’re covering her aft, Orion, I will be most upset.”
“Sentinel, I would not lie to your face. Ariel told me nothing. She will not disclose where it is she goes unaccounted for and I do not believe confronting her when she returns will change her mind. She is a private person, prone to seeking solitude to study.”
“I know that! She’s not safe! She’s gone to see him, that must be it!”
“Megatron is capable of evils I could never comprehend, but he would never harm his best friend. Ariel will be safe.”
“His Decepticons might try it!”
“I do not believe they would risk his wrath. They believe in him, respect him, fear him. His leadership of this discord is uncontested. He permits much, but they would not be so foolish as to harm someone he has openly praised in public.”
“He’s seducing her, trying to turn her against us!”
“Sentinel, please.”
“I forbid these visitations before and I will do so again, if I must resort to locking her away in her office!”
“Do not be absurd, Sentinel. Such imprisonment would only rouse Ariel’s anger. Solitary confinement is a cruel and unusual punishment for only the worst of criminals.”
“I won’t let him have her, Orion!”
“After all he has done, how can you assume she would still join him?”
“You know just as well as I do that he was always her favourite! I’ll do something drastic if she keeps pushing me, pulling me! I have those Functionists bearing down on me enough already, demanding I surrender more of my power and authority to protect their own interests, so forgive me if I lack patience for a singular femme in particular! I must maintain control!”
Alpha Trion rubs his brows, opting not to speak as his Quill is already at work. He feels more ancient every day.
The coordinates lead Slipstream to a Decepticon base of operations, one of many such bases scattered across Cybertron. This location is not especially hidden, however it is heavily guarded, clearly dissuading the Functionist Council from attempting an assault.
Megatron is a cunning mech, but he is no coward. He favours stealth in his operatives whilst he himself operates openly and defiantly. It drives Sentinel wild, knowing he can barely do a thing, so outpaced and outplayed at every turn he takes.
Slipstream is permitted entry simply on account of being a Seeker bearing a Deceptibrand. Embarrassingly, she has to ask for directions to Starscream’s office, but the Decepticon janitor is a nice, helpful mech, setting her on the right path. Her steps echo on long, powerful strides. A punctual femme, she does not dawdle. Soon she finds the door to the office and she announces herself with a knock.
“Who is it?” Starscream snaps irritably from within, sounding a little wet.
“Slipstream, Sir. Reporting for duty.”
He makes a weird strangled sound. “One moment.”
She knows, just from hearing his voice, that he has been crying alone in his office again. She allows him to compose himself.
“Enter.”
She releases the doors and strides inside, positioning herself rigidly before his desk, perfectly soldierly. “Captain.”
He is pretending to be busy doing datawork, sat sulking at his desk, clearly distraught over something. He looks up sharply and rises from his chair, clearing his vents. “Slipstream. You look like scrap.”
She actually smiles at that. She is visibly tired, being underground has rendered her a little paler than usual, and she has lost weight, but she is still a devastatingly handsome femme. He looks glamorous, but just as wretched as she feels. He is actually criticising himself, through her. “That would be the depression, Sir.”
“Mmyes. I expect so.” He moves out from behind his desk and pinches her chin, turning her haggard face plate from side to side. “Primus. We must fatten you up. Did Shadow Striker not permit you sufficient rations?”
“She was kind to me, Sir, in her own way. Life was hard down there, but I let myself go.”
“You need to look good at my side. I expect you to raise the little ones with dignity, honour, and obedience to me. This is a second chance for you, Slipstream, my darling. Don’t waste it.”
“Understood, Captain.”
Finally, he smiles. “It is good to see you. You were missed most terribly.”
She wants to slap that smile off his face, but she averts her gaze instead.
“I will direct you to your accommodations. Take the rest of today to settle in and reintroduce yourself to the flock. The Seeker barracks are comfortable, but modest, and strictly communal I’m afraid. I want no complaints. I’m sure it will seem luxurious, compared to living under the memorial.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Now, then. A serious conversation must be had. I’m sure you’re wondering why I recalled you into active service under my command.”
“Yes, Sir.”
He circles her, inspecting her from every angle.
She stands to attention, composed and soldierly.
“Did you really kill that mech with your bare servos?”
“Yes, Sir.”
The Captain comes to a stop behind the Seeker, wincing at her.
“Is Megatron unhappy with my service, Sir?”
“No. Quite the contrary. He believes you have proven yourself a loyal Decepticon, capable of following even the most abhorrent orders to the best of your ability. He intended to keep you under Shadow Striker.”
“Why did you recall me from her service, Sir?”
Starscream sucks in air and holds it for some moments.
Slipstream feels him exhale against the back of her neck.
“You have been sufficiently punished.”
“Have I, Sir?”
“It will have to suffice. Shadow Striker has already done enough damage. If I leave you to her, she will only make you worse. As you lose yourself, I lose a good Seeker. Your gentle, maternal nature…”
The Seeker ponders the little plaque on the Captain’s desk.
“You beat a mech to death in cold Energon. I did not know you could do something like that. It unsettles me. I had to end your reassignment, before Shadow Striker commands you to cross a line that cannot be uncrossed and you descend past the point of no return. I would never forgive myself if you turned into another version of her. A mere thug Megatron can direct to kill as he wishes.”
Slipstream’s plump dermas pull taut as a frown darkens her countenance.
“No, you will forget all of that and remember who you really are, only humbled and grateful for my grace.”
“Of course, Sir.”
Starscream thinks about Jetfire as he squeezes his subordinate’s pauldron. “Welcome home, Slipstream. Raise my little ones well, as you raised me, and you will be a part of something glorious.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“And promise me one thing.”
The Seeker is directed to turn in place, facing her Captain.
“Do not ever let the affections of a femme get between us again.” Starscream’s optics are seared over, staring through his subordinate as he taps her in the Deceptibrand. “Put your duty first, Decepticon Seeker, my second-in-command.”
“Second-in-command, Sir?”
“I’m making it official. You answer to me, before anyone else, and your station henceforth will reflect this. Now, you are always Captain, not only when I need a temporary stand-in. Behave yourself, like I know you want to, and I will lift you up.”
“And what shall I call you, Sir?”
“What is more sublime than the title of Captain? The very title Jetfire once held, when he led the Seekers to war. He surrendered that title and demoted himself to Captain as a statement, to prove a point, but he was wrong about that. I took that title, but I have outgrown it now, and I must prove that I am worthy of more.”
Slipstream’s dull, depressed optics widen at the mention of Jetfire, a notoriously tender topic. “Commander.”
Ariel does not allow Megatron to touch her.
“Old friend–”
“Don’t.”
He watches her pace back and forth across the room.
“The Functionists are calling for your execution. Orion is doing is damnedest to keep you alive, but he’s outnumbered. Even Sentinel would prefer you dead.”
“I do not come bearing peace, Ariel. I bring a sword. My way sows division, because I am intolerable to the unifying powers that would have us joined together in slavery. I know it is difficult for you, for Orion. I must do what is difficult.”
“You butchered those people.”
“They were wicked people.”
“They were still people.”
Megatron shuts his optics, focusing on his slow, steady vents. When he opens them again, Ariel is poised before him.
“I could forgive you for the horrors that your orchestrated within the Grand Imperium, but to send killers to someone’s home sets a truly sickening precedent for the lows you’ll stoop to.”
“Old friend, you called this meeting. You wished to speak with me, alone. You say my actions drive you to fear me, but I believe you desire me, still. What are your intentions with me, now?”
“I came here to break up with you, Megs.”
“That is the pinnacle of a lie, if I ever heard it.”
“This has gone too damn far.”
The old gladiator remains patient, yet determined, running his palm across the Councillor’s tense cheek moments before she recoils and escapes him.
“Don’t!”
“This is not a parting of ways. This is a desperate plea for surrender. My will cannot bow to yours. You shall surrender your will to mine.”
“No, Megs. I just had to see you for myself, one more time, just the two of us. I’m here now, with you, and I’m telling myself, yeah, this is it. I’ve gotta convince myself you’re long gone and come to accept that I’ve lost you. Frag me. It’s over.”
“Ah, but I know you better than you know yourself.” Megatron leans in and rubs his rugged chin along Ariel’s trembling pauldron as she turns sharply away from him, murmuring into a kiss to her neck, “I see through your lies, old friend.”
She slips away again, gnashing her dentas.
“I have clarity of sight. I am one of the few who sees clearly, in a world blinded by faith in form and function, privilege and power tossing the veil over the optics of the poor and tenuous middle class, convincing the blind that this is how they are to be led by the so-called seeing. I truly see, I see through all of it and I see through you. I willingly share my sight with those who receive me, though I will force the fools to see it too. You see it, Ariel. You are no fool. Your plight and mine are so alike. You will join me eventually.”
“Megs… I just can’t do this with you. Okay. Please give this up and come back to me.”
“You want to help me. You can start by taking my Deceptibrand and publically denouncing the Functionist Council.”
“Why would I! I want to save you, Megs! But I can’t! I’ve just gotta accept that!”
“Save me from what, or whom? I am threatened by nothing, no one.”
“Yourself, Megs! I want my best friend back! I want Alpha Trion to rest! I want to see Orion happy again! I want to prove Sentinel wrong, but not if it proves you right! But you have crossed so many lines without remorse! Whatever sympathy I held for you is gone now!”
The old gladiator looks aggrieved then, but resolute. “Do not say that. Are you turning your back on me, old friend? We both know you can only pretend.”
“You turned your back. The world sucked before, Megs. But at least we had each other, y’know? Frag's sake.” The Councillor is pulled into a hug. “I’m not pretending here, Megs. I’m too damn old for everything. Make it all stop.”
His touch is not rejected this time.
She is too weak to resist him now.
The Seeker barracks are filled with noise and movement, as is expected.
Thrust is sullenly playing holocards with both of the brand new coneheads, namely Dirge and Ramjet, quite jealous that his own cranial casing is not a cone like theirs. “I’d look good with a cone, right? Right.”
Thundercracker is laid out on a recharge slab, talking about shades of blue paint with Ion Storm cuddled up to his big brother figure, mysteriously making the lights flicker just by tapping a digit to the tune of a song playing in the background. “So, you see, I’m technically bluer than you – wow, we have gotta get this light fixed. I’ll requisition it.”
Nova Storm is the most physically imposing example of the standard Seeker model, thus she tends to throw her weight around a bit. “No, not that one, the other one. C’mon, Nacelle!” She currently has a shiny new Seeker scrambling to obey her big sisterly commands, hopeful to please her and avoid her muscular wrath. “Get me polish with the red label. Duh.”
“Red label! Goddit, Nova! Sorry!”
“Primus, Warp. They get dumber every generation. I think you were the last smart one. Heh, knowing you, maybe that’s a good thing.”
Skywarp grunts as a fist playfully punches her in the arm. She rolls her optics and rubs her aching bicep. She always lingers around Nova Storm, just itching to prank someone, usually coaxing her brawnier sibling into a plot for amusement. The Decepticons tolerate the prankster because her mischief is ultimately harmless and her antics can be hilarious.
Slipstream stands in the entrance, staring at the sheer number of new faces among the old, the array of colourful frames all collected in this confined space, similar in overall design yet none exactly identical in the little details that set individuals apart. She goes unnoticed, even as she quietly crosses the threshold and ambles on over to her assigned slab.
Someone is curled up in her berth, still shiny and new from the forge, snoozing.
She feels a motherly stirring in her Spark and cannot be annoyed. She will just have to let the little one take his nap, then settle in afterward. She turns around and yelps.
Skywarp is suddenly standing here, grinning.
“Goodness, you startled me!” Slipstream glances back at the occupied berth, ensuring the Seeker laid there is still sleeping peacefully. “Um, hi. My name is–”
“Slip!” Nova Storm barges on in, disregarding anyone or anything in her way, leaving poor Nacelle behind, holding the correct jar of polish, forgotten.
Skywarp neatly sidesteps her big sister just in time for Slipstream to be pulled into a familiarly painful hug.
“Ooof!”
Nova Storm easily lifts Slipstream off her pedes and twirls with her in the crowded barracks like they are dancing.
Thrust and Thundercracker hurry over, throwing themselves at Nova Storm, squeezing Slipstream sore.
“Slip! You’re here!”
“Glad to have you back. Someone can finally instil some order around here!”
Slipstream turns to messily kiss the mechs wherever she can reach, then buries her face in Nova Storm’s strong neck, relishing the pain of her crushing embrace as she sets her down. “My loves.”
“That’s us! Warp, c’mere!”
Skywarp chirps, bobbing her wings as she draws close enough to bump her helm against Slipstream’s, nuzzling her for the first time.
“Slipstream, I want you to meet, well, everyone!” Nova Storm sweeps her arms out at the many Seekers who stare, murmuring to themselves, surrounding. “But let’s start with Skywarp, here. She’s awesome. It’s ’cause of her all these other guys exist!”
“So, you’re the Seeker I’ve heard so much about.” Slipstream chuckles as Skywarp nips at her audial, leaning into her affection. “Hey, there. I’m Slipstream.”
“Warp here doesn’t talk like we do, but she can speak chirolinguistics,” Thrust interjects with a proud smirk. “My idea. I’ll teach you.”
“Please do.”
“And then we’ve got Ion Storm over there–”
“Yo. I’m the other blue one.”
“And Nacelle–”
“Why don’t I get a cool name?”
“Well,” Nova Storm says cheerfully with a shrug, “just be glad you’re not called Wheezing Arrow like this guy over here.”
“Just Arrow for short! I keep telling you guys!”
“Uh-huh. And that one’s Sunstorm, he’s weird–”
“My searing heat shall purify the earth!”
“Yeah, really weird. Also, we’ve got loads of Storms by now. Too many.”
Slipstream feels a bit dizzy as Nova Storm goes on and on with the introductions. “So many, so soon.”
“Acid’s been busy.” Thrust nods once. “They’re helping Shockwave manufacture us quicker and cheaper every time. We even got coneheads now. I wanna be a conehead.”
“We’ve got what, now?”
Nova Storm points. “Dirge and Ramjet.”
The huge Seeker twins wave in unison, grunting.
“Oh,” Slipstream utters softly, “it’s quite self-explanatory.”
Notes:
As this is an alternative timeline (and basically an alternate universe too), Ramjet and Dirge only come into existence nowish, unlike Cyberverse. Also, Thrust is usually depicted as a conehead in canon, hence his envy as a normal Seeker.
Chapter 41
Notes:
Thanks for all the support, you guys are awesome.
Possible trigger warnings: workplace toxicity, abuse of authority, suicidal ideation and depression.
Chapter Text
“We missed you, Slip.” Thundercracker drags his dentas over his sister Seeker’s jawline as he says this, murmuring against the membrane of Slipstream’s synthetic skin whilst she tilts back her helm and bares more of her muscular neck to Thrust’s caressing digits. “Missed you so much. Depression hits hard sometimes.”
She smiles sadly at that. “Yeah. Depression got servos.” As she says this, she flops backward with a dull, heavy thud to settle upon her spinal seam, wings retracted. With playful wiggle she thus makes herself comfortable, then hooks a thigh over Thrust’s hip and pulls him closer whilst draping an arm about Thundercracker’s pauldrons, dragging him down with her. She kisses them both on their forehelms and holds them tightly to her bosom, crushed beneath their combined weight, altogether laid out on the floor in a writhing mass of love and affection and intimacy distinctly Seeker.
Rumbling, Skywarp bumps her helm insistently against the casing of a bicep, not one to be left out of a cuddle. She is rewarded with a scratch behind the audial that has her wings flaring out and fluttering impressively.
Slipstream coaxes her younger sister to curl up in the crook of her side, then reaches beyond both brothers and splays out callused digits over Nova Storm’s flawless cheek, her helm lowered to permit this touch and cruel optics unusually fuzzy with emotion. Her lap is Slipstream’s pillow.
The fresh Seekers observe their elders from a safe distance, entranced by the cuddle yet wary due to being so new, so inexperienced. All they have to rely on is a data transfer of information force-fed to them by virtue of their forging, as well as whatever they are told to think and feel and believe by Starscream above all else.
When Slipstream smiles at one of the freshly forged, she sees fear and suspicion in the way young Avia flinches and shrinks behind her brother Seeker Ion Storm, himself clearly uncertain. Their distrust breaks Slipstream just that bit more.
Starscream has already damaged his little ones, before giving them the chance to even formulate opinions of their own.
Flamewar shakes her helm sullenly.
“Don’t be difficult. It’s been a long day. We’re all feeling scrappy, same as you.”
She growls lowly when the ration is held before her enstrils, as if to coax her to consume by scent.
“My patience is wearing thin.”
She flashes her fangs in warning as the canteen is gently nudged against her cheek.
“If you bite me, you’re gonna be in a whole heap of trouble, you scraplet.”
She huffs at that, then retreats further into her favourite storage locker, shrinking herself to fit snugly within the confined, dark space.
Shadow Striker sighs wearily, kneeling close by. “C’mon, Flamewar. Do it for me.”
“Go away.”
“Please just take the stupid fragging ration.”
“It’s gross. Don’t want it.”
“You need the fuel.”
“Give it to the big guy. He needs it more.”
“I order you to–”
Claws lash out, swiping at the canteen, knocking it out of that large servo.
The mercenary’s scope follows the trajectory of the canteen as it sails on by, briefly airborne until bouncing off of a bend in the wall of the maintenance tunnel and skidding across the filthy floor with an echoing clatter, spilling its contents.
The bike wraps her arms around herself.
“That’s wasteful.”
“It’s artificial. Shockwave can make more of it, back in his creepy lab.”
“You made a mess. Clean it up.”
“You want me to lick that gunk off the floor, boss bot? Am I a cyberdog, to you?”
“You are a little glitch, I’ll say that much.”
“Woof.” That said, Flamewar pulls the door to the locker shut, in turn sealing herself within. An automated beep announces that the locking mechanism has automatically been engaged.
“You idiot. Now you’re stuck in there.”
“It’s a coffin,” comes the muffled reply. “Leave me to die.”
“Aaargh!” Shadow Striker suddenly rises to her full height, imposing and impressive, slamming a fist into the door with a horrendous clang, crumpling the dull unliving metal with terrifying ease. “That’s it!”
Demolishor manages to be very quiet as he approaches the bickering femmes with caution. Being so big, in such a confined space, he fails to dodge the door to the locker as it is crudely ripped off and thrown carelessly aside, slamming into his fortunately heavily armoured chassis. “Ow!”
Flamewar looks utterly shocked to find herself exposed.
Shadow Striker is almost frothing at the intake, actually trembling where she stands over the smaller femme, still seated.
“Holy scrap, boss bot, the frag.”
“Geddup.”
Wincing, Demolishor carefully lays the dislocated, buckled door to the locker aside and makes his way closer. “Hey, what’s going on here?”
“Get. Up.”
“You’re freaking me out, boss bot.”
Shadow Striker looks like she might wring Flamewar’s neck, who in turn looks ready to disembowel or tear out a fuel line.
“Both of you, that’s enough!” Demolishor throws his weight against Shadow Striker, effectively shoving her aside. “You’re acting crazy! Get a hold of yourself, Sir!”
“I’m fine! She’s the one acting up!”
“I didn’t rip the door off a locker!”
“Flamewar, be quiet.” The tank looms over the mercenary, forming a barrier between her and the bike. “Stand down, Sir.”
“Who the frag are you, giving me an order?”
“As your second-in-command, I’m taking the initiative. You’ve been compromised, Sir. Stand down.”
Shadow Striker seethes, but relents with a shaky exhale from her vents, blasting hot air against Demolishor’s almighty chassis as he glares down at her silently for several seconds.
“Are you calm, Sir?”
“Humph. Barely. Good call, though, stopping me like that. Well done.”
Flamewar takes the opportunity to slip out and skulk elsewhere.
“Oi. You haven’t been dismissed.”
“Eat my aft.”
After one suspicious glance too many, enough is enough. The sun is beginning to set on this dreadful day, revealing a night of terrors.
“Alright, Seekers.” Slipstream has a big voice, thus she projects it over the general noise quite easily. “Settle down and gather around. It’s time for a family meeting.” She stays standing whilst her subordinates sit wherever there is available space, patiently waiting for them to quieten down and grow still, the reluctant and stressed matriarch who loves them by her very instinct, assuming the role of their Captain against her will, surrendering to her fate.
The flock thus congregates altogether within the centre of the crowded barracks, perched on recharge slabs, storage crates, the floor, each other. They gaze adorably at her, naturally attuned to a strict hierarchy as per their unified programming despite any gossip and grumbling as per their individual personalities, but the Commander will reign supreme over his subjects like their dreadful king. There will always be dissent among the ranks, even those born to serve together will disagree at times. Loyalty is all they know, yet they sense the many wrongs.
“Little ones, I’m honoured to meet you.”
Skywarp accepts a motherly caress atop her helm, though she seems a bit annoyed to be addressed like she is one of the newbies, pouting from her place nestled against Nova Storm’s bulk with Thundercracker sat on his lover’s lap, thus taking that particular seat for himself.
“As for the old guard, it’s so good to see you again.”
Thrust nods back, encouraging in his brusque way.
“For those who haven’t met me before, I’m Slipstream, your Captain, Commander Starscream’s second-in-command.”
“We know,” voices chorus.
“Oh. Of course. Well, great. That, uh, simplifies the introductions, then.”
Someone coughs.
“Anyway, I try not to be too much of a hardaft about things. In a professional capacity, you will address me by my rank, but in private or informal settings like this, you can call me Slip for short, or perhaps some other petname of your choosing.”
A servo shoots up.
“Yes, Nacelle.”
“Can I call you mom?”
“Um, yeah, sure. It fits me, I guess.”
Another servo rises above the assembled helms, waving eagerly to be noticed.
“Yes, Bitstream.”
“What about mommy?”
“Ah, hahaha. No.”
Yet another servo reaches for attention.
“Yes, Hotlink.”
“I kinda wanna call you dad.”
“Dad?”
“Yeah. You got that divorced dad energy.”
“I don’t follow?”
“You seem really tired and sad all the time and you’re trying to relate to us right now, but it’s a little awkward. In, like, an endearing way, though! It’s cute!”
Slipstream slumps. “Okay, I accept that. Anyway, swiftly moving on.” She clears her vents, trying to puff out her chassis once more, depleted somewhat due to living on lean rations and hard labour for some months, hardening but also reducing her protoform beneath her armoured shell. “I’m sure you’re all a bit confused and concerned as to why I was away and why I’m back again. As I’m to be your Captain henceforth, I think it’s only fair that I address your questions here and now.”
Nova Storm has an oddly thoughtful frown on her gorgeous face plate. She took Slipstream’s absence the hardest, partially due to their unresolved tensions, partially due to being infatuated with Starscream, thus Nova Storm holds great investment in understanding why any of this had to happen. She is happy to have Slipstream home, but will need to be convinced to trust her again.
“I’m sure Starscream has told you all wonderful things about me in my absence,” Slipstream says with her wonderful brand of customer service sarcasm, arms folded behind her lower back strut, pacing back and forth so she can sweep her maternal gaze upon each and every face in turn.
Seekers turn wherever they sit to look at each other with grimacing expressions, confirming her suspicions as correct.
“Ah, of course.” She chuckles airily. “That makes my job so much easier. Of course he’s given you all so many reasons to respect my authority and obey me.”
One Seeker holds up his Servo. “Uh, Captain?”
“Yes, Arrow.”
“Captain Starscream called you a traitor.” Wheezing Arrow glances at Ion Storm, who nods in confirmation. “Is this true? ’Cause that sounds pretty bad.”
“Pretty bad,” several other Seekers echo in low undertones.
“Oh, okay.” Slipstream sighs, pausing to rub her brows. “Firstly, that’s Commander Starscream, now. Apparently he’s given himself a promotion. Secondly, I think ‘traitor’ is a rather strong word.”
“It’s just that my memories – I mean, the data transfer, so I guess the memories of the other Seekers who came before me, so they’re not really mine – tell me you’re like our mom, kinda? Like Nacelle said.”
She sighs, sensing where this is going. How much of their opinion of her is inferred from the data, from Starscream? Virtually all of it. They have only just met, after all, and she will have to work with them to develop her sense of self, as they perceive her. She has to be patient and forgiving.
“Betrayal doesn’t really fit the definition of a mom. Right?” Wheezing Arrow is not being cruel. He is, in a sense, quite innocent.
“Shuddup, Arrow.” Nacelle scowls at him. “Slip is still our Seeker mom.”
Voices murmur, speaking for young minds with barely any experience of how the world works, relying on that transfer of memory taken from the brain modules of older Seekers and implanted within each new generation, with some updates to account for significant developments, plus Starscream’s pretty poison.
Taking pity, which is rare for Thrust, he rises and steps forth to lay a palm on Slipstream’s buckled pauldron. “Star tends to exaggerate for, like, dramatic effect and stuff, we all know that. Slip here is solid.”
“I’m sure you had your reasons,” Thundercracker adds kindly. “Good reasons.”
“I did,” Slipstream says quietly. “I really only wanted to do the right thing.”
“Star never said why you sold us out.” Nova Storm’s frown softens. “Slip, I’m stoked to have you home, but I’m fragged up over you doing that to us, no matter the reasons why. And it wasn’t easy, losing you like that.”
“Yeah. We weren’t sure Star would ever take you back. He was so mad. He’s still mad. Always mad.”
“Just thinking about you, stuck with that old glitch Shadow Striker, imagining all the wicked things she could do to you, that evil-”
“She’s not evil.”
“How can you say that, after what she did to Acid!”
“Because it’s true. Shadow Striker is traumatised and toxic, but she isn’t evil. She could be good to me.”
Nova Storm snorts with disgust. “Wow. Think Acid would agree?”
Slipstream says nothing for some time, gazing down at her pedes, chewing her bottom derma, clenching her fists, wings folded, brows creased, optics dull and narrowed.
“Slip?” Thrust prompts gently, squeezing her pauldron.
“I’m not the bad guy, here.”
“Nobody says you are.”
“No, that’s exactly what’s been said, what’s being said. All I wanted to do was save lives. Your lives and mine, my friends’ lives, his life.”
Skywarp chirps softly, leaning into Nova Storm’s protective side, sensing how tense she is.
“I wanted to spare us.”
“Of what?”
“War.”
“I know you’re afraid, Slip. You’re not a fighter at Spark like I am. But Star will restore us,” Nova Storm interjects with passion. “If a war’s what he wants, he only wants it for our own good. You just don’t see it yet.”
“How can you be so naive?”
“I’m not naive!”
“You’ve always supported his selfish motions. He has you wrapped round his little digit, Nova. It frustrates me endlessly.”
“Selfish? He’s doing it for all of us, you included!”
“I don’t want this!”
“You’re one of us, act like it!” Thundercracker slides off of Nova Storm’s lap as she rises suddenly, big and strong, impressive enough to send Seekers scattering out of her way. “He knows we’re gonna win this one, easy! It’s just logical! We’ll outnumber the enemy by the thousands someday soon, and when Megatron has Cybertron, we’ll inherit the whole world! I believe in him, I believe in us!”
“Do you forget Jetfire?” Slipstream levels back, baring her dentas painfully. “He never wanted war for us.”
“We can’t go on the way Jetfire would want us to! We’re a dying breed, Slip! This is the only way!”
“I don’t want to accept that.”
“Too bad! It’s the way of the world! So we gotta change the world! ’Cause the way things are, the way things have been? The Senate, the High Council, those Functionists, grounders in general, they’re all terrified of us! There’s no room for Seekers on Cybertron without war, so we gotta make room! We gotta fight for our place!”
“It’s war! We could die, Nova! I love you too much to risk you!”
“You have no faith in any of us! We’re warriors, descended from those great heroes of the past wars they wrote songs and poems about!”
“Those heroes are dead!”
“This’ll be different!” Nova Storm pushes past the anxious Thundercracker to slam her forehelm against Slipstream’s. “It has to be!”
“Okay, stop. That’s enough,” Thrust speaks up over the arguing femmes quite literally butting helms. “Thunder, grab Nova. I’ve got Slip.
“Guys! Let’s not fight each other, please! You’re scaring the little ones! And me!”
Thrust and Thundercracker thus wrest Slipstream and Nova Storm apart, which is not an easy task.
“I see the family reunion is going well,” Starscream drawls from the entrance, palm on his hip and displeasure written deep in his pretty visage.
Skywarp greets him with a chirp, the other Seekers rather too distracted by Nova Storm and Slipstream slamming their forehelms back together and yelling over each other with their faces compressed, Thrust and Thundercracker’s servos full of these feuding femmes.
“Hello, my darling.” Starscream runs his digits along Skywarp’s jawline, pinching her chin and kissing her cheek whilst she preens at his attention. “At least one of my idiot Seekers is happy to see me. I suppose I should restore order, mm?”
Just when it looks like Nova Storm might actually punch Slipstream, who looks ready to punch back despite her motherly ideation, Starscream steps forth and snaps his digits to effortlessly capture every optic in the barracks.
“Seekers!”
Like magic, his subordinates all behave themselves.
“I am most disappointed in each and every one of you sorry lot! Except for Skywarp.”
She poses behind him, admiring her own digits.
“Captain Slipstream!”
“Yes, Commander.”
“Is this how you intend to nurture and maintain control in my stead – petty infighting?”
“No, Commander,” she mumbles, helm bowed, averting her gaze. “I’ll do better.”
“And so you shall,” he sneers, “lest you lose everyone and everything you love! I giveth, and I taketh away! Please me, or perish! Am I understood?”
“Understood, Sir.”
“And Nova Storm, my strongest! Truly, I admire your loyalty, yet your strength is misplaced!”
“But Captain, she–”
“If I need defending, I am quite capable of defending my own honour, thank you very much! You are to put your power to preparing for my ascension, which includes bolstering your weaker brethren! Anything less is beneath you! Make me proud, like I know you can! Will you do this for me?”
She swells with pride. “I will, Sir.”
“Then it’s settled! Apologise to each other, both of you!”
The femmes both grimace.
“You heard me!” Starscream looms over them, wings flared. “You will all get along and like it, my Seekers! Apologise, immediately!”
“Sorry, Nova.”
“Sorry, Slip.”
“Give each other a hug!”
Slipstream and Nova Storm obediently embrace, offering a few feeble pats on their back struts and an awkward nuzzle between them.
“There! Isn’t that so much better?”
“Yes, Commander,” they chorus miserably.
“Now, then. As for the matter itself – Slipstream’s betrayal of her kin and our cause,” Starscream pauses for an imperious little smirk as Slipstream flinches and Nova Storm twitches, “as well as her return to the flock and reinstatement as Captain.”
Skywarp gets a nice little scratch under the chin as Starscream talks.
“What does all this mean? It means that I am merciful, and wise, and I have great plans for all of my Seekers, even the wayward sort. Indeed, I banished Slipstream for a time, but this reassignment was always intended to be temporary. It is not damnation! It is a tool, to teach. She has become an example. She has learned her lesson and thus she is here. Isn’t that correct, Captain?”
“Yes, Commander.”
“What did you learn? Tell the little ones your lesson, down in the Pits.”
Slipstream has appeased Starscream so often before that she knows exactly what he wants to hear her say. “I am nothing without my Seekers and I can lose everything at your behest.” Her programmed instincts tell her to do what she must to appease him, but her willful Spark screams rebelliously.
“Very good. And?”
“I owe you my happiness and my life is not mine to live. It belongs to you. I belong to you.”
“Excellent. And are you sincerely reformed?”
“I have no strength left in me to reject your will. I just don’t want to be miserable any more. I’ll do what I have to, to survive and ensure my Seekers’ survival, as best I can.”
Thrust really pities Slipstream, just then. The traits in her he has admired, seem twisted now, perverted and wrong.
“Then I can trust you. Our Seekers can trust you. You will act as Captain and instil my will.” Starscream simpers now, demeaning in order to dominate. “I know you only mean well, Slipstream, you were just misled by a femme’s wiles and momentarily turned against us, you poor creature of confusion. I do understand. And not only do I correct you, but I forgive you as well.”
“Do you, Sir?” She grits her jaw and feels the welling tears burning in her downcast glare, before bursting free. She is so angry. So, so angry she could die.
“Yes, I do! And so, my glory is visible in all of us.” He brushes a thumb across her cheek, wetting it with a trail of tears. “You will never again choose an outsider over your own. Never again, Slipstream, hear me? Or I will not be so merciful next time. I have spared you once. Don’t test me again.”
“I just…”
Thundercracker finds Nova Storm’s servo, squeezing, smiling reassuringly at her as she cools herself down.
“I just love you, Star. I wanted to protect you. I only did what I felt I had to do. You made me choose.”
“Nonsense! Slipstream, you are not built to contemplate. Your job is to do as I say and keep these angels in harmony as Captain, whilst I busy myself with far more significant work. Leave the difficult decisions to me. Don’t worry about anything else. Your whole world is us.”
“Yes, Commander.”
“Also, though this really should be obvious enough to go without saying, yet I’ll say it anyway just in case, you’re forbidden from seeing her.”
“Sir, no!”
“Or that little horned freak she so favours.”
“They’re my friends.”
“You don’t need friends, you have us.”
“Please.”
“Do not argue. My will be done, and soon our kingdom shall come.”
Nova Storm’s anger is entirely abated by now as she looks up and finds Slipstream stooped over, leaning on Thrust, pawing at her face plate to erase the symptoms of crying as if tears are signs of weakness.
“I want no more infighting or betrayal. This is a dwelling place of love, for such a great love we all share, and forgiveness and grace are the bounties of our love. I shall save you all, I shall keep you close to me as I rise above and ensure Seeker dominion over all the world, and you will shine through me. Are we all in agreement, my loves?”
“We agree,” voices chorus in various tones, some sounding more convinced than others, none daring to disagree.
“Wonderful! That being said, it’s getting late.” Starscream claps his palms with a bright smile, as if he has not been sobbing over Jetfire for hours. “Ready yourselves for recharge, my darlings! Bright and early start tomorrow morning. Your Captain shall supervise your general care and training. Be good! No troublemaking now, mmyes? And be gentle with the pranks, Skywarp.” That said, he turns and saunters out. He will bring up the whole Jetfire coming back out of the blue thing tomorrow, after some more sobbing alone in his office. Got to get this out of his system, where nobody else can see him and judge him and threaten him in his hours of weakness.
“Are we a cult yet?” Sunstorm murmurs with a pretty smile once Starscream has left, to which Avia gives him a sidelong look and shuffles a little farther away.
“Slip?” Thrust ventures very gently, for him.
“Did I do alright?”
“What?”
“Were you convinced?” She scoffs wetly. “Or am I still the bad guy?”
“C’mon, don’t be like that. Nobody thinks you’re bad. But we are disappointed in you.”
“That’s somehow so much worse.”
“You’ll make it up to us, Captain, like the Commander said. Don’t let him get you down, though. He’s posturing, like usual.”
“Yeah, well. I can’t stoop any lower. I’m gonna go take a walk, clear my helm. You’re in charge while I’m gone.”
“Wait, seriously?”
“Sure. Why not.”
“I get to boss them around, and they gotta listen to me?”
“It’s what you’ve always wanted.” She pats his pauldron as she stalks past him. “Knock yourself out.”
“Awesome! I mean, I hope you feel better soon,” he calls after her as she departs, giddy despite his concern for her. “Hear that, Seekers! I’m in charge, now you do what I say!”
“Oh, scrap,” Thundercracker mutters, his anxiety still very evident. “We’re in for it, now.”
Nova Storm watches Slipstream go, sighing quietly. “Maybe I was a little too hard on her.”
Skywarp shrugs, unhelpful but not unsympathetic.
“Should I go after her?”
“Maybe she just needs a little space, Nova. C’mon, let’s cuddle. That’ll help make you feel better. When she gets back, she’ll get in on our cuddle pile too, and we’ll all be together again.”
“Just like old times?”
“I hope so!”
Slipstream is careful not to go where Starscream goes, avoiding following in his steps as she opts to wander about the greater base, halfway caught between sobbing and scowling.
She is not doing much better than he is, however, as he returns to his office to agonise over Jetfire’s return after never quite getting over his absence.
The Decepticons that go about doing their late tasks do not provide any obstacles to either of them, preferring to leave Seekers alone.
Until Megatron lets himself into Starscream’s office and finds him bereft again.
And Empress encounters Slipstream at her most vulnerable.
“He was gonna shoot me down,” Windblade mumbles, a little drunk after a few hours spent at Mac’s place, home now and splayed out on the couch, hugging her beloved stuffed singlehorn. She seems ashamed to admit that she could have been killed earlier today. She is not ashamed to cuddle a toy for comfort. “My sensors went off. He and his goons had their weapons online.”
The friends all look appropriately horrified.
“When they locked onto me, I didn’t know what to do. I just started freaking out like a total loser, trying just to make some distance between me and the City, y’know? Just in case I… fell.”
“You’re not a loser, bestie.” Bumblebee kisses her forehelm. “Any of us would’ve been afraid, dealing with something like that. I’m so sorry it happened to you.”
“I dunno what I would’ve done, if not for Jetfire. That big, hunky guy just showed up, woosh, straight outta nowhere, like some character from one of your holocomics.” She gestures drunkenly, as if to indicate how he flew between her and the Seekers. “Saved my day.”
“Indeed, for which he has my undying gratitude,” Grimlock intones lowly. “He shall make for a valiant ally, as well as a stalwart friend.”
“You should’ve seen how Starscream turned and fled like a real coward. Ha. Little glitch. Ohhh, Solus Prime, I wanted to puke. I still do.”
“This is getting to be… kinda too much,” Hot Rod utters, palms over his face plate, pale and trembling. “The Senate got blown up, those Functionists got chopped up, and…”
“I almost got shot up,” Windblade finishes for him. “Or down. Whatever.” She hiccups into the singlehorn’s synthetic mane.
“He’s gone insane. Totally insane.” Bumblebee clenches his fists. “And to think, the worst he did back then was smack me around a little and then send his goons after me to do the smacking for him when he decided I was too filthy to touch. Some character development, huh? Monster in the making.”
“Grrrmph! That fragger!” Arcee expands within her slender framework, ready for a fight. “When I get my servos on him, it’s on sight! I’mma tear his smug face off and stuff it down his throat!”
“Do not stoop to his level, my friend.”
“Frag that, Grim! He’s crossed way too many lines! I’m done holding back!”
Chromia is silent throughout, but there is something in her steely optics that bellows for bloodshed. Hurting Windblade in any capacity will incur her protector’s wrath, but never before has the Cityspeaker’s life been genuinely threatened, not even as such a valued member of Camien society. She could always take care of herself, protect herself. She never needed a bodyguard, but loves her guardian as a best friend. Some harassment from people who would not take no for an answer and needed to be taught manners is one thing. Attempted murder is something else entirely. Chromia is not only lusting after Starscream’s demise. She is also terrified of his potential.
“Do I seem weak?”
“No, my love, never.”
“You despise weakness.”
“I have little patience for it.”
Starscream allows Megatron to wipe his face plate clean of all the ugliness of this emotional upheaval, huge callused servos applied very delicately to this task, soft dermas trembling betwixt thumbs that could crush such pristine architecture.
“Are you upset over Slipstream’s return?”
“Yes. But she is not the cause of my tears.”
“Then tell me what ails you, my shining Star.”
“I shall. Not yet, darling. Give me a few hours.”
The old gladiator cups the Commander’s cheeks in both palms and kisses him, tasting those tears.
It makes Starscream swoon, reminding him of how he is madly in love. As if he ever could forget. Please, never forget. Do not let this life and all its stress take such swooning away.
“We will speak of this later, then. In the meantime, shall I stay?”
“As much as I adore you and would keep you here with me forever, I do prefer to be indisposed alone, in private.”
“Very well, then.” Megatron smiles ruggedly, releasing his lover and withdrawing slowly from him. “I will see you back at our room.”
“You will, my darling mech.”
“Perhaps I might occupy your thoughts with rather more delightful notions, mm?”
“Ooh. You tease.”
The leader of the Decepticons blows a kiss to the Commander before he goes, stepping through the automated doors.
Once left alone, Starscream is consumed by Jetfire, the mech who could prove an end to so much of Megatron’s happiness.
Blinded by upset, Slipstream takes a corner and marches right into Empress’ arms.
“Oh!” The gladiator catches the Seeker with ease, but does end up dropping her datapad with a crystalline clatter in the process of stabilising her.
“Sorry!” Adding embarrassment to her list of problems, Slipstream quickly bends to retrieve the dropped datapad. “I’m such a–” Her vocaliser malfunctions when she rises again, looking up.
Empress lets out a breathy, “Excuse me,” as she takes the datapad with a smile that would make Nova Storm herself combust bright and hot, as per her namesake. “Thank you.”
This Seeker, too, stands no chance. Her handsome mandible opens and shuts, tear-filled optics wide with wonder.
“My dear, you seem quite upset.” For such a brute quite capable of being astoundingly cruel within the arena and without, as well as being generally dismissive of most mechs when not delighting in tormenting them, the gladiator modulates herself into a rather gentle and affable person when dealing with most femmes. “Did I hurt you, just now?”
“No! I mean, no. I’m fine. Did I hurt you?”
“Please, dear, worry not. I’m built for punishment. You did me no harm.”
“Okay, um, great. I’m sorry for barging into you like that. I didn’t watch where I was going, uh…” Slipstream is flushed and flustered by now, coyly rubbing her bicep plating and glancing shyly between the floor and the Deceptibrand upon the other femme’s broad expanse of breastplate, far too prominent not to be distracting, yet gawking idiotically at her bosom is somehow less intimidating than meeting her optics.
Empress finds this utterly charming for reasons all of her own. She does rather like Starscream’s Seekers, even if she despises the little mech himself. They are all so adorably afraid of her, or adorably awestruck by her, and in their simplicity they do tend to be very expressive of their thoughts and feelings. Plus the movement of their wings when they emote is just too endearing.
The Captain flinches when the gladiator offers a huge servo. Hesitates to accept it, gripped by the allure of another femme.
“Oh, but this won’t do at all. You needn’t be frightened.”
A soothing sensation washes over Slipstream and she feels her entire body unwind. She melts upon her pedes with a sigh of relief, finding it suddenly much easier to lay her smaller servo upon the offered palm. She feels so petite by comparison. Is this how Starscream feels with Megatron? Must be.
“There, much better.” Empress offers an all-consuming shake of their joined servos, very careful not to squeeze too hard, even if it would be so easy to crush the reinforced metal within the true strength of her grip. “You may call me Empress.”
“Whoa. That’s such a powerful name. It has such presence.”
“Thank you, I chose it myself, when I first took to the arena. I intended to dominate to spite my betters, only to wind up their entertainment. The rich have a fetish for lethal combat.”
“You sound kinda like Megatron.”
“We are quite alike, in many ways, yes. So!” The gladiator squeezes the Seeker’s servo fondly. “What’s your name, dear?”
“Slipstream.”
“Oh? I recognise it. You’re the Seeker Captain, mm?”
“Yeah. I guess so.”
“You guess so?”
“My Commander tried to get rid of me before he brought me back. That’s Starscream. He promoted himself.”
“That seems like a very Starscream thing to do.”
“I thought the same thing. I’m not supposed to think like that, but I’m, like, defective.”
“No, you’re just thinking for yourself. Nothing defective in that.”
Slipstream is not doing much thinking at all, right now. “I’m not supposed to think for myself, though.”
Empress has decided she is very taken with her. “Why not?”
“Seeker stuff. Hard to explain to someone outside our little sphere. We’re supposed to be altogether, not apart. We’re a flock, led by the greatest one of us. It isn’t supposed to bother me.”
“That’s rather… unfortunate.”
“Did he tell you all about how terrible I am, to think and feel this way?”
“We don’t really talk, my dear, and I don’t particularly like him, so I never put much stock into anything he says, really.”
“He says some really crazy scrap.” Saying such a thing is irreligious, and yet it feels so okay to say, right now. “I wish I could just ignore him, sometimes.”
A huge digit very gently presses upon an olfactory sensor as if pushing a button.
The gesture is answered by a giggle, girlish.
“Well, I shall ignore him for you. Don’t you worry about that.” Another playful little tap. “Alright? We can make our first impression here and now, if you’d like to.”
“Alright. Thanks, Empress. I’d really like that, a lot.”
“You’re welcome, Slipstream. Lovely to meet you.”
“Likewise.” The Captain sighs dreamily, brave enough – soothed enough – to look up at the smiling gladiator without intimidation. “Also, is it kinda hot in here, or is that just me?” The poor thing is too sincere to be flirtatious.
The gladiator has considered taking a Seeker for her own, and she knows now she wants this one.
“I’m running a self-scan and I gotta say, what even are these spikes – uh, I mean, elevations, not spikes, hahaha – elevations in my internal temperature readings.” That was a little clumsy, unintended flirtation. “Ah, haha. So hot.”
By now, Nova Storm would be whimpering.
Empress tilts her helm a little to the left, gazing down at Slipstream with keen interest bordering on hunger, but just soft enough not to frighten the poor thing off. “Are you in a rush to be somewhere else, dear, or may I borrow you a little while? I desire your company.”
“Sure! No rush! Borrow away!”
“Perfect.”
It is late by the time most of the intoxication has worn off and Windblade still cannot rest. She keeps thinking about how she could have died earlier today. And in turn, she thinks about her ex, achingly tempted to call Slipstream yet again in an effort to reconcile, yet depressingly aware that some distance and time to heal may be needed for the both of them. Although the call may simply go unanswered, considering how the Cityspeaker has tried to telepathically reach out to the Seeker over and over again of late, only to be shut out and ostensibly ignored. Not a quandary any femme wants to be in. It is so unfair. Why not answer the call? Is their friendship not enough? Can they no longer be friends?
Starscream could have killed Windblade today.
Slipstream should damn well answer the call.
Chromia sleeps soundly beside, laid out handsome and content in the big berth, an arm thrown around Bumblebee who is adorably small when tucked against her like this.
Windblade gazes at her best friends for some time, then crawls out of berth and leaves them behind, quietly venturing through her spacious upmarket habitation suite.
The slumbering bodies of Grimlock and Hot Rod are laid over the floor with textile blankets and synthetic cushions for comfort, whilst Arcee takes the couch.
Windblade pauses for several moment to gaze upon them, then moves on. She loves these people so much, her closest friends, who spend the night at her place to comfort and protect her, and yet she does not feel secure or safe. She cannot find rest tonight. She scrounges up some Energon goodies as a depression snack, then steps out onto her balcony to admire the stars.
“You need to be gentle with her.”
“Do I look gentle, to you?”
“I know you have the capacity to be a little more tactful than ripping the door off a locker, sweetie.” Thunderblast rolls her golden optics. “You probably scared her half to death. Real smooth, there, Sir.”
“Shuddup,” Shadow Striker mutters, bouncing herself atop the other femme’s lap, valve sliding wetly against valve, grinding their erect anterior nodes slickly together with a meaty applause. “Frag me like a pleasure frame. Tell me I’m stupid after I’m done with you. Don’t even know why I told you in the middle of this.”
“Because you know I’m so much smarter than you and you favour my advice almost as much as my body. You just use pleasure as a means of excusing pain, blurring the line between those two extremes. I can give you so much of both, hence you like and loath me equally. Am I wrong?”
“Ugh.”
“Well, am I wrong?”
“Whatever!”
“Fine. Gimme your tits.”
“Take ’em. Damn.”
The boat slaps her servos over the shapely aft with a satisfying thwack and squeezes hard as she leans in to lick a sensitive headlight, slick with droplets of dripping perspired coolant, slicker still with drooled oral lubricant. “Fat tits, so good.”
A large palm in turn clamps down behind a pretty helm and encourages that silver glossa to lather attention upon the mercenary’s shimmering bosom much more aggressively. “You like that? Huh?”
“Mmyeah.”
“Dirty slag.”
Empress somehow made Slipstream feel wonderful, even though her life has turned to scrap. This wonderful feeling persists as the gladiator kindly elects to walk the Seeker back to the barracks, as if to keep her safe along the way. This wonderful feeling lingers even after they have parted with intimately murmured reassurances that they will see each other again.
Slipstream thus returns with a dreamy smile on her face plate to find Thrust, temporarily appointed as acting Captain in her stead, has done his duty and put the others to berth for recharge.
“Here, Slip,” Thundercracker calls drowsily. “Come cuddle.”
“Again?” Slipstream murmurs teasingly, pleasantly surprising him by how relaxed she seems as she climbs into the cuddle pile.
“Again,” Thrust mumbles, making space for her to fill so perfectly, as she was made to fit in.
Empress wears off eventually, however.
Slipstream thus finds herself wide awake and sobering up in the arms of her closest kin. It almost feels like home, but not quite, and she still cannot find her faith.
Megatron sets down his datapad with a yawn, rippling all over as he stretches his huge framework and rises from his chair. He is ready to retire for the day. And so he saunters out of his office and into his berthroom, peering about the dimmed habitation suite. “Star, do you feel any better?” It was difficult to concentrate on datawork with his lover suddenly so ill and upset, true, but the Decepticon cause – now set in motion, unstoppable – waits for no mech and demands the full attention of all.
“No,” comes a feeble, raspy croak from their private adjoining wash rack, so very small and humbled.
The leader of the Decepticons adopts a gentle expression of rugged concern, moving to stroke the Commander’s back strut, stooped over the sink and staring manically at his own reflection, dripping with tears. “Star, speak to me, tell me what it is that ails you. This is no mere sickness.”
“I’m scared.” For Starscream to openly admit such a thing, without trying to bargain for a better deal in his own favour in some way, or plead for some shred of mercy to be bestowed upon his wretched self, would strike anyone as deeply concerning.
“Be not afraid, my love.” Megatron wraps his huge arms around his slender lover, cradling him close. “For I am with you. Come to berth, let us talk all about it.”
The Commander is led to berth, coaxed to curl up in the old gladiator’s lap.
“I am ready to listen. Are you ready to tell?”
“Jetfire,” Starscream murmurs with a shiver.
Megatron sucks in air, his old frame creaking.
“He has returned to me. So long I have mourned my beloved. He came back for me, and I could not face him.”
This cuddle pile hits different.
Despite being so affectionate with each other, Seekers are built for combat and not comfort, being so big and heavy, curiously cumbersome when in root-mode, boxy in shape. Very different from Flamewar’s desirously buxom yet far smaller framework or Shadow Striker’s sleek curves and sharp angles. Thunderblast, too, with her legs that stretch on forever and her soft synthetic facial membrane and her clever, dextrous servos. Demolishor has shown himself to be so much gentler than Seekers tend to be, even for an old war machine so ponderous.
Indeed, this cuddle pile do be hitting different, Slipstream thinks to herself as someone rolls over and whacks her in the chin with a carelessly flung servo. Sighing, she gently plucks up that slackened arm, lifted by the wrist, and removes the servo from her face plate, depositing it upon her bosom instead. Someone else is snoring against her neck. Another drools on her thigh, seeping into the gaps of her armour. She feels out of place here, in the arms of her own kind. This, for a Seeker, is deeply disturbing. But then again, she has never quite felt at home, even if her home is to be found in her own people. She still lacks faith. If she looks around, she will see glowing Deceptibrands, mocking her. And then she sees a set of harsh optics, peering back at her.
“Slip.”
“Nova.”
“Can’t sleep?”
“Not really. You, too?”
“Me, too.” Nova Storm reaches for Slipstream, poking her lightly in the angle of her cheek, a little hollowed out by depression and neglect. “I’m sorry about earlier. I just really missed you and there’s a lotta stuff going on.”
“It’s okay. I missed you too. Way too much has been going on, of late.”
“I thought about you every day you were gone.”
“Likewise, my love.” Slipstream gazes into those cruel optics. “You have so much on your mind. I hate being the reason for your unhappy thoughts.”
“Yeah. I know.” Nova Storm is not an especially clever femme, but she is surprisingly quite sensitive. Right now, in the dim of the barracks, nestled among brothers and sisters, their wayward sibling having come home to them, she feels conflicted. She trusts Starscream. She believes in him. She is in love with him. He has said truly horrible things about Slipstream lately, and yet he took her back and made her their Captain again, indicating that he still trusts her and they should trust her enough to obey. And even then, he mocked her before the very subordinates she is meant to nurture and lead on his behalf. Nova Storm is inclined to agree with Starscream, and yet her love for Slipstream makes it hard to vilify her as he does, and so this obedience is torn with betrayal and twisted by confusion. “Can I ask you about something Star said, before?”
“Can it wait until morning?”
“Please, Slip. It might help settle me down, so I can sleep.”
“Ugh. He just has to make my life difficult, saying all the things he says just to hurt me.” A moody huff. “He sends me away to spite me, then yanks me back again when he doesn’t like what I’m turning into just to survive, and so he shoves me onto you with this expectation I’ll boss you lot around but mother you all the same like I used to, only now he’s defamed me and ruined my reputation, so how can I ever hope to hold any authority over you?”
“Is it true, though?” A pretty frown. “Did you really dump us for her?”
“I didn’t dump anyone.”
“He said-”
“I did what I thought was right. That’s it. I wasn’t out chasing a pretty femme’s aft or whatever it is he thinks motivated me to defy him. He made me choose lives, Nova. Do I side with the femme I want and all my friends, in an effort to stop a war that could kill them all? Or do I side with him and all our Seekers, just to obey like a good little soldier should, fit to kill as commanded of me?”
“You think so little of our struggle. You’re hardly a Decepticon, but you’re still a Seeker. He didn’t have to take you back, he could’ve had you decommissioned for what you did, but he loves you, in his own way.”
“Are you even listening to me?”
“I am. And I don’t like what you’re telling me. But I know you meant to do the right thing by her and your friends.”
“I tried to save you too, Nova.”
“I’m strong. I don’t need saving. Have some faith in me, Slip, in all us Seekers. We will win this war, together.”
“Well, I’m sorry I love you all so much and that I worry for your wellbeing.”
“You worry too much.”
“Like I can help it.”
Their whispers die down for a little while.
“So, you don’t love her more than you love me, right?”
“No, Nova, of course not. How can you even say that?”
“I guess I feel insecure, is all.”
“It’s not like you, to feel insecure.”
“She’s sided with the enemy. What if I face her on the battlefield someday? Are you gonna help her beat me?”
“No! I could never hurt you!”
“Shh.” Nova lays a digit over Slipstream’s dermas. “The little ones are sleeping.”
“Grrmph.”
The digit lifts.
“Why are you tormenting me?”
“I need to trust you again.”
“Look, I made a difficult choice I felt forced to make and it ruined my life.”
“Was she worth it?”
Silence.
“Slip?”
“I told her I would always choose her over him.”
“Then you are a traitor. Star was right about you.”
“If it makes you feel safer to be around me and my treacherous self, Windblade dumped my dumbaft after all that, anyway.”
“Oh.”
“I’m too toxic. She was right to leave me. Now, I have to let her go, keep my distance while she does the best she can to heal from me.”
“Slip, you’re not toxic.”
“I am. It just kills me inside. I wish I’d never been forged.”
“Don’t say that.”
“I hate my life.”
“Stop.”
“I hate who I am, what this stupid war is turning me into. I hate what he’s doing to all of us. She was my shot at happiness and she chose differently. I ruined my life, choosing her, but when it came down to the wire, she didn’t choose me. It is... agony, Nova.”
“Primus, Slip. I dunno what to say.”
Slipstream rolls over with a wet sniffle, hugging herself for comfort within the warmth of her loved ones.
“Please don’t cry.”
“C-can’t stop myself, I’m afraid. I’ve been set off. It’s inevitable, now.”
“Oh, Slip. I’m sorry. Really, I am. Windblade seemed so cool, before. You know, she’d ask me, Thunder and Thrust all about you, while you were gone.”
“R-really?”
“Yeah. We had to be careful not to hang out with her when Star was watching, since he grew to hate her but never told us why, before today. But we’d bump into each other at Mac’s, or sometimes I’d catch her on my patrol route over the City. She always wanted to know if we’d heard anything about you, seen you at all, just to reassure herself you were still doing okay. She was worried. Her and that cutie in yellow, Bumblebee, too. And sometimes, they’d wanna know more personal stuff, y’know?”
“W-what did you tell th-them?”
“Oh, only a few of my most embarassing stories about you.” Nova pinches Slipstream’s hip, teasing.
“Heh. Thank you oh so m-much for that.”
“You’re welcome. They were sad without you, but the guys and I, we made them laugh. Star hates your friends, but they definitely love you, and I guess that means they’re good people. Even if Windblade dumped your dumbaft, she’s still your friend, isn’t she? Love like that doesn’t just die.”
“I... I dunno.”
“Oh. Damn.”
“I miss them, though. I wish I could go b-back, I wish they could take me back. I wish I could take them with me and run away, take them somewhere far from here, somewhere safe and sound.”
“And leave me behind?”
“I could never leave you, Nova.”
“You promise?”
“Do I even need to? If I could get my way, I’d take you w-w-with me, you and all my Seekers, all my friends, Flames too.”
“Who’s Flames?”
“A friend. At least, I h-hope so. I had to l-leave her behind, too. She was hurt. Angry. I’ve left so many people behind, Nova.”
“Maybe you’ve still got someone. Someone who isn’t a Seeker, I mean.”
“Maybe.”
“Hey, uh, did Bumblebee dump you, too? Like, you had that three-way sorta thing with them both, right?”
“There n-never was a 'three-way sorta thing' between us, Nova, I told you before. Primus. You know I only f-frag femmes.”
“But it was hot to imagine you and him making out, okay. And he could watch you frag her.”
“Behave.”
“Sorry.”
“Ugh. My little super-Nova, just the worst. Helm always in the gutter,” Slipstream murmurs huskily, wet with tears, sounding quite drowsy by now yet unable to fall into recharge with all these thoughts and feelings.
“That’s me.”
“Hold me, please.”
Nova Storm shuffles closer, wrapping herself around her sister from behind, kissing the back of her neck.
“Thank you.”
“For a hug? You’re welcome, but you don’t gotta thank me.”
“Not just this hug. You’ve kept our Seekers safe. You’re so s-strong and brave. I love you so much, Nova. If any of us stands a ch-chance at surviving this, it’s you, I’m sure of it. And in all I’ve done to anger Star and ruin myself, please know I did it out of love for everyone. I meant no harm.”
“I love you too, Slip. You’ll always be a Seeker, always one of us. It will take time, but we can all learn to trust you again.”
“Even you?”
“Even me.”
“Take me advice, then. Don’t do what I did. Okay? Don’t go against the n-narrative.”
Nova Storm frowns prettily. “The what?”
“Hush.” Slipstream hiccups emotionally. “Try to sleep.”
“I’ve been trying.” The femme Seeker adopts a whiny undertone she uses very rarely.
Her sister sighs, maternal, finding a servo, their digits threading together and squeezing mutually. “You must rest, though. We’ll be busy in a few hours, if I can g-get these Seekers to comply with my command. Ha. Imagine that.”
“I’ll keep the new guys in line for you, Slip, if you need me to. I scare the newbies real easy, so I’ll back you up and they’ll do what you say, no sweat. Try not to blow that gasket of yours, stressing over all the little details, yeah?”
“Thank you, Nova.”
“But please don’t be uncool about bossing us about, especially early in the mornings.”
“Tch. You’re so lazy.”
“So? Star lets us frag around most of the time. Like, as long as we look busy, he generally doesn’t bother with us. It’s the Seeker way, Slip. We play. You’re the weirdo, wanting to get actual work done all the time.”
“And that very l-l-lack of oversight on his part will leave you all ill-disciplined and unprepared. He’s very lazy like that, too.”
“Blah-blah-blah. You worry too much.”
“I’m sorry, Nova, but its my job to worry. I’m planning to w-work you hard.”
“Ugh. You’re such a mom,” Nova Storm mutters, rubbing the handsome bridge of her olfactory sensor against her sister Seeker's neck. “No fun. Just responsibility, with you. Same as always.”
Slipstream smiles faintly at that, swimming in tears. “Mmhm. Now, sleep.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“You can Sir me in the m-m-morning, bright and early, first thing. I’m not Captain within the c-cuddle pile.”
The sisters settle into silence like this, save for the soft sobbing and low hums of comfort. Their intimacy is not as frequent, due to one of them being a fearsome femme, the other being so afraid of femmes. But they have always loved each other and known it. Still, it is a source of old tension between them, painfully unresolved.
“And this Jetfire was your former Captain. The one who loved you, yet left you.”
“Yes, my dearest. I’m still not truly certain why. Some nonsense about finding his Spark, his true self. That beautiful, beloved fool failed to acknowledge that he left his Spark behind when he left on his quest without me!”
“I see.” Megatron drags a thumb across Starscream’s cheek, gently erasing a tear. “Due to his privileged position, he knows where the hidden Seeker factories are located. He is the one who told you all those secrets.”
“He knows everything, yes. He knows… me. And yet he feels so strange to me, even now. Especially now! So much went unsaid. I wish to ask him so many questions.”
The leader of the Decepticons gazes down at his once Captain, now Commander. “Mmm.” Searing optics narrow.
“But I know his stance on war without a doubt. The promise I made to him, before he left, was a promise of peace. He despises weaponising Seekers, but he also has such a naive view of the world. Good versus evil, heroes and villains, that sort of thing. No recognition of the in-between.”
“Thus you are certain he will interfere with us.”
“Unless I can convince him otherwise.”
“And you fled. You let him go with the Cityspeaker.”
“I panicked, okay! Oh, but what if…?” Starscream gnaws on his bottom derma, clutches his breast, and swoons over Megatron’s lap with a ragged sigh. “What if, what if! Is there still hope? If I can only convince my love of our struggle, get him on our side, he will be a wondrous ally!”
“Your love.”
“My dearest Jetfire, returned to me, serving my every need! I shall take from him what he owes me! Giving me command of the Seekers was one thing, but there is still so much more to give!”
“And if you cannot, errm, convince this love of yours,” the old gladiator intones in his rumbling, leisurely cadence, entertaining the Commander laid over his lap most melodramatically, “he may prove a woeful obstacle. If he were to divulge these secrets to the other side, in an effort to cease Seeker mass-production for the war effort, I would be most bereft of soldiers. This is unacceptable.”
“Even if that were to pass, we still have Vector Sigma captured and hidden.”
“The element of surprise is to our advantage, yes, as Sentinel has yet to breach Shockwave’s security and discover our hiding place. But I do not wish to lose your Seekers.”
“Of course not! Seekers are divine beings.”
“Indeed.” Megatron sighs quietly, cupping Starscream’s handsome jaw to force optic-contact, leaning in to brush their dermas in the ghostly impression of a kiss. “Solve this Jetfire problem for me, my Commander, and promptly. You would hate to lose respect and authority to the one who granted you such distinction to begin with.”
“Then… even you believe my Seekers would choose him. Abandon me, for him.”
“We should do our utmost to avoid that very real possibility, mm.”
“Y-yes! Of course! He left us, he left them to me! The Seekers are mine!” The Commander’s optics sear over as he throws a tantrum upon the retired gladiator’s ancient gunmetal grey lap. “Impossible! I cannot permit it! I shall not lose!”
Windblade returns to berth, returns to Chromia and Bumblebee who are still peacefully in recharge, to pass out at the farthest edge of the berth as if they were never further apart than this.
Chapter 42
Notes:
Possible trigger warnings: unhealthy relationship dynamics, workplace toxicity, self-harm, suicidal ideation and threat.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“And you believe you can convince Starscream and his Seekers to abandon Megatron’s cause,” Sentinel intones with bright, shrewd optics narrowed.
“Indeed, I do!” Jetfire has no indoor voice, but it is oddly charming, the way he heroically bellows seemingly at all times. “Starscream is sorely misunderstood and he simply misunderstands! In his Spark, he is a good and loving mech, with only the noblest of intentions!”
“Dunno about that,” Bumblebee mutters darkly.
Windblade does not shush him. She is inclined to doubt, herself.
“Allow me to intervene and speak some sense into my dear old friend! He will listen to me!”
“Hmm. That would be… a lot less messy than my plans.”
“I come to you, Councillor, as Windblade and Bumblebee both reassure me that you fight the good fight! As allies, let us spare Cybertron of the atrocities of war! The first step is confronting Starscream, so that my Seekers may be spared!”
“We may have, uh, oversimplified things a little,” Bumblebee interjects with a sidelong look at Windblade, who nods a little guiltily at that. “But he wants to help. Give him a shot, yeah?”
“Allow me to save Starscream and the Seekers!” Jetfire slams his fist to his big bosom, solemn. “It is my duty! Then you may contend with this foul Megatron character!”
Sentinel’s chin shifts as he grinds his jaw thoughtfully for several seconds. “Alright, then. We’ll try things your way, but be quick about it, mm?”
“I shall rescue my brood forthwith!”
“Yes, quite. Those Functionists are baying for blood and I have to keep them satisfied.”
“Baying for my love’s blood?! Heaven forbid! His Energon is my Energon, all Seekers are as one! This cannot be! Any Seeker’s death is my own!”
“We are not executing anyone, for any reason,” Orion reminds Sentinel with a deep, tired sigh. “As I have said before. Please do not panic, Jetfire. However, if you could convince Starscream to withdraw his Seekers, it would disempower Megatron considerably, so he may do less harm.”
“Like it or not, those Functionists want Megatron and Starscream strung up almost as badly as I do and they’re pushing me to do something drastic.” Sentinel lays a large servo on Jetfire’s pauldron, squeezing. “You really don’t have much time, before drastic action must be taken to save my face and end this farcical uprising so order can be restored. Don’t fail me.”
“Ohh, my darling Star, whatever have you done, whatever have you gotten yourself into! I feel faint!” Jetfire swoons into Windblade’s arms.
Sentinel quirks an optic ridge. “Oh-kay.”
“Primus, the Energon is so much better here.”
“Meh, it’s alright.” Thrust pops a goodie in his intake, immediately chewing it to bits before reaching for the accompanying liquid ration to wash those bits down.
“You wouldn’t believe the stuff Shockwave sent us down in the Pits,” Slipstream mutters, contemplating her own laden tray. “This weird synthetic blend, day in, day out, always the same, no matter how often we asked for a change. I tried to be grateful, but seriously, disgusting stuff. You guys have it good up here.”
“Well, you’re back, so you’ll have it good, too.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Hello, darlings. How are we this morning?”
Nova Storm actually squees. “Empress!”
Skywarp chirps, offering a wink as her hello.
Thundercracker cringes and Thrust flushes uncomfortably, the mechs wilting.
“Slip, Slip, Slip, look!” Nova Storm grabs Slipstream by the chin and forces her to look up at Empress, who seems rather amused by this. “She’s a real gladiator! Like Megatron! She signed my datapad, just like he did! So cool!”
Slipstream smiles shyly within Nova Storm’s grip, waving up at Empress. “Hi, again.”
“Wait, you’ve met?”
“The Captain and I bumped into each other last night.”
“Oh.”
Empress gracefully sits among the Seekers, so much bigger than they are, relishing in their worship and fear alike.
Nova Storm releases Slipstream, turning instead to grasp Empress’ enormous servo. “Isn’t she just magnificent, Slip?”
Skywarp rolls her optics as if this is all very dumb, but she smiles coquettishly all the same.
Slipstream chuckles airily. She is about to reply, when someone prods her in the pauldron to get her attention.
“Mom, my tummy hurts,” Nacelle mumbles, holding his belly with a wince.
“Mom?” Empress echoes.
“Well, no, not really, but she fills the role, pretty much,” Thundercracker supplies.
“It hurts real bad.”
“Oh, no.” Slipstream frowns softly with concern, rising from her seat to attend to the younger Seeker properly. “Did you consume your ration too quickly, little one? That can sometimes cause a tummy ache. You must moderate yourself.”
“I dunno. Wasn’t really hungry, anyway.”
“Does it hurt often, your tummy?”
“Sometimes. Not every day, but some days.”
“Does it hurt if I push here?”
“Ow.”
“And here?”
“Ow!”
“Mm. Have you been otherwise unwell?”
“No, I’ve been fine. Just the tummy ache.”
“Maybe ulcerations, or it could just be irritable tank syndrome.”
“He got that existential dread,” Thundercracker interjects helpfully. “Y’know, the tank disease.”
“That sounds scary. Mom.” Nacelle’s young optics widen. “Am I gonna die?”
“No, Nacelle, you’re not gonna die of a tummy ache,” Slipstream says gently as she lays her palm over Nacelle’s firm, flat abdominal plating, rubbing soothingly with his helm tucked against her neck for comfort. “That’s not quite correct, Thunder, but thank you for your contribution. We’ll talk about existential dread later. Probably should’ve had that conversation a while ago.”
“Do I gotta see a medic?”
“I’ll check the medkit first. As a standard, we should have dissoluble–”
“Eeew!” Seekers exclaim in a squawking cadence as Nacelle suddenly ejects his morning ration all over Slipstream’s chassis with a horrendous wet wretch, her expression twisting with maternal discomfort.
“…You did not just do that.”
“…Eugh. I did.”
Decepticons curl their dermas with disgust, picking up their trays and moving to the tables farthest away, others outright leaving the mess hall entirely, appetites gone.
Nova Storm grimaces her sympathy, Thundercracker looks apologetic and Thrust is just glad that did not happen to him, because that scrap is nasty, just so gross.
“Sorry, mom.”
“That’s quite alright.” No, it is not alright, not at all. Slipstream wants to scream, but she reigns it in with a shaky sigh and a gaze upcast to the heavens as filth drips from her frame. “It’s not your fault, Nacelle.” She strokes his pauldrons as he sniffles wetly against her.
“Hey, I feel better, now.”
“That’s great. Just great.”
Skywarp rises to take over in assisting the pale but improved Nacelle, nodding to Slipstream, thus dismissing her to go clean herself up.
Empress’ expression is a thoughtful one, as if she is contemplating the vomit that drips from the edges of Slipstream’s muscular breastplate.
“Poor Slip,” Thundercracker mumbles. “She’s always having a bad time. Like me.”
After exhausting the supplies available within the mess hall, Slipstream makes quite the first impression of herself by loping to the shower block with lingering traces of sick smeared over her shell, burning her olfactory sensors and souring her already bittersweet emotional constitution. She keeps apologising to people she lurches past, as if her existence is something she should be sorry for, more so than the sorry state she is currently in. She sequestrates a sink to herself within the wash racks, trying to clean herself without offending the other Decepticons, who do not take kindly to people covered in traces of vomit.
“Captain.”
Again, that soothing sensation washes over her, just on the cusp of crying again. She only realises now that Empress followed. “I’m so sorry you have to see me like this.”
“Why are you apologising to me? You’ve done nothing to offend.”
“I… I don’t know. It’s just not very flattering, I guess.”
“Ah, flattery. I know that vice quite well. You know, flattery does have its place, it serves its purpose.”
Decepticons are awed by Empress, who lingers closely behind Slipstream, mopping at herself in the sink.
“You may call this flattery, but…” The huge femme leans in, so her chin almost comes to rest on the Seeker’s pauldron, their face plates reflected side-by-side within the holomirror mounted above the sink. “There’s something very attractive about a femme who leads by compassion and not cruelty.”
Slipstream looks into Empress’ optics from within their shared reflection, quietly astounded.
“Maybe that’s because I’d like to be such a femme myself, someday, but all I know is toil and violence. I’d need someone to teach me, reign me in.” That deep voice resonates throughout heavy sheets of battle-scarred armour, gunmetal grey. “Nobody ever taught me to be gentle and considerate of anyone else’s feelings but my own. My mentor only taught me to serve myself. Your mentor must be very proud of you, serving others at your own detriment, dear. Even a brute like me can see honour in you.”
Slipstream looks down at her breast, partially cleaned. She is sure vomit got into the gaps of her armour. She may need to take a shower, so she can rinse properly. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“Saying nice things about me.”
“You’re very welcome, my dear.”
“I, uh, never really had a mentor. Jetfire was the closest thing to it, but I did most of the raising.”
“Oh? That must’ve been very hard on you.”
“Yeah. And he left while we were so young, so Starscream was a mess for a while and I had to pick up the pieces of our little family.”
“Family,” Empress echoes deeply, softly. “Strange, I would’ve called Seekers a clan, based on the way Starscream leads by his example. But you call your own… family. I think that just proves my point, really.”
“He’s not all bad. He loves us, in his own way.”
“His love isn’t really of much use to anyone, though, is it?”
The Captain cringes, thinking deeply about that, until a brush along her spinal seam reminds her that she has a great big hunk of femme pressed gently into her from behind.
“Will you be alright, dear?”
“Yes, thank you, I’ll be just fine.
The gladiator smiles warmly and finally withdraws, stepping gracefully back.
Slipstream suddenly whips around and throws herself against the bigger Empress without a second thought, hugging her tight.
“Oh!”
Some onlooking Decepticons meandering about in the shared shower block wonder where this is gonna go.
The Seeker sighs as large palms caress her pauldrons very gently, her cheek pressed to the gladiator’s rumbling chassis.
“Now we shall both need a shower, I think.”
“Scrap! I forgot!” Slipstream peels herself off of Empress with a grimace, attempting to wipe traces of vomit off of her shell. “I’m so, so, so sorry!”
“It’s quite alright.” The gladiator quite enjoys having those servos on her. “I’ve bathed in the viscera of my enemies.”
“Ah, right, of course you have.”
“Shall we?”
The Captain flushes, glances at the availability within the showers. “You should go first.”
“I was rather thinking we should share.”
“Whaaa–”
“We can squeeze in.” Giggling, Empress saunters ahead, the expanse of her hip joints beckoning with each swing like a friendly wave. “If you want to.”
“Yes,” Slipstream croaks. That strange aura of relaxation may do wonders for her social anxiety, but it does nothing to cull her generally quite neglected libido.
“Come along, then.”
She trots after the bigger femme, wings perked adorably.
Empress smiles demurely at others who ogle her. “Hello, ladies.”
There is a chorus of flirtatious giggles from the femmes, whilst the mechs finish up quickly to depart.
“How do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“That,” the Captain repeats, nodding to the femmes.
“Oh, I’m not sure what you mean.” The gladiator flexes impressively as she reaches for the solvent, showing off.
“Fine, then. Keep your secrets.”
“Don’t you prefer that I maintain my enigma?”
Slipstream thinks of Shadow Striker fondly and says, “Femmes do love a good mystery.”
Empress beams, then turns her broad back strut as she douses herself with dry solvent and then activates the hot oil shower, thus agitating the solvent to lather. “I know we only just met, but I have trouble reaching back there, dear, would you mind scrubbing my back for me?” Her rail shifts aside, exposing the rugged planes of armour.
The Captain can be forgiven for her moment of hesitation, since she has never been intimate with one quite as large as the gladiator, servos hovering over so much femme. “Oh, wow, um.”
“I’ll do it!” volunteers an eager femme, taking advantage of that pause.
“No, let me!” interjects another, elbowing her soapy companion aside. “I have such soft servos! She’ll scratch you up! I would know!”
“Glitch! Some friend you are!”
“Call it friendly competition if it makes you feel better!”
They laugh, clearly very close, very fond of each other. As if showering together was not suggestive enough.
“Captain?”
Slipstream finally picks a spot to start with, ignoring all the other jeers offering lewder services, and she proceeds to give Empress the best massage of her entire life.
“Oh, Captain. Ohhh.”
“Not too hard?”
“Not hard enough.”
“Alright, then. Tell me if I’m hurting you.”
The gladiator manages a jerky nod, slumped against the metallic tiled wall, at the Seeker’s mercy.
“Damn. Hey, can I have a turn next?” a femme asks, actually being quite serious.
“You slag,” answers another. “Leave the flier be.”
“Dude! I was just asking!”
“It’s weird.”
“Why!”
“You and your flier fetish, that’s why.”
“Heeey! It’s hardly a fetish! That thing I had with Thrust was a one-time thing only! And it was, like, two weeks tops!”
“It was a month. You wouldn’t shuddup the whole time about how hot his flying frame is, like how his wings bounced when you hit it from the back. You cried when he dumped you.”
“Whatever! Sheesh, you date one Seeker and all of a sudden every other grounder glitch in the base thinks it’s a fetish!”
Empress suddenly moans, shuddering under the servos that attend to her soapy back strut.
“Okay, scrap that. I want a turn, too.”
“Maybe I do have a flier fetish. She’s kinda hunky. And the wingspan on her, mm…”
With the vomit rinsed under the downpour of hot oil and the sweet fragrance of solvent heavy in the air and both servos full of gorgeous femme with other attractive femmes offering compliments for such good service, Slipstream finds it in herself to smile. Nice.
“That wily old glitch locked me out.”
The armoury is secured. This would not prove a problem to a certified Decepticon, if the door could be unlocked by anyone except Shadow Striker. However, she has made the executive decision to override security protocols so that only her credentials are acceptable for entry.
“Open, dammit! Ow!” Flamewar snarls, zapping herself on the Energon-laced forcefield that prevents her from tampering with these security measures. She knows she could hack her way past them, if not for the forcefield. “Let me in!”
The door does not acknowledge spoken commands.
She grabs the bars, laced with defensive Energon, hurting herself as she attempts to rattle open the door by force. “Let me iiin!”
The door bloops a negative.
She eventually collapses from an overcharge of Energon. She is unconscious for some minutes. When she revives, she can smell singed rubber.
“What do you think Megatron plans to do with him?” Thunderblast drawls lazily, skipping out on work to hang out with the guard.
“I dunno,” Demolishor intones with a burly shrug. “Hopefully not something too terrible. I trust him with my life, but I dunno how to feel about all the carnage. Is that really what Decepticons should stand for? Executions, torture and desecration of corpses?”
“I don’t care about all that, so long as I still have a world to take over, with him at my side, on a short leash, eating Energon goodies out my palm.”
“You’re kinda weird, and in a really scary way. No offence.”
“You’d just better maintain my favour, sweetie.”
“Brrr! I hope so!”
Five-of-Twelve thus begins to pray out loud, the prisoner alone in his cell.
“Primus, that’s annoying.”
“Yeah, he can go at it for a while. Hey!” Demolishor slams his huge fist on the door. “Shuddup in there!”
“Yeah!” Thunderblast caws. “Keep those prayers in your thoughts, like polite people do!”
Shadow Striker is forced to contend with the nightmare that is Decepticon administration, since Slipstream is no longer here to do all the datawork. How these little things pile up into something truly significant, when someone is so sorely missed.
Suddenly, Flamewar slams her palms atop the desk, leaning in to bare her fangs very close to her commanding officer’s face plate. In turn, she shoves her helm through the hard-light holographic monitor projected from the desk. It tingles her brain module and feels cool on her cheeks.
“Ooh. Jumpscare.” The old mercenary thus pauses her typing, narrowing her singular optic, scope following scrolling data readouts that are interrupted by the curve of the bike’s handsome cheek. “Rude.”
“Gimme access to my armoury. Now.”
“No.”
“Why not.”
“Don’t be stupid. You know damn well why not.”
“I wanna play dumb right now. Say it, boss bot.”
“You could hurt yourself.”
“Kill myself, you mean.”
Shadow Striker flinches.
“Isn’t that my right?”
“I’m not facilitating it.”
Flamewar licks her fangs, rumbling.
“You need to get over her and get back to work.”
“I can’t work without my workplace.”
“I’ll attend to the armoury. You’ll be kept busy elsewhere, earning your keep less dangerously.”
“Frag you.”
The mercenary sighs, summoning whatever goodness still dwells within her tired old Spark. “Flamewar, I miss her too. We all do.”
“Nobody misses her like I do. We were gonna get married.”
“No, you weren’t.”
The bike recoils, yanking herself out of the monitor which reconstructs itself without the obstruction of her helm. “How dare you!”
Shadow Striker reaches for the hologram, carefully grasping it by the edge, coaxing it to shut itself down with a dismissive gesture.
“I would’ve settled down for her!” Flamewar exclaims with great emotion and an edge of insanity, an edge to her character that is usually very appealing on her, but not so much when she really loses it. “I would’ve raised her kids with her!”
“She would make a good mentor. I’m not too sure you would, but that’s sweet of you to say.”
“Ah, but we’ll never know now, will we! A whole chapter in my future is just gone, boss bot, and my happy ending was in that story! My future happiness left me when she did! And you let her go!”
“I put in a formal appeal, arguing against the transfer, insisting it be overruled, with all the reasons why she should stay listed neatly and succinctly for review. I submitted my appeal three times actually, with changes here and there in wording and argument. Do you know how tedious those documents are to produce and then submit through the right channels?”
“So you did some datawork for once, so what! She’s still gone!”
“I yelled at Scream for over and hour, got a little heated, threatened to harm him, and in turn I almost got pulled into another disciplinary hearing. I told Megatron he was making a mistake, I almost begged him to reconsider. Hear me? I came this close to begging.”
“Even Megatron didn’t listen to you.”
“Hey, I’m just some guy, right? And Slipstream is a Seeker, so I really don’t own her. It was always… temporary, turns out. Liar. Scream just fears what I could turn her into, if I could just break that codependency and give her some independence, give her a life of her own.”
“She was mine! Starscream can suck a fat one and die!”
“Uh-huh.”
“Call Megatron right now, lemme tell him so!”
“If the big mech himself won’t concede to me, your boss bot, do you really think he’ll bend over for you?”
“I gotta try!”
“You’ll just embarrass yourself. And me, by proxy.”
The little bike trembles all over, engine roaring like she intends to transform and race around the cramped, cluttered office in a tight little circle. Knowing her, she just might do that.
“Calm down.”
“It’s so hard.”
The mercenary pushes back her chair with a scrape, sighing.
“It’s so hard,” Flamewar repeats, pawing at her weeping optics, slicing lines into the synthetic flesh of her face that weep too, “for me to make friends!”
“Stop that.”
“Easy to fall in love, easy to grow attached, easy to lose everyone I’ve ever wanted! Loss, boss bot! It’s all I know!”
“Come here.”
“So, like, for a long time, I was a loner! I refused to let people in! I never let myself care about anybody, because it’s so hard to make friends, but easy to be alone!”
“Come.” Shadow Striker pats her lap. “Sit.”
The bike peers between wet claws. “Uppies?” she croaks.
“Uppies,” the mercenary grunts, deadpan.
Flamewar considers this for a moment, then huffs. “I’m still ticked off at you.”
“That’s fine. I’m mad at you, too.”
“You better be comfy.”
Shadow Striker manages a tired smile at that. “I’m told I’m very comfy.”
The bike snorts, then moves behind the desk, sitting her aft on the mercenary’s lap and flopping back against her, nuzzling moodily into her neck as big, strong arms envelop.
“There. Is that any better?”
“Ugh. Yeah.”
“Am I comfy?”
“So comfy.”
“Good.”
“Glitch.”
“You know, I’m reconsidering Starscream.”
“About time. Guy sounds like an afthole.”
“Yeah, well, I thought I could ignore all that. I’ve caught glimpses of him and he’s just so beautiful. And he’s got so much rank, oooh! I love a powerful mech!”
“Pretty on the outside, maybe. Way he treats his Seekers, though? Ugly on the inside, abusing his rank. Poor Slipstream, she’s got it rough, going back to him. She was better off with us.”
“Sugar glider’s gonna be okay. She’s soft, but strong.” Thunderblast pauses momentarily, then turns to Demolishor with a pretty frown. “Think she misses us?”
“Of course she misses us. We miss her.”
“It was only a few months we spent together, trapped down here, but…”
“…Yeah. We got tight, all of us.”
“It just doesn’t feel right without her. And if my darling future hubby Megatron can just whisk any of us away like that, I gotta wonder, who’s next?”
“That’s not something I wanna think about.”
“Slippy would kiss it better.”
Shadow Striker rolls her optic. “After I put the gross sealant on, you tell me that.”
Flamewar huffs, her wounded face plate attended to, after her claws rendered weeping lines. “Slippy wouldn’t let that stop her.”
“I’m not Slippy.”
“Clearly.”
“You know you need to let her go. You will get over her eventually, but if you drag this out, it’ll be harder to move on. Besides, she’s not dead. We’re Decepticons, we’re bound to leave this slaghole someday and bump into her again, eventually.”
“I just want my Slippy, boss bot.”
The old mercenary heaves a great sigh, then leans in and kisses the bike’s wounded cheek, grimacing against the stink and taste of sealant.
“Thanks, boss bot. That helps a little bit.”
“Bleugh. Damn well better. That stuff’s nasty as frag.”
Flamewar giggle-snorts as Shadow Striker moves to kiss the other cheek with much grumbling and disdain.
“Absolutely vile. Yuck.”
“But you’re helping make me feel better. That makes the grossness worth it, right?”
“Sure, whatever.”
“Boss bot! You’re so mean.”
“Look, you demanded a kiss, I gave you two kisses. How’s that mean?” The mercenary ruffles the bike’s helm, smirking down at her. “Give a femme a complex.”
They still have a long way to go.
“Whew! That, my dear, was delightful.”
“Mmhm.”
“Strong, silent type you are, hiding a real kinky monster within that stoic exterior. Compromising your self-righteousness, ’cause my goods are just too hard to resist! Who woulda thunk it, all I had to do was flutter my shutters and bam!”
Roulette puffs out a cloud of cy-gar smoke, slumped against a wall, spike heavily slung and valve oozing lazily, sweat shimmering over her handsome frame. “You don’t need to talk.”
Swindle grins at the floor, suspended by his bound wrist and ankle joints with his aft up and thighs spread, spattered with her tansfluid and lubricant. “Aren’t you glad I got away last time? I think this is way more fun, especially since you’re gonna let me go free after you’re done using me, just so you can follow my trail and catch me again for another round! Riiight?”
She says nothing, just smoking her cy-gar.
“You’re, uh, making me a little nervous, here.”
“Do that thing I like and I’ll consider it.”
“Which thing, handsome? I did a lotta things, and you liked them all. Be more specific.”
“That thing.”
“Ohhh, I getcha. You know, you’re a great communicator. You really know how to sell.”
She does hate herself, but he is one attractive bastard.
“What was he like, before?” Windblade hears herself ask, finding herself alone with Jetfire as she shows him about the Council chambers, introducing him to the various amenities and staff.
“Oh, he was adorable!”
“Seriously.”
“Yes! My beloved Star, always so sensitive, so anxious to be liked, trying so hard to impress everyone!”
“Okay, that sorta tracks. He likes praise.”
“He had the fire of ambition within him from the very first day I brought him home! He was not as cuddly as the others, true, but he was very affectionate in other ways! He took it upon himself to follow me wherever I went, learning from my example, asking such deep questions about love and life and our place within everything! Such intelligence, so much creativity, scientific enquiry tempered by a soulful contemplation into the vast reach of the unknown! He was my scholar, my poet! Not a soldier, no, far from it!”
“Wow. He must’ve really admired you, then, to let you see such sides of him.”
“He did, yes! I knew he was destined for great things, but I felt it would be best to disband the Seekers, so we would never again be utilised as weapons! After all, the Senate all but abandoned us, ceasing the means of our production! It seemed like destiny, that our chapter would close, with so few surviving Seekers left to see the dawn of a new Cybertron!”
“But Starscream convinced you not to disband the Seekers. He begged you to let him lead. And then you left.”
“Do you imagine me a villain?”
“No, but I think you fragged up.”
“I know he has frightened you, I realise he has frightened so many people! But I assure you, Windblade, Star is a good person, deep within!”
“Real deep, maybe. I’ll take your word for it.”
“Allow me to prove it to you! I can still reach him, and when he is returned to his senses, I will ensure he atones for his wrongdoing!”
“I think you’re in for quite the shock, Jetfire.”
“Do the others know?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t they say anything?”
“I told them not to tell you.”
“Why would you instruct anyone to keep this from me?”
“I wanted to tell you myself, so I may maintain control. Consider yourself duly informed. Now, we must plot, and quickly.”
Slipstream needs to sit down all of a sudden.
Starscream indicates the chair before his desk, already seated himself.
The Captain drops into it with a shaky gasp, gripping the lower half of her face plate as she stares at him past the clutter and the discord of his untidy office.
“Take a moment to compose yourself,” the Commander rasps quietly, shadows swallowing his bright, burning optics. “I certainly did.”
And for some time, nothing is said.
“You don’t look very happy he’s back, Sir.”
“How perceptive, darling.”
“You think he’ll reclaim his Seekers, don’t you.”
“It’s his right to challenge me for leadership, if he perceives I’ve failed him.”
“And do you believe you’ve failed him?”
“Don’t you dare get me started, femme.”
“You did make a promise, Sir, when you convinced him to promote you, just before he left us.”
“I recall that, no need to remind me.”
“And part of you knows we’ll choose him, over you.”
Starscream sucks in air sharply, showing pretty dentas.
“We were happier when he led us.”
“You really are insubordinate, speaking to me this way. Windblade truly has ruined you.”
“Good news, I guess. She dumped me, Sir. We’re done.”
“Wonderful! Then you will learn to obey and behave, as you once did. You will remember your place.”
“Like I have a choice.”
“You don’t.”
Slipstream sighs quietly. “What’re we gonna do about him, Sir?”
“Convince him to ally with us, before those fools of the Functionist Council seduce him with their notions of right and wrong. You know what Jetfire’s like.” Starscream dramatically throws an arm across his forehelm, sighing dreamily. “Always has to be the hero, that beautiful beast of a mech! And after abandoning us to pursue his own sense of belonging in this universe, or whatever it was he was searching for. He returns to me, posing a threat to my rightful place in this universe! It is exquisite! It is excruciating!”
“The war really damaged him, Sir. It’ll damage us all, if you don’t stop it.”
“For the greater good, I will make sacrifices.”
“Sacrificing us.”
“I do what I wish with my Seekers. And in turn, your sacrifices shall pave the way for a future in which Seekers rule the skies in the multitudes and grounders never again abuse us for their own ends. Such a beautiful dream, soon to be reality.”
“Okay, and what is Megatron doing with us, exactly, if not abusing us for his own ends?”
“Silence!” Starscream suddenly shrieks. “Bad Seeker! Bad, bad girl!”
Slipstream instinctively drops her helm, lowering her wings, pathetic. She is, after all, still nothing more than a Seeker.
“How dare you! Very naughty! But you can make it up to me.”
She adorably looks up whilst keeping her helm down.
“You are the closest thing to a mentor I have ever known. Not him. But you, yes.” The Commander props his elbows on his messy desk and rests his chin atop his joined servos. “It’s why I extend such mercies to you, after your treachery. It’s why I forgive your disrespectful talk. I know you love me. And I suspect you love me more than he does. I suspect you love our Seekers more than he ever did.”
The Captain winces. “Star, I do love you, more than I can ever hope to quantify, but I’m not so sure about–”
“You will lovingly help me convince Jetfire to join forces with Megatron, without surrendering my seat as second-in-command of the Decepticons and Commander of the Seekers. He will be easily persuaded if the both of us back each other up and demonstrate that Decepticons are the rightful heirs of the future.”
“Oh, scrap me.”
Notes:
As was correctly guessed already, I can confirm Empress is Megaempress but without Megatron's body parts - for now. I try not to reveal too much in the story summary and tags as the plot progresses, making little updates occasionally, so if you're reading this now, then the surprise is rather unsurprising. Megaempress is a ridiculous yet disturbing character in her limited appearances (no offence intended on my part), with the potential to be at least somewhat interesting if better developed and treated like less of a sexual fantasy with gross elements (again, no offence intended, this is my opinion). That being said, Megaempress is intended to be a villain in this story, so if she comes across as unsettling and creepy, that's because she is, but I've tried to write her with a playful sense of cruelty and some majesty in her mannerisms and movements. I have a more technical explanation in mind for her abilities to seduce mechs and femmes which will hopefully satisfy. I figure what more curious a companion for Slipstream as a foil to Starscream, than Empress/Megaempress as a foil to Megatron?
Also, Shadow Striker does have a sister in a previous incarnation, namely Roulette. I didn't make that up myself. I've written them as bearing a strong familial resemblance to each other here, just with different bodily augmentations and colouration. Just in case you were wondering all this time.
Chapter 43
Notes:
This chapter is mostly intended to flesh out Jetfire's relationships with the other Seekers, with Windblade helping him relive his memories as a sort of reference to how she helped Bumblebee with his amnesia in Cyberverse's first season. Next chapter I plan to have Jetfire confront Starscream, but before getting into that particular drama, I wanted to establish some sort of basis for their affection. Apologies if the chapter is a little late and perhaps a bit clumsy or awkward, I have real life stuff on my plate right now. I hope you enjoy it.
Chapter Text
Graffiti and broken viewing ports communicate that this is no sanctuary with restricted public access any longer, reclaimed by the greater urban expanse and explorers within Iacon City’s streets.
“This was our home. Lifeless, now, hollowed out and left to the scavengers to pillage whatever value Star left behind, evidently in such a hurry.” Jetfire’s big, bold voice is tight with emotional strain. For once, he is not yelling melodramatic heroisms. “Thunder would never have left behind his many holonovels voluntarily. He always loved to read, loved to write. My little creative spirit. These works of literature were his world. How does he fare without them?”
Windblade lays a palm over Jetfire’s back strut, stood beside him in one of the private quarters of the scuttled Seeker airbase of old, evidently once belonging to Thundercracker. Whatever personal effects remain gather dust in the stale, stagnant air.
“A few of these stories he collected for himself are missing. I hope he got to take what little he could with him. I loathe to imagine his beloved possessions were stolen.”
The Cityspeaker’s throat feels clenched and sore as she blinks back the rising fluid within her big blue optics, silently rubbing the older Seeker’s spinal seam.
Jetfire sighs through his olfactory sensor. “Thank you, again, for accompanying me. I really should not subject you to an old mech’s sorrows, such as mine.”
“It’s no trouble. You saved my life, remember?”
“Indeed. Though the Star I love would never kill. I just do not understand it. I cannot understand any of it.”
Windblade feels so awful.
“Oh, but you mentioned you have some unfinished business here, as well. Forgive me, I almost forgot.”
“It’s alright. We’re in no rush. When you’re ready, would you show me to Slip’s room, please? I never got to visit her here. Rules and regulations about civilian access, or something.”
“Of course, my friend. Would you mind helping me collect a few of my Seekers’ belongings, along the way? My storage is limited. It seems wrong, not to at least try to salvage something of my brood.”
“Sure. I’d be happy to.”
“Thank you.”
And so they gather a few of Thundercracker’s things, before bidding that room goodbye and progressing onto the next.
“Ah, Acid. Brilliant of mind, with such a calm and diligent disposition. Their experiments would sometimes fail, but they never gave up. An inspiration to us all. And they kept our gear fully operational, for whenever something technical malfunctioned or broke, our little inventor would swoop in and fix it, or improve upon it, and always within our budget. So helpful.”
“They always seemed really nice, the few times we spoke. As Bee would say, super chill.”
Acid Storm was better packed when they left, as they were summoned with more consideration, however they only took what they felt was essential to their work in assisting Shockwave. As such, most of the missing tools and components are due to scavengers having passed through, looting valuables.
“I wonder what this is,” Jetfire intones fondly as he wipes dust off of the weather generator that remains an unfinished prototype, somehow left behind.
Windblade fiddles with a few of the remaining tools, finding herself smiling sadly as she replaces them where she found them, outlines of every instrument clearly marked by the passage of dust. “I can’t figure out what most of these things do, myself.”
The next room belongs to Nova Storm. It is untidy and probably always has been, even before the scavengers looted the place. The shelves are littered with cheap gladiatorial memorabilia, a couple of still functional holoposters of Cube players decorate the walls, a set of differing weights intended for exercise are stacked on storage racks or set aside in corners of the room in cumbersome piles upon the floor, and beneath the berth is a box filled with pornography.
“Oh!” Blushing, Windblade looks to Jetfire with a quirked brow.
“Mmm. Yes, quite.” He pulls a handsome expression of paternal discomfort. “We shall pretend we never saw that.”
“Good idea.”
“Always did have a healthy appetite, my Nova. So many different boyfriends and girlfriends.”
“She settled down eventually.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. Seems her and Thunder have been going steady a while.”
“They were always dancing about each other, as I fondly recall. Oh, Windblade, it saddens me that I have missed so much of their lives. Perhaps I was gone for too long, as a self-indulgent old fool. Perhaps I was wrong to leave, though I felt I had no choice. My loves have changed, without me.”
“You’re here now. What matters most, is that you keep an open Spark and mind. Think of it like getting to know them all over again. You’ll catch up, so long as you make the effort to be present in their lives and make up for the time that’s passed. It’s up to them to forgive you. All you can do is your best.”
“Then you believe I may yet mend this wound?”
“I believe it’s worthwhile trying.”
“You are too kind. You do not spurn me, though you barely know me. Thank you.”
And so the lewd box is neatly pushed under the berth where it belongs, before the Cityspeaker and old Seeker gather a few things, then move on.
“Thrust once dwelled here. He always complained that he had the smallest room. I showed him the floor plan and Acid took measurements as proof otherwise.”
“He complained anyway, huh.”
“Indeed, he was so preciously insecure. In many ways, like Star. Only Thrust was bitterly envious, whilst Star was always so jealous. Those words mean different things, you know.”
Windblade turns about, frowning. “There’s not much left.”
“It would appear so,” Jetfire replies with a soft smile, removing a metallic tile from the wall to expose what looks like a storage compartment, cut crudely into the dull metal wall and hollowed out to be filled with an assortment things. “Thrust always had a habit of hiding what was his.”
“Wow.”
“He also was a kleptomaniac. This, here, is not his. He used this tool to cut this very gap, then stowed the evidence away. Silly boy. Acid would forgive him for pilfering their precision instrument, though he would never confess to the crime. He was always quite in love with them. I think having something of theirs, sequestrated away in secret, made him feel somehow closer to them.”
“Can I be brutally honest?”
“Of course.”
“Even nowadays, Thrust seems like such a bolt-head. But he’s fun to play a round of cards with.”
This makes the old Seeker laugh, for which the Cityspeaker is glad.
A few of Thrust’s hidden belongings are removed, before the tile is returned to its place, sealing the makeshift vault once more before progressing onto the next room.
“This room still smells like her,” Windblade murmurs.
Jetfire smiles warmly at his companion. “Who was she, to you?”
“A friend. Then, my girlfriend. And now, I’m not really sure.”
The old Seeker’s smile slowly fades. “Very private, that one. She never felt safe, talking about her thoughts and feelings. I always assumed she meant not to be a burden. Her role was taking care of others, not herself. I failed her, in many ways. She should never have taken on such responsibility, so young.”
The Cityspeaker sits on the edge of the berth, wiping her optics on her slender forearm, sniffing wetly as if warring against the irritation of dust motes floating idly by in the dim.
“Was Star the cause of this rift between you two?”
“Most of it, yeah.”
“I am truly sorry, my friend.”
“No, don’t be. This is mostly Starscream’s fault, but I could’ve done better. Slip could’ve done better. She won’t answer my fragging calls. It’s so u-unfair.” Windblade’s voice breaks at the end and she hates it.
Jetfire does not mean to impose, and so he opts to wander carefully about the room, in search of something personal to collect and keep.
The Cityspeaker somewhat ruins her visit to a place she has so often wondered about and imagined, by bursting into soft sobs that defy her aloof sense of pride and independence. She knows that tears are not a symptom of weakness in others, but in herself, she only perceives vulnerability.
Eventually, the old Seeker moves to lay a palm over his companion’s pauldron. He just stands there like this, hoping that he can convey some reassurance.
“Hey, so there’s this cutie over in engineering.”
“Oh, yeah?”
The femmes talk whilst sparring, thus the words come out sounding like low grunts of exertion to those watching their battle from beyond the ring, offering some discretion.
“Yeah, and she’s been complaining about the lack of quality aft available.”
“How tragic.”
“I know, right. Poor girl.”
Slipstream is forced to spar with Nova Storm because the other Seekers are terrified of her, but opts to take advantage of this fact and utilise this match-up as a teaching tool in and of itself, thus demonstrating close combat.
Of course, the younger Seekers enjoy themselves immensely, placing their bets and calling out their words of encouragement.
Slipstream, however, can only thank Primus for those lessons with Shadow Striker, because without the mean old glitch’s often abrasive guidance throughout those sometimes gruelling training sessions, the Captain herself would be getting her aft handed to her by Nova Storm, a subordinate Seeker, in front of everyone else.
“Anyway, she’s quiet, smart. Kinda introverted, like you. I think you’ll get on great.”
“Are you trying to set me up with a date, Nova?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t do dates.”
“I know, Slip, but you could.”
“No, thank you.”
“Look, you’re shy and you’re hurting from that breakup, I know.”
“I don’t wanna talk about her any more.”
“Just hear me out a sec,” Nova Storm mutters over panting vents that circulate air to keep her internals cool, taking another swing at Slipstream’s cheek, narrowly deflected with the armoured guard of her forearm. “You gotta move on, get back on track, feel good about yourself and your life.”
“Not gonna happen.”
“Don’t be such a downer. You’ve always been sad and alone, don’t you get tired of it?”
“All the time.”
“Then maybe it’s time for a change. You were happier with her, we all could see it.”
“You imagine me happy without her?”
“I imagine you could be happier with someone else. Being lonely and miserable is no good for you, Slip. I think you’re the sort of girl who needs a girl to bring out the light in you, or something. On your own, you get so dark.”
“Thanks, but I’m not really in the mood for putting myself out there again.”
“You say that, but that’s just ’cause you haven’t experienced a rebound yet. It’ll perk you right up, trust me. You’ll be glad you went for it afterward.”
“Rebounds are temporary, Nova. I was hoping for someone who could stick around.”
“She’s out there. Never gonna meet her if you keep to yourself forever.”
Slipstream is getting a bit irritated, so her attacks are getting faster, more forceful. “How would you know if a rebound helps? You’ve been going steady with Thunder for so long, you’ve hardly ever needed anybody else.”
“You forget that we took a break for a bit.” Nova Storm has little trouble reacting to the blows. She loves to fight, she is very good at it. “I saw other people in that gap.”
“Oh, yeah. That was weird.”
“He focused on his creative outlet, and I focused on getting my groove back with some aft. When we got back together, we were stronger than before. We just needed the break, that time apart to clear our helms.”
The Captain’s enstrils flare. “Windblade is never gonna take me back, Nova.”
“I wasn’t talking about going back to her, Slip. Get a rebound who you can keep, or at least reawaken your sensual appetite.” Her sister Seeker smirks, sweaty and gorgeous, optics so cruel. “You’ve starved yourself so long, the moment she gave you a little attention, you latched onto her, made the wrong choice. No biggie.”
“Careful, Nova. I still love her.”
“She doesn’t deserve you.”
“No, I don’t deserve her.”
“Yeah, ’cause you deserve better. Screw her, actually.”
Onlooking Seekers squawk with excitement as Slipstream suddenly swings her heel joint around in a dangerous arc, narrowly missing the cheek of her sparring partner as Nova Storm neatly dips to dodge the incoming kick.
“Whoa! Almost got me good, there!”
“Dammit, you’re quick.”
“Yup. You’ve got way better though, Slip. I’m impressed.”
“Thank you. I’m never gonna be on your level, but it’s nice to keep up, for once.”
“Anyway, this femme over in engineering–”
“No, thank you.”
“Slip, c’mon, you’re too handsome and kind to be moping over your ex. I hate seeing you so sad and lonely.”
“I’ve always been sad and lonely. We’ve established this.”
“Yeah, but you’re worse now. You’re so sad, you can’t even pretend like you’re not sad any more. And you’re so lonely, I can tell you sorta phase out when you’re with us sometimes, like you don’t wanna be here.”
“I’m sorry. That’s not fair to anyone.”
“Aw, don’t be like that.”
“I’m sorry, soft and stupid. Just a sack of scrap.”
“Slip.”
“I’m not fit to date and I’m not fit to lead. But I thought I was fit to love. She was my shot at being happy, but I screwed that up by being so sad that I made her sad enough to dump me. I mean, frag me for thinking I could finally get what I want, right? Right.”
Nova Storm grimaces as fists fly at her with ferocity she does not anticipate.
“Now I feel alone, even with you. Nothing’s changed, it’s just the same old thing, only worse now.” Slipstream lashes out again, and again, and again. “I never wanted this job, I never wanted this war. I didn’t rejoice when I took the Deceptibrand. I’m tossed away by Starscream, where I fall in love with femmes I’m not supposed to, I leave them behind as I’m called back here, where I’m called mother.”
“Slip, stop it.”
“And you think I’m in any state for a do-over? It’s done, Nova. These days, I’m just doing what I can to survive. For what?”
There is a chanting that surrounds the Captain and her sister, beyond their circle of combat. Names being called, demanding a climax.
Nova Storm swats a fist aside and drives her forearm into Slipstream’s chassis just below her neck, throwing her back.
“Oof!”
The Seekers thus roar.
Stumbling, the Captain totters out of the sparring circle, intended to hone in form and maintain combat stance without affording too much room to manoeuvrer, in turn adding to the friendly competition between combatants. She is thus disqualified, losing to her sister Seeker and subordinate in the end.
Those who bet in favour of Slipstream winning this mock fight all groan, forced to pass over whatever goods they have to gamble to those who cheer for Nova Storm.
“You’re the best, Nova!” Thundercracker cheers loudest of all, throwing his arms around her neck and kissing her sweaty cheek as she scowls at Slipstream, denied the satisfaction of winning.
“Well done, as usual.” The panting, dizzy Captain avoids those cruel optics, mopping sweat from the brow to clear her own gaze of the burning wet, smiling tiredly at nothing and no one as Seekers crowd around their victorious sister. “You should be directing our combat drills, super-Nova.”
A huff. “Yeah, whatever.”
“Nova, I just–”
“Could you grab me some coolant, Slip? Thanks.”
A sigh. “Sure.”
Nova Storm thus dismisses Slipstream, who retreats for refreshments whilst the victor turns to kiss Thundercracker back, winking at Skywarp currently collecting her winnings from grumbling siblings. It is easy enough to pretend that this does not feel like a loss.
Starscream was a slob even back then, clearly. His room is in disarray, most of which seems to be lived-in habitual chaos of old, not the product of subsequent looting.
“I used to give him such lectures about tidiness,” Jetfire intones fondly, sighing. “He would get so offended.”
“You love him so much.”
“I do, yes.”
Windblade looks on as the older mech proceeds to curl up on the berth, as if cold.
“What if he does not want me around, after all this time?”
“Hey, now. Why would you even think that?”
“He fled from me, when I saved you.”
The Cityspeaker grimaces. “Maybe he just… freaked out a little.”
The old Seeker stares at the wall, wings tucked anxiously against his broad back strut.
“Can I ask you something seriously inappropriate, even though we only just met?”
“Go on.”
“Was he in love with you?”
Jetfire sucks in air, then lets it out slowly.
“You don’t have to answer that.” Windblade moves to explore one of the shelves, discovering a few small ornaments clearly too worthless to steal. Starscream likes his shiny, useless things even more than most Seekers, she figures with a scoff. “I’m just trying to form a complete picture, here.”
“Yes, I do believe he was.”
“Did the others know?”
“They may have suspected something, but none would dare mock him for it. He was always very persuasive, my Star. And at times quite domineering of the others.”
“Yeah, I get that much.”
“I just assumed he wanted to convince me of his capacity to take over in my stead. That ambition burned within him, but the heat could be felt radiating outward. Still, I remember how tender he was with me, when we were alone together.”
“Then…”
“He did attempt to proposition me.” Whether or not Jetfire let Starscream into his berth, however, goes unsaid.
Windblade accepts that. She has pried too much already.
Nova Storm marches aggressively with a grinning Thundercracker in tow, his servo in her own, pulling him into the storage room after her. In their haste, they neglect to lock the door behind them. His muffled giggles and her low rumbles ought to be indication enough.
Slipstream meekly follows, an apology burning on her glossa, when she hesitates before the door and listens to their sounds. She realises there is not much privacy to be had in the Seeker barracks, so one must make do with wherever and whenever is available for a quick romp to burn off the tension of the day. Never mind, then. The apology will just burn a hole through her glossa, until an opportunity to say sorry presents itself later. She turns to leave them to it.
There is a crash and a string of curses.
She winces, pausing to contemplate the mess those two will make in there. Hopefully they will requisition whatever they just broke, and clean up after themselves.
“Think Slip will be mad when she finds out?” asks Thundercracker.
“She’d be less mad about everything if she’d just get laid,” Nova Storm answers.
For whatever reason, that incenses Slipstream enough to slam a fist on the console, thus opening the door and striding into the cramped storage room.
“Aaah!” Thundercracker jumps into Nova Storm’s arms. “Captain! You’re here! You’re not supposed to be here?”
“Let me tell something to you,” Slipstream snarls, pointing at Nova Storm, whose cruel optics narrow in return. “I do not need to get laid. I do need to apologise to you, because what I said when we were sparring was not what you needed to hear. You deserve better and I wanna be better but I just dunno if I can be good enough to–”
“Dude.” A moody snort. “Can this not wait?”
“No!”
“You sure?”
“Yes!”
“My whole spike is out.”
“Oh.” A downwards look. “So it is.”
“So unless you wanna help him get this for me,” Nova Storm says with a nod to the rather flushed Thundercracker and a crude jab of a digit at her own erection to illustrate, “you can lock the door behind you. I need to get off, like, right now before my spike explodes or something.”
Slipstream opens and shuts her intake a few times, processing her own hesitation, glancing between their faces and the spike that looks like her own, perfectly standard for their Seeker framework, but very appealing none the less.
“So!” Nova Storm throws up her servo, demanding an answer. “What now, Captain!”
“Uuuh.”
“Yes or no!”
Slipstream finally shuts her intake with a snap of her connecting dental, swallowing audibly. She is thinking about Shadow Striker, Flamewar, Thunderblast – recalling with lust and longing their bodies, the way they gave and took away, the things they coaxed her into doing for them and encouraged her to accept, how she relished in the exchanges. “Maybe.”
“Wait, what?”
“Wow, Slip,” Thunderblast mumbles with arched brows, “are you actually thinking about it?”
“For real? I wasn’t even being serious. Damn.”
“This is, uh, different. You’ve never…” The sole mech among femmes laughs shyly. “I mean, I don’t mind.”
“Lock the door behind you.” Nova Storm’s spike flexes itself. “I want you on your knees, Captain. That’s gonna be your apology.”
Slipstream reaches back, blindly fumbling for the console until the door locks with a confirmatory beep. She then shuffles closer to the couple within the tight confines of the storage room, meeting their optics briefly before sinking heavily to her knees before the engorged spike, which consumes all her attention as she then leans in and licks the slick, swollen tip, already weeping silky tears of transfluid.
“Frag,” Nova Storm utters, pretty facial rigging twisting with pleasure that ripples throughout her impressive frame. “How long, huh?”
Thundercracker is aroused watching, but he keep his servos busy, fondling his chosen life partner all over, depositing kisses about her jaw and neck.
“How long have you wanted to do this to me, huh, Slip?”
Their Captain does not answer that, instead opting to suckle on the other femme’s spike whilst the mech teases a fuel line between his smiling dentas.
“Is that why you’re so scared of me, Slip? Because you think I’m just really hot and you don’t wanna make things weird between us? It’s okay, girl. Explains a lot, really.” Nova Storm was never shy, she is not known for modesty, unlike her more sensitive boyfriend. And so she seems to take the stroke to her ego as eagerly as the stroke to the curve of her spike. “Primus, you know what you’re doing. I feel like I’ve been deprived this whole time, wishing we’d done this way sooner.”
Thundercracker bows to lick the circular aperture that houses one of his girlfriend’s missiles, purring as she lays a palm atop his helm and caresses him.
“Mmyeah. I love you guys.”
Slipstream just groans, optics fluttering shut as she blissfully imagines herself with an intake stuffed full of Shadow Striker, who would never have said that, but Flamewar would confess her love, even Thunderblast could.
Thundercracker drags his palms adoringly all over Nova Storm, worshipping her rugged angles, teasing transformation seams and gaps where the protoform throbs, veins of Energon glowing amidst networked circuitry and sensory node clusters he knows so well.
When a large, strong servo grasps Slipstream and draws her closer a little roughly, she gags with a wet wretch and pops open her valve covering to frantically grip and squeeze the soft, plump mesh between her quivering thighs, her arousal drooling through gaps in her clenched digits to pool upon the floor beneath her knees.
“Hey, you know what would be really hot? I mean, this is really hot anyway, but like, extra hot? The both of you, sharing my spike.”
“Heh. You watch too much porn, Nova.”
“No way, Thunder. So, you wanna?”
“I don’t mind. Slip, you in?”
As the servo relents to allow for an answer, Slipstream nods dumbly with her cheek bulging at one side, drooling and groping herself with squelching sounds.
Thundercracker thus kneels beside her, giving her a kiss to her bulging cheek, as if to kiss the head of the spike through her synthetic skin, before dipping in to lap at the base of the very same spike she savours.
“Yeeeaaah.” Nova Storm gazes fondly down at them, caressing their helms. “Now we’re talkin’…”
“Hey, dreamboat.”
Thunderblast looks agonisingly bored, but she perks as Flamewar skulks on over. “Hi, sweetie.”
“So, like, I’m done with my work.”
“Good for you.”
“Yeah.” The bike is still dejected, but she is not in hiding. This is a positive sign, surely. “And I know you hate standing guard.”
“Ugh. I despise guard duty. Sure, it’s easy work, but it’s sooo boring! I prefer a little stimulation. Besides, I’m too pretty for it.”
“Totally.”
“How do I cope with just standing around in one spot for a couple hours, you ask? Well, sweetie, I just pose like the statues that shall soon be erected in my honour.” The boat strikes such a pose. “I’m practising for when the artisans copy my image.”
The bike applauds. “That’s great. Anyway, I was wondering if you’d wanna gimme your shift, so’s you can go do something else.”
“Oh? Are you sure you wanna take over?”
“Sure I’m sure.”
“Um, like, why though?”
“I could do with a mindless chore.”
“Mm. I guess a girl just needs that sorta vibe, sometimes. Okay! You can have my shift. I’ll go find something to do.”
Flamewar has not been as affectionate as usual, but she nuzzles Thunderblast, who briefly stoops to kiss a scuffed cheek.
“Mwah!”
“Love you, dreamboat.”
“Love you too, you little menace. Try to stay awake, mm?”
The femmes gently bump their fists, stood together in the mouth of the maintenance tunnel, sunlight filtering through a narrow viewing port cut into the hatch that seals them in, leading out to the surface world beyond their hovel.
“And no whacking off, when you’re slacking off.”
“Nice. Be gone with your bad self.”
The boat winks, then saunters into the dim beyond. She stumbles over a stray cable along the way, but rights herself with a huff. “You didn’t see that.”
“Nope.” The bike waits. When that curvaceous shape vanishes and the heeled steps no longer echo, she digs into the collar of her own framework and pries out a tracker, hiding it behind a pipe, thus it would appear she is still in position, standing guard. Her destination is as obvious as her motivation for escaping this place, so there is no need to disguise where she is going, only where she has been in an effort to deceive the others and buy a little time. Once her absence is noted and deemed worthy of investigation, she will not be missing for long. Of course, this assumes nobody is reviewing the camera feed, right now. She gives the staring lens a penetrating look, gears turning in her helm.
Is Shadow Striker watching? She was not in her office, last Flamewar checked, attending to the prisoner who requires some level of care to keep him alive, though this does not distract for long. The mercenary regularly reviews security footage, though the bike knows that camera coverage in numerous areas of the base is lacking due to limited resources and poor living conditions making for constant maintenance. And if it turns out that Shadow Striker is watching, Flamewar figures there is not much to be done about that. The mercenary is going to be so mad at the bike, soon as this transpires.
Disabling this particular camera is a simple matter yet pointless, as it would alert the system to the deficit and mark the missing camera as a security hazard, thus immediately exposing the very stupid thing Flamewar is about to do. Tampering with the camera feed to create the illusion that nothing suspicious ever too place requires finesse she does not have the tools to pull off right now, even if she could summon the patience and skill for it. She could cloak herself to hide, but since it is obvious where she intends to go, such stealth is ultimately redundant. Instead, she just waves at the camera, tries to look apologetic, then unseals the hatch and steps outside.
Shadow Striker, as it turns out, is watching. Having just returned to her office, she brings up the security feed as per habit, squints at her monitor, and mutters a deadpan, “Frag.”
Thundercracker is very respectful of boundaries, even with Nova Storm thrusting her spike slickly between himself and Slipstream, their face plates hovering closely enough for their forehelms to rest together, glossas gliding around the same shaft yet never touching, dermas depositing sticky kisses whilst never meeting. It is an exercise in cooperation indeed.
“Close,” Nova Storm grunts, rocking her hips with fervor. “Where you want it?”
“On my tits,” Thundercracker purrs huskily as he finally withdraws and gazes upward at his lover, being quite seductive for someone so sweet.
Slipstream actually flushes at that, taking the initiative to grasp the spike and aim it at his handsome smile, then downward, angling for his firm, flat breastplate and gleaming cockpit. She allows Nova Storm to thrust into that fist that grips her just tight enough to heighten the friction over regularly spaced glowing sensory nodes.
“C’mon, Nova. Get it all over me.”
“I’m gonna, Thunder. Ohhh, scrap me. I’m gonna.”
Thundercracker pushes out his bosom and flutters his shutters provocatively.
Nova Storm bellows as she explodes in Slipstream’s fist, gushing forth ropes of her overload, sloppily streaked over his blue.
“Theeere we go. Beautiful.” Thundercracker does not mind getting a bit of transfuid to the face, dangerously close to his optic. “Perfect, Nova. You’re so perfect. I love you too much.”
Slipstream pumps out as much as she can with firm strokes of her fist, feeling the spike within partially soften now that its function is technically complete, still semi-pressurised just in case further interfacing is demanded of it. She releases the spike and watches it flop a bit, then indulges herself by giving it a light slap to knock it aside.
“Ow! Tender!”
“Sorry.”
“Kiss.” Nova Storm grabs Slipstream’s helm and yanks her against the spike. “Kiss it better.”
Thundercracker rises slowly, dripping from his bosom. “Sloppy seconds,” he coos.
“Aw, yeah, my fave. Gimme.”
Smothered in spike, their Captain gazes upward at her subordinates as one licks her own transfluid off the other, his giggles a reminder that he is so very ticklish. This lasts for some time, until it becomes too much to bear the tickling and the spike is fully erect.
“Nova, you’re gonna make me leak oil, ease up on the tits a little.”
“I’mma make you leak something, alright. Get your valve out.”
Thundercracker’s valve is obediently released, glistening and flushed, not as much of a gusher as Slipstream.
“As for you, Captain.”
Slipstream is slapped playfully atop the helm, which she does not entirely appreciate.
“Sorry, Slip. I know you want my spike all to yourself, you greedy glitch, but my mech owns it. You did good, fluffing me up. Now geddoff, so he can get on. Maybe you’ll get a turn, after he’s done.”
Slipstream reluctantly extracts herself from Nova Storm’s spike, then gets out of the way, sitting on a low shelf to watch.
Thundercracker throws a leg over Nova Storm’s hip and mounts her with a masculine mewl as her spike easily slides within his accommodating valve. They kiss each other just as deeply.
“Yeah, Thunder, you’re the best. Your valve’s the best.”
“Frag me, Nova! Frag me ’til I can’t walk!”
She thrusts into him with grunts and whines and the wet slapping of connecting mesh, their armour colliding occasionally with a dull, heavy clanging. In their passion, they knock various supplies off the shelves, uncaring.
Slipstream pinches her own anterior node, squirming. She is desperate to release. Even so, she mentally catalogues all the items that may need repair or replacing for a requisitions report she will have to fill in herself later, as these other two will not do it themselves.
Eventually, the mech overloads on his lover’s spike, provoking the impaled femme to overload within him. This is followed by kisses and cuddling, words of undying devotion murmured between them.
The Captain does not normally touch herself, and though she knows the motions and has tactile, strong servos fit for the task of giving pleasure to others, she struggles to enjoy herself. She is the last to overload. It is supremely disappointing, leaving her anterior node a little sore and kinda itchy from some overstimulation and harsh treatment.
“Another round?” Thundercracker asks sweetly.
“Depends on Slip.” Nova Storm grins over at their third. “Eh, Captain?”
“No, thank you,” Slipstream says tiredly, resealing her valve with a wet scrape of metal sliding into place, slumped where she sits in a puddle of her own filth. “I’m finished. You guys go ahead without me.”
“But I was gonna stick it in and spike you next. I can still pinch off another.”
“I need to get back to the others. I left Skywarp and Thrust in charge. Primus knows how they’re getting on.”
“Oh. Well, can Thunder and me stay a bit, frag some more?”
“Just don’t break anything.”
“Too late for that.”
“And clean up afterward.”
“Hey, you made a mess, too.”
“I know,” the Captain mutters as she grabs cleaning supplies off the shelf. “I’ll get to it.”
“You sure you don’t want–?”
Thundercracker shakes his helm gently, and so Nova Storm relents with a huff, only to be happily distracted when he makes a genuine attempt to slide his glossa down her throat.
Slipstream manages to erase any sign that she was in here, then wipes herself off and douses herself with far too much cologne. With a final glance at the couple, she lets herself out, locking them in. She returns to the sparring Seekers to find Thrust lounging lazily on the sidelines whilst Skywarp marches between the pairs of sparring partners, gesticulating commands with proper military form.
Most people assume Seekers are stupid, which is not entirely untrue. However, Seekers make up for this simplicity with a sort of groupthink, an instinct to collaborate as a collective. Though they cannot read each other’s minds, they are excellent at interpreting vocalisations, bodily language, facial expressions and other such communicative cues when set to task.
As such, Skywarp does not need a voice, for the Seekers under her temporary command understand implicitly what she means by the movements of her servos and the way she directs her gaze at limbs that need readjustment. She knows a fair bit about close combat, as she has the combat protocols, but she also spends far too much time with Nova Storm, their best fighter.
Slipstream is very impressed. “Skywarp, well done.”
“Oh, Captain, you’re back!”
“Thrust, I told you to direct their training, not take a load off and leave the work to your acting co-Captain in my absence. And here I thought you always wanted to lead.”
“Well, uh, Warp and I are taking turns. It’s her turn.”
“Skywarp, is this true?”
A rather rude gesture answers that.
“Traitor!”
“I see. Thrust, for contravening a direct order and lying to your superior officer, you’re responsible for taking the trash out for the next three days.”
“Aw, Slip, c’mon! That scrap’s nasty!”
“I’m not Slip right now. I’m Captain Formal setting, remember.”
“Ugh. Yes, Sir.” Thrust proceeds to sulk adorably.
Slipstream gazes at Skywarp with interest. “You’ve got a knack for directing them.”
“It’s because she’s the fun one, so they like her and listen to what she says, unlike you.”
“Thrust, be quiet.”
“Yes, Captain. Right away, Captain.”
“And the proper form is to salute me.” Slipstream smiles when Thrust rigidly complies. “That’s better.”
He pokes his glossa out at her the moment she turns her back.
Racing together some miles away from the old war memorial, Shadow Striker hails Flamewar under the broiling sun that blesses the gleaming surface world this beautiful day.
“Hey, boss bot,” comes the eventual answer over their comm link, after three full pings demanding attention. “You were watching those cams after all, huh.”
“Unfortunately, yeah, I was. Got back to my desk just in time to catch you, afthole.”
“How mad are you on a scale from one to ten?”
“Fifteen.”
“Huh. That should run into the negatives, then. Right?”
“No, I broke the scale, I’m so mad at you right now.”
“Oh, scrap. I’m definitely in trouble.”
“Damn straight. But lucky for you, you’re generally useful to me, Megatron sees big things for you in your future as a Decepticon, and after all the scrap you’ve put me through, I still really like you.”
“Aw, boss bot. I really like you, too. I’m sorry for being difficult, I know I make you worry about me. That’s why you’re so mad at me right now.”
“Yeah, whatever. We can still brush this under the rug, keep it quiet, just between the two of us. Megatron doesn’t gotta know, if you turn your aft around and get back to base. Now.”
“Sorry. Can’t do that, Sir.”
“Too bad. That’s an order.”
“No, it’s bargaining. I’ve dealt with cops before.”
“Listen here, you scraplet.” Shadow Striker’s sleek sports car alt-mode surges forward aggressively, tailing Flamewar’s motorbike some distance behind, the gap between steadily narrowing. “Ever liken me to a cop again, and I’ll have your finial as a hood ornament.”
“Our colours would clash, though.”
“Cute. Pull over.”
“No.”
“I’m not playing with you today.”
“This isn’t a game.”
The femmes are inbound for Iacon City, kicking up clouds of fine metallic dust in their wake, racing over the open, uneven terrain of the wilderness, skirting around fragile shores of lithium bordering pools of molten Energon, dodging crystalline foliage and roaming mechanical wildlife.
“You promised to behave, remember that?”
“I’ve tried. I’m broken. I need this, okay? So you can come with me, or let me go alone. But you can’t stop me.”
For a while, nothing more is said.
“Fine, but you’re buying me a drink.”
“Deal.”
“Not much to look at, huh.” Windblade rubs her neck as she looks about the very plain, modest berthroom. “We’ll sort out better accommodations for you soon as we can, I promise. We’re a just little stretched at the moment with, like, everything.”
“Do not worry,” Jetfire intones playfully, but subdued with sadness, still speaking so softly. “On my travels, I have endured far worse conditions than these.”
“Heh. Alright, then. You’ll endure the night.”
“Indeed. This will more than suffice on such short notice, as my home is gone and my wings are weary and I do not mean to inconvenience anyone else with my troubles. This is an act of kindness, truly Primus-sent. I really need this.”
“Not to be super forward, but you’re welcome to stay at my place, if you’d prefer to. I have room.”
“No, my friend. I could not impose myself upon your mercy more than I already have.”
“It’s no imposition. I’d be happy to help.”
“You already have helped. I shall reside here.”
“Okay, if you’re sure. I just hope you get the rest you need. But please call me if there’s anything else I can do for you. Seriously, don’t be shy, okay?”
“You have done more than enough, fair Windblade, though I shall keep that in mind. Thank you.”
The Cityspeaker flushes when the older Seeker bows to her with perfect form, a rather flattering gesture. She returns it with a bow of her own, a bit more relaxed, but equally graceful. “You’re welcome.”
Rising to their full heights in unison, his muscular frame towering over her own, the jets gaze at each other in silence for some time thereafter.
“You’ll be okay on your own, tonight?”
“Are you a little less mad at me, now?”
“Barely.”
“Okay.” Flamewar flops over in her seat, tipping aside and thus falling against Shadow Striker, sat next to her at the bar. “Maybe I gotta just ply you with more booze, ’til you forgive me.”
“Yeah, maybe.” The old mercenary’s scowl softens as she sighs and loops a big, strong arm around the bike nestled against her, giving her a squeeze. “You’re making a fool outta me. You know that?”
Flamewar turns to look up at Shadow Striker, scuffed cheek pressed against her glossy bicep.
“I shouldn’t tolerate your scrap. You oughta receive some punishment for defying be and disobeying Megatron.”
“You can punish me when we get back to base. It’s your job, I accept that. Do what you gotta do.”
“My job’s not so simple any more, though, is it? You’ve gone and complicated things.”
“Only ’cause you went and caught feelings for me.”
“Shuddup.”
Silence, for a time.
“Don’t kill me for this, but it’s got something to do with how damn cute you are, you wild and reckless little maniac. That’s hardly my fault.”
“I’ll let that one pass. But I’m not cute.”
“You are.”
“Boss bot, do you wanna die, here and now?”
“You couldn’t kill me.”
“I could. You know I could. I’m very lethal.”
“Fine. You wouldn’t kill me.” A grim smirk. “Because you’re too fond of me.”
“Well, gee.” A soft huff. “You got me there, I guess.”
The mercenary turns to gaze down at the bike, scope and optic alike both intently and fondly fixed on that adorable little face plate.
Flamewar blinks slowly, the tips of her fangs visible in her relaxation, smiling up at Shadow Striker.
“Wipe that damn smile off your face,” mutters the mercenary with such grouchy affection.
The bike puts on a sultry scowl, engine snorting. “This better?”
“No.” Shadow Striker brushes a large digit gently along Flamewar’s sweaty, dusty cheek, tracing old scars. “Nothing could make this any better. It’s so fragged and we’re too far gone.”
“That’s kinda disturbing, but also distinctly romantic, boss bot.”
The mercenary’s Spark resonates with complicated emotions she does not entertain, because these are the feelings of fools.
The bike purrs as a thumb caresses her fang. “Are we boutta kiss, right now?”
“You wish. I’m no rewarding bad behaviour.” That said, Shadow Striker coolly turns her helm and looks elsewhere, unable to scowl with much vitriol.
“Tease.” Flamewar cuddles closer, somehow, sighing contentedly. “One more round, then we’re getting Slippy.”
“This is so damn stupid. You’re stupid.”
“Yeah, but it’s okay, ’cause I’m hot.”
“Heh. Fair enough.”
Windblade and Jetfire barely know each other, and yet she is massaging his pauldrons and listening with a smile on her face as he tells her tales about the Seekers, recounting memories of a time back when there was a veneer of innocence even in the likes of Starscream.
It is getting dark outside. But inside, there is such light.
“Alright, everyone. I’ve seen enough to get an idea of your differing levels of skill in close combat. Next time, we’ll practise aerial maneuvers, which is a lot less painful than sparring, assuming none of you collides with one another.”
A lot of work must yet be done, turning these young soldiers into the sentient yet obedient weapons they were forged to be. But they have promise.
“That’s it for today. Off to the showers, get some Energon in you, enjoy your free time without causing any trouble, then it’s time for berth. Dismissed.”
“Yes, Captain,” is the general chorus of exhausted, sweaty Seekers, who manage to sloppily salute prior to dispersal.
“Thank Primus! You didn’t have to work us so hard, Slip,” Thrust grumbles, rubbing his aching arm. He then flinches when this gets him a glare. “Hey. Be nice. You’re the nice one, remember.”
“Only when I’m off-duty. Do not question my command in front of the little ones again,” Slipstream reminds him in a low, disapproving undertone, before kissing the corner of his frowning dermas. “But I’m sorry if you feel overworked. Get used to it. No more slacking off, pretending to be busy.”
“Ugh. Duly noted, Sir.”
“I love you. Now, go on.”
“Love you too. Don’t worry, I’m gone.” He nuzzles her, then lurches past, joining up with the conehead twins Ramjet and Dirge who never really say much, favouring macho grunts, letting Thrust do the talking for them. “She never used to be this bad, you guys. Say what you want about the Commander, but at least Star lets us do, like, the bare minimum so long as we look busy.”
“That’s not good enough,” Slipstream calls after the ambling mechs. “Hard work instils discipline. Practice makes perfect. And other such platitudes!” She then sighs, and says to Skywarp somewhat hopelessly, “They’re very stupid.”
The wilfully mute Seeker nods, looping an arm about her older sister and superior officer.
“Oh, Warp. I just want my Seekers at their very best, in preparation for what’s coming. You get that, don’t you?”
Another nod, a one-armed squeeze of a hug.
“Hey. You did well today, the way you bossed everyone about, without even having to resort to yelling, and they listened to you with such respect. I’m a little jealous, you make it look so easy. See what you can do, when you quit the pranks and apply yourself to doing something productive?”
Skywarp grins cutely, feigning modesty with a flop of the wrist.
“You might have a future in command, if you keep this up.” Slipstream chuckles, leaning against her younger sister. “I’ll put in a word with Starscream, he’ll be so pleased.”
The femmes lope together for the shower block.
“Though, sometimes that’s not a good thing.”
“You won’t get in trouble if you make it look like I put up a fight and got away from you.”
“What, you offering to punch me, make it look convincing?”
“I mean, yeah.”
“How many drinks did you have, coming up with a dumbaft idea like that?”
Flamewar giggles as Shadow Striker ruffles her helm.
“Nah. It’d ruin your career. Let me take my share of the blame. I’m responsible for you.”
“Megatron wouldn’t, like, have us scrapped because we’re abandoning our post, would he? That’s, like, something Starscream would demand, because he’s an evil little glitch. But Megatron believes in us. Right?”
“I dunno. It’d be a fragging waste, if this gets us killed for insubordination.”
“I wouldn’t worry,” Soundwave croons, sliding onto an available seat, leaning against the wall where he sits. “The Decepticons are misbehaving all over. Megatron is getting increasingly permissive of the chaos. I doubt he cares much.”
“Ah, there he is!” Shadow Striker grins at her best – and only – friend.
“Here I am. And I have a surprise.”
Flamewar tilts her helm, curious.
“I’ve been coaxing Ravage into my cassette compartment, as I told you, with treats and praise and such. Figured we’d be a perfect fit.”
“Yeah. Did the little scrap finally get in there?”
Instead of answering that, Soundwave opens his breast just enough for a feline face to poke through the gap, optics round with curiosity, Ravage meowing a question.
“Kitty,” coos the bike.
“Oh, bless.” The old mercenary almost melts, clearly a cat person. “Look at that little fragger.” She has adopted a funny tone of voice. “Hi, stinky boy.”
The reply is a feline hiss, baring fangs.
“Garbage boy.”
Another hiss.
“Fortunately, between Hot Rod and I, we’ve mostly got rid of the smell of our little stray. Key word being ‘mostly’ – isn’t that right, Ravage?” The objectively best Decepticon ever snaps an Energon goodie in half and presents one severed piece to the cybercat, who sniffs it, then licks it, then nibbles at it with a surly om-nom-nom. “Full of complaints, you are.”
“He seems kinda hateful.”
“Oh, he definitely is.”
“He’s perfect.” Shadow Striker daringly wiggles a digit between Ravage’s ears, which he allows her to do, distracted as he is by the Energon goodie Soundwave offers.
Flamewar feels oddly jealous.
Windblade pulls Jetfire against herself when he suddenly cannot get the words out, choking on a sob.
“Captain? Uh, mom?” Ion Storm squints. “Which are you, right now?”
“Mom’s fine. I’m too tired to be Captain.” Slipstream is laid out on her berth, reading something on a datapad. “I’ll answer to dad, too. Apparently.”
“Well, dad, two grounders–”
“Terrestrials.”
“Sorry. Two terrestrials wanna see you. Dunno why. A big scary one with a weird optic, and a small cute one with the most badaft paint-job ever, just fire everywhere, like, literally, she’s covered in fire, so badaft.”
Slipstream looks up at Ion Storm with disbelief, then shoves the datapad under her synthetic pillow to hide the fact that she is re-reading and editing a lengthy letter of love and apology she wrote for her ex and will probably never send to Windblade anyway because it hurts too much, then all but sprints past him.
“No, no, no.” Starscream scowls at his script, strutting back and forth with mounting agitation.
Knock Out pours another drink, passing the flute over to his Conjunx Breakdown with a tender kiss shared between them.
“Wrong, all wrong.”
“Darling, be patient with yourself.”
“I feel so useless!”
“That poor attitude of yours isn’t helping you, though, is it?”
“There is no helping me!”
“Nonsense, my dear.”
“I just cannot find the words I must say to him! I’m usually so good with words!” The Commander tosses his script aside and flops onto the couch with a groan, rubbing his brows.
“Another helmache?”
“Mmyes. Good doctor, perhaps you might have something for the nerves? A little dose, to calm me down?”
“Well, technically, sedating you without proper cause would be medical malpractice…”
“Oh, please. You lost your license a while ago. Don’t be cute.”
The medic smirks aside at his far larger husband.
Flamewar takes off in a mad dash to close the distance, before leaping into Slipstream’s arms, already open to receive, catching the smaller femme with ease.
“Flames!”
“Slippy!”
“Ohhh, I missed you!”
“Missed you more!”
Thus they embrace, with curious Seekers and other Decepticons looking on.
Shadow Striker’s scowl twists into a smile.
Flamewar kisses Slipstream with a passion that she fully reciprocates, rendering them both flushed when they finally do part.
“Nice.”
The comment draws a look over at Shadow Striker. “Sir!”
“I’m not your boss bot any more. You don’t gotta–”
Carrying the bike, the Seeker lunges in for a kiss to the mercenary’s cheek.
Shadow Striker’s smile turns crooked as she bumps her helm affectionately against Slipstream’s. “C’mon, now. Not too much soft stuff in front of other people. I got an image to maintain.”
“What are you two doing here?”
“She insisted on seeing you. She’s been a terror since you left.”
“Aw, Flames.”
“Literally did a runner. I got dragged along, trying to catch her.”
“Boss bot missed you too, Slippy.” Flamewar is nestled between the bigger femmes, purring. “She just needed an excuse. Blame me.”
“You guys could get in trouble.”
“Yeah, well. Maybe. Or maybe not, according to Soundwave.”
“Well, I still disapprove of you guys taking such a risk for me,” the Captain says in a motherly undertone, gently chastising the bike and mercenary alike. “But I’m very glad to see you and I’m beyond thankful that you took this risk for me. If Megatron-”
“Hey, old glitch!”
Shadow Striker’s smile vanishes a mere moment before Nova Storm’s fist connects with her cheek.
“That’s for Acid!”
“Nova, no!”
Flamewar attempts to throw herself at the attacker with a snarl, fighting against Slipstream’s anxious embrace, keeping the small but dangerous femme restrained.
“Seekers! Grab her!”
As commanded, other Seekers rush to intervene, holding Nova Storm back whilst forming a barrier against Shadow Striker, who stabilises herself with a low grunt.
“Ow.”
“Showing your face around here, who the frag do you think you are!”
“Not bad, kid. Got a mean right hook.”
“I got way more than that! Lemme show ya!”
“Enough! Nova, inside! Now!”
The Seekers haul Nova Storm away, with a lot of difficulty.
“Are you alright?” Still struggling with the squirming, rabid Flamewar, Slipstream worriedly hovers close by. “What am I saying, of course you’re not alright. She hits like a truck. Do you need a medic?”
Shadow Striker churns her jaw until she spits a glob of Energon onto the ground, before she touches her split derma with the tip of the glossa, tasting the wound. “I could probably do with sitting down for five minutes, to be honest.”
Chapter 44
Notes:
This chapter might be my last update for a little bit, depending on how the next few days go. Anyway, it's gonna be very Jetfire/Starscream heavy - as you may have surmised by now, whilst this story is full of romantic/sexual entanglements and tension from an assortment of characters, I only filtered the 'ships most relevant to the story being told, in no strict order of importance, and this happens to be one of those primary 'ships. My attempt at making Cyberverse Starscream sympathetic entails that his love and lust for Jetfire be explored at length. Also, it gives me an excuse to write a jealous and insecure Megatron, because I don't think that gets written very often. Please enjoy! As always, feedback is welcome. Thank you for your support and readership so far, you've been wonderful to me.
Potential trigger warnings: talk of war, death and destruction, internalised suicidal ideation, emotional abuse.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“You weren’t joking about the cuddle piles,” Flamewar murmurs, peering through the dim at the many Seekers curled up against each other, nesting sociably. “No wonder you turned out to be so cuddlesome. There’s a lotta love in this room right now.”
Slipstream smiles softly, sadly at her kin, saying nothing. She feels a clawed servo find her larger digits, interweaving. She squeezes back.
“Where am I gonna fit into all of this, Slippy?”
“I won’t subject you to the others. Come, Flames.”
The bike is led to the Captain’s berth.
“No privacy, huh.”
“I’m afraid privacy is a luxury.”
“Shame. I was hoping you’d sit on my face or something.”
Slipstream lies back on the berth, pulling Flamewar over herself like a blanket, nuzzling into her cheek.
“Thanks for letting me stay. So long as I’m with you, I feel better about myself.”
The Captain answers that with kisses that wander over every handsome facial feature, until the bike is purring her pleasure.
“You guys gonna frag over there?” enquires a masculine voice from across the barracks, with accompanied giggling courtesy of other Seekers.
“No, Thrust,” Slipstream calls back with a tired frown. “Please mind your business.”
“Who’s your friend, anyway?” pipes up another masculine voice. “You didn’t introduce us.”
“I’ll introduce everyone in the morning, Thunder. We’re all exhausted, so let’s just focus on sleep now.”
“She’s hot. And all over you. Maybe that rebound is gonna happen.”
“Hush, Nova.”
Flamewar caresses the crystalline dome bearing a Deceptibrand, ignoring the other Seekers. “Open this for me, Slippy?”
Slipstream releases the vacuum seal of her cockpit, lifting the dome upon its hinge and exposing her inner workings.
“Wow. That scent of yours is so much stronger in there. I love it. I wanna shove my whole helm inside you so I can breathe you in.”
“Kinky,” murmurs Nova Storm, whilst Thrust snickers.
Paying them no mind, Slipstream caresses Flamewar’s helm, coaxing her, inviting her, drawing her close and holding her in place until burying her face plate within the Seeker’s insides, the bike’s vents huffing recycled air with excitement.
“Mmmyeeeaaah. That’s the stuff. That’s you, your very essence, distilled so’s I can get drunk off of you.” Flamewar’s words are muffled and difficult to understand, but her tone is unmistakeably adoring. “Your Spark chamber is right there, isn’t it, Slippy. I feel your pulse against my face.”
Slipstream acknowledges with a sort of certain doom that she really has fallen in love again. Oh, no.
This morning greets a burning world.
Windblade opens her optics to behold an unfamiliar berthroom, gazing about and recalling the events from last night that led to her falling asleep here.
Thankfully, she let Chromia and Bumblebee know not to worry, but falling asleep with Jetfire was not really part of the plan. It just sort of happened, after sharing tears and tales and exhausting themselves together. He needed someone and she wanted to help.
The Cityspeaker sits up with a soft grunt, slouching against the pillows and scratching her codpiece in a very unladylike fashion, yawning into her other fist.
“Good morning,” the handsome, powerfully built Seeker says cheerfully, smile as bright as the sun. He just so happens to walk in at that very moment.
The normally very elegant and composed Windblade quickly wrenches her servo off her modesty panels and sits a little straighter with a flushed grin. “Good morning.”
“Are you hungry?”
“Yeah, I could eat.”
“As an old military mech, I am used to rising early. I left you to sleep in, seeking sustenance.” Jetfire very discretely pretends he never saw anything, setting down takeaways in foil bags. “I went out and got us some breakfast.”
“Thank you. Those smell good.”
“Toasted wheel-nuts with mineral shavings, my favourite.”
“Mmm. Yummy.”
And so the new friends share the bounty between them, opting to sit by a sunny viewing port with a modest view.
“Today is the day,” he says eventually, a tall disposable tin cup before his intake, filled with a hot brew he prefers more bitter than sweet.
She daintily nibbles on a wheel-nut, gazing at how the light caresses the masculine angles of his face plate.
“Let this be the day I see him again, Primus willing, so we can talk.”
“You know you have backup, if you feel you can’t face him alone.”
“If he has changed as much as you claim, changed enough to threaten your life and torment your friends, then I have no intention of endangering anyone besides myself. I must do this without help.”
Windblade finds Jetfire’s servo, capturing it.
“He was so good, before I left him. Now that I have returned, it is my loving duty to draw out the good still within him. This poison set in, since I was gone. He would never have turned out this way, if I had never left.”
“I really hope you can find and restore the Starscream you remember him as. The way you described him before… I would like to meet that mech.”
The old Seeker’s optics wrinkle handsomely at the corners when he smiles broadly at the Cityspeaker, squeezing her digits within his.
“Whilst the day is still young, I will liaison with our spies and arrange for a drone to–”
“Don’t bother. I erased that message.”
“Oh. I see. Why?”
“It wasn’t good enough. I’ll record another one, a better one.”
Sat at the table, partaking in a shared meal that is significantly better than the common Decepticon’s rations, Megatron sets down his fork, leans back in his chair and peers over the spread at Starscream, swallowing the urge to sigh.
“I can sense your disapproval.”
“Disapproval is a strong word, my love.”
The Commander does not return that look, elegantly reaching for a sweetened Energon bar, taking a savage yet beautiful bite out of it, chewing, swallowing in the silence that follows.
“Star, I do sympathise. Jetfire is very dear to you. He is to you, as Orion is to me.”
“Mm.”
“However, you must intervene before Sentinel can manipulate circumstances in his own favour.” The old gladiator keeps his quiet, rumbling vocaliser set to a patient, gentle cadence. “Jetfire’s influence over your Seekers poses a threat to–”
“I know that!” Starscream snaps, blinking rapidly as he drops his servos into his own lap and slumps, shaking his helm and grimacing. “I know that.”
“He must be dealt with, one way or another.”
“I’ll do it, I just… I don’t know how.”
“Then figure it out, Star, and quickly.” Megatron licks the pad of his thumb, then reaches over and gently wipes a little smear of Energon off of his lover’s trembling bottom derma. “Let us do it your way. My way is a last resort.”
“No, you can’t stay forever.”
“Why not? Don’t you want me forever?”
“I do, but what I want doesn’t matter,” Slipstream says very, very carefully whilst applying fresh ink to her dermas, moving her intake as little as is possible. “Besides, Shadow Striker expects you back at the base by the end of today. She’s being kind, letting me keep you a while.”
“I’m in trouble, soon as I get back. Dreamboat and treads are gonna be so mad at me.”
“Treads?”
“Demolishor. He’s got treads. Big guy is a bit generic, since you’re also a big guy and so’s boss bot. I mean, everybody’s a big guy when you’re my size. So I just thought up a new petname for him. Treads.”
“Mm.”
“But if you could get what you want, you’d keep me forever, right?”
“Of course, Flames.”
“Whew! I’m only checking because I know I was a little rough on you just before you left, so I just wanted to make sure you still love me and stuff.”
“I’ll always love you and stuff.”
Flamewar looks at her own reflection, optics bright and widened with emotional vulnerability. She is a handsome fragger, well-endowed. Her scruffiness only adds to the wild and reckless appeal of damaged goods. “Promise?”
The Captain reseals the ink and proceeds to lean in to kiss the bike’s scuffed cheek, deliberately leaving behind a mark of her affection. “Promise.”
“Aw.” Flamewar grins, delighted by the reassurance as much as the dark, glossy derma ink imprinted seductively on her cheek. “You’re the best, Slippy. I’m so glad we met.”
“Me, too.”
“With all that material behind us, by the time we get hitched, I’ll have a wicked speech prepped.”
Slipstream flushes, chuckling quietly. “You’re really still certain you want to marry me.”
“Yeah, of course. I can’t remember anyone being as kind and loving toward me, as you are. Why wouldn’t I want that for the rest of my life?”
“Well, when you put it that way…”
“I can give you the coordinates, but the place is heavily fortified, just swarming with Decepticons, hence why the Council hasn’t stormed it. Drives Sentinel crazy, knowing Megatron is right there, but untouchable. You’re sure about this?”
“I will be careful, my friend. And though my dearest Star may have fallen, I know he would never permit any harm to come to me. But if you come with me, I cannot guarantee your safety. As I said, I must do this alone.”
“I really don’t like that.”
“Neither do I. Let me put a stop to this madness, if I only can. I may be the only person alive, that he will still listen to. Only I may convince him, now.”
Windblade looks to the sky, Jetfire’s servo in her own.
A beautiful, bright day greets them.
“Right, Seekers. As promised, we’re gonna be airborne today.”
“Yes!” Thrust pumps his fist. “I love flying! I’m the best at it!”
Nova Storm rolls her optics and Thundercracker sighs, whereas Skywarp is fixated on Flamewar, more specifically her paint-job.
Slipstream smiles at Thrust’s enthusiasm, then turns to her younger Seekers, pleased to see they are also eager about doing what comes naturally to their kind. “You’ll split off into trines. When teamed up, you’ll take turns within your respective trine playing chaser and performing evasive maneuvers. This is to assess your competency in flight. I’ll have two of you flying with me. Any volunteers?”
Nacelle and Hotlink raise their servos, smiling.
“Alright, you two. You’re with me. The rest of you, group up. Each trine gets a turn, to limit air traffic.”
The Seekers, of course, form trines with those they like the best.
Nova Storm grabs Thundercracker and Skywarp for herself, whereas Thrust ambles on over to stand with the coneheads Dirge and Ramjet, an honorary member it would seem.
Flamewar is seated on an old storage crate left to weather the elements outside, a safe distance off. She quite likes watching Slipstream boss the Seekers around.
“Thrust! Your trine is first.”
“Yeah! C’mon, boys! I’ll show you how it’s done!”
Slipstream thus commands her Seekers to take off, with tremendous heat and noise, their thrusters blasting metallic dirt clouds in their wake, their wings slicing through clouds of chemical vapour.
Flamewar coos, enjoying the show as a privileged terrestrial in the company of fliers.
The coneheads are slower, less agile, but this is to account for their superior weaponry and armoured plating. They have no hope of chasing Thrust, nor can they hope to evade him, but it is very entertaining to watch him fly literal circles around his trinemates.
The thrill of flight, to be swallowed within the yawning sky, cannot be communicated. It can only be lived.
“This area is off-limits.”
“Yes, I inferred as much!”
“Who the frag are you?” demands a Decepticon guard as his cohorts search the interloper for hidden weaponry.
“I am Jetfire!”
“Never heard of ya.”
“I was once Commander, then Captain of the Seekers! I have come for an audience with Starscream, my successor! It is most urgent!”
“Meh, you fragging fliers. Too damn many of your kind, and you all look alike to me.”
“That is deeply problematic!”
“Wait here, I’ll call it in.”
Jetfire keeps his servos up, frowning as he is poked and prodded by other guards. “Ouch! Is this really necessary?”
“You always yell like that?”
“I am not yelling, I am projecting my voice! It comes from the belly upward!”
“It’s loud.”
“As is my intent!”
Moments after, the guard who stepped away to make a call returns with a sigh, waving crudely. “Strip him of anything dangerous, then let him through. I’ll escort the flier to our pretty princess’ office myself.”
Slipstream gives the trine their time to practice, then recalls them.
Thrust drops to the ground in a crouch, followed by the coneheads, Flamewar applauding their trine as he smirks at her whilst enjoying the praises of younger Seekers who gather around to give worship to their big brother.
“Nova, your trine’s up next.”
“Finally! C’mon, you two. I’m chaser.” Nova Storm gives Skywarp and Thundercracker a brief head-start, then transformers and surges after them. “I’m gonna getcha!”
Flamewar wants to gut Nova Storm for punching Shadow Striker, but that would upset Slipstream, so the urge is kept contained. True love, indeed.
Slipstream’s comm link is hailed. She answers immediately, curtly. “Yes, Commander.” Whatever Starscream says to her, has her optics wide to the point of almost bulging out her helm, her posture tense to the point of almost snapping under the bulk of her own weight. “Right away, Sir.” She disconnects the call, turns to Flamewar. “Stay here. Wait for me.”
“Slippy?”
“It’s an emergency.”
“You have faith in him, but you should’ve reported this in first. I would’ve sent a contingency to accompany him and to gather vital intelligence on the Decepticon base.”
“He didn’t want to involve anyone else. He’s trying to keep us all safe. I honoured his wishes to go alone.”
Sentinel sighs, rubbing his brows. “Well, what’s done is done. Who knows? Perhaps he’ll be successful and withdraw Seeker support from Megatron’s side. Wouldn’t that be nice?”
“It would be nice,” Windblade murmurs, imagining Slipstream free.
“Commander.”
“Come in.”
Slipstream releases the door and strides into the office to find Starscream frantically tidying up. Something about seeing him running about, scooping trash into the disintegrator, makes her nervously laugh.
“Don’t just stand and stare! Help me make this place presentable!”
The Captain is still quietly giggling as she scoops up stray datapads into an orderly pile and rearranges the cluttered desk into an actual workstation and not a place to doodle silly caricature drawings of people the Commander does not like.
Empress’ portrayal depicts the huge femme with an exaggerated bosom and aft, posed provocatively as she wields some sort of rod to lash the afts of prostrated mechs whose identities do not matter, for they have no faces to distinguish them. Soundwave is frozen mid-dance and it is a very poor performance, judging by the scribbled frowns within the blob of an audience that judges him so poorly. There are other such drawings all in a similar disparaging, immature vein, equally crude. The prevalence of gleaming, ornate crowns, disembodied and floating in the void of imagination, is notable.
“We should put some of these on the refrigeration unit, Sir. They’re cute.”
“Oh, don’t you dare start with me right now, femme. He’ll be here any moment! He’s been held up at security for a check-in, but those imbeciles do such a poor job, I bet he’s almost–”
A firm knock upon the resealed doors confirms all fears. “Jetfire’s here to see you, Commander.”
“Ohhh, dammit. I’m about to have a panic attack. Help.”
“Sir. Calm down. Breathe with me. In… Out.”
Starscream pants for air as instructed and flails as Slipstream attempts to console him.
“You’ll be fine. Okay? It’s going to be fine.”
The guard bangs his fist on the door again, with even less patience. “Hello? Frag’s sake. I hate fliers.”
“I heard that! Did you hear that? In my hour of need, no less! I want that one executed for being rude to me,” the Commander hisses to his Captain, allowing her to rub his trembling back strut. “Bring me his helm on a silver platter once this ordeal is over. Enter!”
“Finally. Frag me. Go on in, the pretty princess will see you now.”
Before Starscream can throw a proper tantrum, the door slides aside and Jetfire is suddenly standing there, as handsome and muscular as he was all those millions of years ago.
Slipstream automatically assumes a perfect stance, saluting rigidly.
Poor Starscream can only sob, clutching at his anguished Spark. “My long lost love…”
“…I have returned to you.” Jetfire smiles almost shyly. Suddenly, he opens his big, strong arms, baring his ample breastplate. “Come! Give me a big hug!”
The Commander wails as he throws himself at the older Seeker, whose frame is also unique and distinguished from the rest.
The Captain moves in afterward, melting against both mechs, reunited.
“Kisses for everyone!” Jetfire declares in his big, silly voice, before his soft dermas collide lovingly with Starscream’s tearful cheeks and Slipstream’s bowed forehelm. “Mwah, mwah, mwah! My darlings, I have missed you every moment!”
“Why?!” bemoans the Commander through the veil of tears, grabbing the older Seeker’s broad pauldrons and shaking limply. “You left me! But you n-n-never said why! I never understood why! Why, why, why!”
“It’s been hard, without you,” the Captain moans, clinging to the closest thing to a father figure she has ever known. “So, so hard.”
Jetfire cradles the younger, smaller Seekers against himself, nuzzling them. “Forgive me.” He does not yell, now. “I was seeking myself. I lost so much of who I am, back in that war that almost drove our people to extinction. I needed to recollect my soul, put myself back together again.”
“You’re back.” Slipstream gazes up into his beautiful, gentle optics with daughterly longing. “Did you succeed?” She is amazingly calm, for one so upset.
“No. I return as much of a failure as I was when I left. I am sorry.”
“Then why did you come back?”
“I heard that Cybertron was in crisis. I did not request the details, Slip. I abandoned my exile, for I only thought of you. I wanted to check on my family. I am too compulsive, even in my old age. I have not improved myself at all.”
“Oh, Jetfire.”
“I did not know that another war had come, I did not foresee that my little ones would be called upon to fight and die once more in the name of this Megatron character and his Decepticon cause. A promise of peace was made, Star, do you remember it? Our parting words. I have trusted you with lives. How can this be?”
Starscream sniffles, his cheek pressed against his love’s bosom, helm tucked under that handsome chin that rests so familiarly atop. He feels so small, so insignificant compared to this great mech.
“Speak, Star. Please tell me what has happened to us.”
The Commander is a very charismatic mech. He looks to the Captain, who seems just as helpless as he is, even if not as bereft, until a large palm cups his jaw and gently tilts back his helm, forcing him to meet with the older Seeker’s paternal gaze.
“I must know. Make me understand. Tell me they are wrong about you.”
Starscream’s optics sear over. It is like a switch is flicked inside of him, turning off the light. Within his personal maelstrom, he finds a lifeline and seizes it with all he has. “Oh, Jetfire, they do misunderstand.” The tremor is gone from that petrified rasp, which has turned sultry. “I bring a sword not to destroy, but to dismantle. There’s a difference, you see.”
Jetfire shivers as a slender digit brushes intimately down his abdominal plating. “I do not follow.”
“It is no simple matter. But allow me to simplify things for you.”
“Please do.”
Slipstream quirks an optic ridge, easing back, giving the mechs some space. She is an accessory to murder and mayhem. She will be expected to play her part in all this, like it or not. She just despises how someone she loves can be so selfishly deranged, yet eerily sane.
“War is a necessary consequence of conquest. You know war better than I, but I know the aftershocks better than most. You left. I remained, picking up the pieces.”
“Star, I have made a terrible mistake, leaving you with my burden.”
“You say that as if you regret trusting me, Jetfire.”
“No, never. I put their lives in your servos, as I would die for you.”
“Then you know I must do this, for it is righteous. You know war, but I know that the victor bears the spoils of conquest, whilst the conquered pays as the loser. We were conquered. Now, we will reverse the roles and conquer over all those who dismiss us and destroy us. Hence the Decepticons.”
“And Megatron, yes?”
“Yes. He is a brilliant mech of so many talents – a poet, philosopher, politician, and true visionary. He knows my pain, our pain. He will lead us, with myself at his right side.”
“Your tone tells me that this Megatron is of great importance to you.”
“We are in love.”
Jetfire inhales sharply, wincing.
“But never mind that, right now.” Starscream takes cruel satisfaction in making the old mech squirm, all the same. “What we need now is a war to end all wars.”*
“Impossible. One war always drags on into another. Resentment rots itself into a feverish pitch of hatred. War is never satisfied. You promised me, Star.”
“And I am keeping my promise. The battle ahead will be a decisive one, which I am already winning. Once I have dismantled the power structures that oppress the Seekers, I will make a place for our people to live in peace. No more masters over our minds, no more weaponising our bodies to suit someone else, no more prohibition of our reproduction. We are owed a terrible debt, my love, and I am the mech to settle an old score. I am Commander, as you once were, but you only fought to bring one war to an end. I fight so that never again will we ever have any need for war.”
Slipstream feels a little moved by those words, after all she has suffered. Nova Storm would agree, Thrust would see honour in it, and Thundercracker would like for his family to simply be altogether in happiness. Only Acid Storm could recognise the horrors, as Slipstream had imagined them, and they are too young to have ever even seen real combat. Could Starscream’s madness actually be clarity, if it turns out that his way is the only war to ensure Seekers flood the skies and live their lives without fear and persecution?
Jetfire ponders this very same notion for some time. “Slip, do you agree?”
“Tell him,” rasps the Commander. “Go on.”
The Captain clears her vents. “I, uh…”
The old Seeker looks to her, as if her word is final.
“We Seekers must suffer our Commander.”
“Commander?” Jetfire echoes, optics widening, brows arching. “Yes, you said before. I never intended for there to be another Seeker Commander.”
“And yet I took the mantle. I am Captain, no more. Our darling Slipstream, here, has taken her share of responsibility. She will vouch for me, as I have vouched for her. Go on, darling, tell him I’m right.”
A moment of silence.
“…Slip?”
Starscream finds Slipstream’s servo as if to hold it in companionship. But the way he almost crushes her digits within his own, indicates a threat of harm. He could destroy her, destroy her friends and family, and nothing she can do will stop him.
The Captain winces as her digits finally creak within the Commander’s grip. If she tows the line, she could survive. She sometimes considers killing herself, but were she to die, she would lose everything and leave behind all she has ever loved. Who would take care of the little ones? She cannot flee either, for the same reason - she is responsible. And Windblade did not save her, for the Cityspeaker chose differently, condemning Slipstream to suffer a Seeker’s lot. Perhaps choice really is an illusion, for what free will is there in a cold construct programmed as a soldier, forged to fight? “I do not want to die. I do not want to kill. I fear for my friends and family. War is the last thing I want.”
“Slipstream,” is purred like a knife to the throat.
“I still think this is madness. But there’s sense in it, I must confess. After everything that’s happened, all that’s been said and done, I see no other way, than war. We’re too disposable to the rich and powerful, too useless to the common mech and femme. If we're to achieve freedom for Seekers, we must fight for it. Otherwise, we won’t be acknowledged as worthy. Nova has said so. Star and Megatron have said so. Acid told me just to go along with it, because what choice do I have?”
The old Seeker looks from one face to the other, noting anguish in the femme, confidence warring with anger in the beautifully reconstructed younger mech, crushing her servo in his.
“In a fragged-up way, it all makes so much sense, and I hate it. It’s obvious, even to me, that if the Seekers are to do better as a people, we must force change to happen. We’ve tried to appeal to the powerful for rights and freedoms, but the Functionists declare us as soldiers, nothing more, and the Senate was terrified of us, thus the replacing Council fears us too. We died for them, and they left us to die out. Of course they would rather deny us. We pose a threat to the world order. I get that.”
Jetfire can tell that Slipstream is miserable confessing all of this, but he sees only her depression in duty, unaware of the sheer extent of her faithlessness and isolation, her failure to escape all this unknown to him. He does not realise that Starscream would go so far as to ruin one of his own, just to maintain control.
“We can’t even get ordinary jobs because our function is war, so we’re nothing more than soldiers until we’re decommissioned. It’s too expensive to reconfigure us into something else, because nobody with the resources to spare us thinks we’re even worth it. Our Seekers are too stupid to organise much collective, sustained protest. I wish we could change the way of things with talk, but nobody listens to what we say.” The Captain feels the grip on her aching servo finally relent. She said something the Commander likes, evidently
“Nobody, until Megatron. He hears us. He will help us. If we don’t do this, we will remain mere relics of an old war, military assets the powerful condemned to die out, ceremonial reminders of the past you condemned to this poor excuse for peace when you left.”
The old Seeker bows his head in shame, until a digit gently hooks beneath his chin, forcing him to look up.
“I know you only meant to protect us,” Starscream croons sweetly. “But it is you who misunderstands everything we are, everything we must be. You comforted yourself without challenging the status quo, when you left us behind, promising peace – your peace would reduce us to the guys who fly over parades meant to celebrate our dead ancestors, Seekers of the past you served with – and I didn’t realise how wrong you were at the time, I only sensed a great injustice done over and over as the millions of years passed without you. But then, one day, I met him.”
“Megatron?”
“Megatron. He poses the very challenge I crave, for I look to the future, not the past, unlike you. I seek change, Jetfire, for if we keep doing what we’ve been doing, my love, so as to appease your ‘peace’… we’ll all go extinct someday. Is this truly the sum of the promise I made to you?”
Jetfire has no words.
“No. I think not. I reject that peace.” Starscream suddenly captures the back of the taller mech’s helm, pulling him close, until their forehelms touch and their olfactory sensors nuzzle together in that distinctly avian way. “Your peace is a false promise. I will make you happy, with the truth. All you must do, is trust me. Know that I do this out of love for you, for my Seekers, for myself, for him.”
Slipstream wants to leave, but she is pulled in, dragged into their intimacy, her helm coming to rest with theirs.
“I will have a room prepared for you, my love, and you will dwell with me. You will see, through me, as I radiate the way forward, with Megatron at my side and our Seekers soaring above the scum of the world. We’re not here to terrorise. We’re here to bring into being the rightful natural order of things.”
“This is… so much to process, Star.”
“Take time to think about it. Meanwhile, let’s get comfortable. I want to hear all about whatever it is you’ve been up to, since you left.”
The old Seeker is guided to sit down, the Commander perching elegantly on the edge of his desk, cradling the other mech’s servos upon his shapely lap.
The Captain is left standing here, reeling.
“Slipstream, my darling, in that little cabinet over there you shall find rather scrumptious high-grade I have saved for such a special occasion as this. Get three flutes and pour us each a generous measure.”
“Yes, Commander.” Slipstream thus pours the mechs, and herself, a drink each. With her back turned, she sneakily takes a chug from the crystalline bottle, because she really needs the fortitude right now.
Jetfire sighs as Starscream smiles.
“Damn. Been a while. Star must be giving Slip a real lecture.” Thrust scratches his neck, watching a trine of young Seekers soar overhelm. “Wonder what they’re talking about.”
“Gotta have something to do with Jetfire coming back,” answers Nova Storm, burly arms folded. “Poor Star is really freaked out. It sucks, ’cause that means we can’t be happy about it.”
“Maybe they’ll sort it all out together and come to a newfound understanding.” Thundercracker smiles hopefully. “C’mon, guys. Let’s be optimistic for a change.”
Skywarp sits next to Flamewar, chirping curiously at her.
“’Sup.”
The Seeker gestures at the bike’s fiery bosom.
“Like my paint, eh?”
A silent nod.
“I like yours, too.” A wink. “Outta this lot, you’ve def got the best colourscheme.”
Skywarp grins, then indicates her own bosom, tracing the coils of imaginary flames.
“Yeah, that’d look sick in purple and silver. Plus, flames make you go faster.”
The Seeker tilts her helm, chirping.
“Yeah, s’true.” The bike sniffs casually. “Flames are totes a performance enhancement. Go get you some. I’d hook you up, since I worked in a tattoo parlour – in fact my paint-job nailed the interview, and it’s lucky ’cause I didn’t know if I could actually do the job, but when I picked up the needle, I just sorta could, like a repressed memory of a past life or something – but the place shut down after an inspection, so I can’t recommend it anymore. Health and safety stuff.”
Skywarp seems to find this all very funny, because she giggles quietly.
“You’re real cute.” Flamewar shakes her helm, sighing. “Sorry if this is insensitive, since I dunno your backstory, but most femmes talk waaay too much, so it’s kinda nice to meet one who doesn’t say a word.”
“Warp,” Nova Storm calls with disapproval when she notices her younger sister sat next to the bike, “get away from the grounder.”
“Hey, now. Rude. Call me Flamewar.”
“You roll with that old glitch with the scope. I’ll call you what I want. Warp, come!”
Skywarp sighs and departs from Flamewar’s side, returning to Nova Storm.
“Her name’s Shadow Striker, and she’s cool as frag. Don’t talk her down.”
“Or what, shorty?”
“I’m helm-height with your tits.” Flamewar bares her fangs, engine growling. “And I bite.”
“Well, uh…” Nova Storm grimaces at the prospect, folding her arms a bit tighter around herself. “I like it rough! So there!”
“That true, blue?”
Thundercracker clears his vents, flushed. “…Sometimes…”
The bike huffs at the Seekers, rolling bright optics aside. “Slippy’s so sweet. She said such nice things about you guys. Don’t let her down, now.”
“Who even are you, to her? You were all over Slip last night, but she never mentioned a girlfriend, after Windblade dumped her.”
“Wimbles let a good thing go. I went after it. I’m Slippy’s pal for sure, plus future wife.”
Seekers looks to each other, bewildered.
“Wife?”
“Yeah, why not?”
Nova Storm narrows her cruel optics. “You look like a bad sort. You look like trouble.”
“I’m a bad girl, yeah. I’m trouble.” Flamewar puffs out, flaring handsomely. “But she brings out the good in me. We have fun. That matters, in this scrappy world.”
“Star will never approve it.”
“You think I give a frag what that glitch thinks?”
“Why, you little–”
“Enough,” Slipstream says tiredly, trudging on over. “I’ve had quite enough.”
“Captain!”
“Slippy, you good?”
“Pffft! No.”
Concerned Seekers watch their Captain lurch over to the bike, taking her claws and kissing them.
“I love you so much, Flames.”
“Love you back. You smell boozy.”
“I had some, back at the office.” Slipstream nods airily to her Seekers. “With Star and Jetfire.”
“Primus, he’s here?”
“Sure. I told him to go to war with us. Isn’t that just awful?”
“Slippy, let’s go sit down, yeah?”
“Flames, that’s a great idea. I’m gonna marry you someday.”
With Slipstream gone, Jetfire is left alone with Starscream.
“You look splendid. Not that you need to be told. You obviously know it.”
“Do tell me. I love compliments, even the obvious sort. My ego grows.”
“Well, if you insist.” The older Seeker flushes a bit, nursing his flute of exquisite high-grade, taking the occasional careful sip to stay sober. “I have not seen one as beautiful as you, my old friend. Not in all my many millions of years.”
“Mmyes, thank you. I had a little work done. I figured that since your framework is so… distinct,” the Commander purrs flirtatiously, optics hooded and seared over, “I ought to change my own, so I may too stand out.”
“I see. Of course, you were beautiful before the changes, but now, I…” A shy look-over. “Why, I hardly recognise you.”
“You’re just as handsome as I fondly recall in my core memory files.” A flutter of those lowered shutters, soft dermas parting moistly for the slow silky sweep of the glossa’s tip over perfect dentas. “Age has hardly touched you.”
“Oh, you flatter me! I assure you, I am sagging in places and wrinkled in others!”
“Would you mind getting up for a moment and turning around, so I may see you from behind?”
Curious, Jetfire rises from his chair and turns within the office.
“Ah-ha.”
“Ah-ha?”
“Your aft is still quite the prize,” Starscream concludes with a low hum of approval.
The older Seeker giggles, returning to his seat with a dismissive flop of the wrist. “You charmer! I must watch myself, around that silver glossa of yours!”
“You needn’t be afraid of me, darling.”
“I could never fear you, my dearest friend.”
“Oh, to the Pits with this.”
“Excuse me?”
The Commander suddenly tosses back his drink with a sensual groan, slender neck cables bobbing with the swallowing mechanism.
“Star!”
“Oh, it burns deliciously, going down.” With a smack of the dermas, the emptied flute is set aside. “Finish yours and kiss me, quickly.” One long, shapely leg swings over another, lethal heel struts dangling from this perch atop the desk.
Jetfire gawks handsomely, wings automatically bursting from their sheaths and jerking upward, erect with excitement, fully distended. A truly impressive wingspan.
“Did I stutter, dear? Drink up.”
“Have mercy on me!” A nervous, yet undeniably flattered laugh. “My Spark is bound to tear an escape out my breast, it is so eager to leap into your arms!” Those wings quiver as masculine cheeks flood with more colour. “Do not forget, I am old. Let us not be so hasty, Yes?”
“No.” Starscream neatly drops from the edge of his desk, only to climb into the bigger mech’s lap. “I have waited an eternity for you.”
The old Seeker’s modesty panels seem to shrink, they feel so tight so suddenly.
The Captain takes up that flute, guiding it to his friend’s trembling dermas with a sharp, beguiling smile. “Pretty poison such as this, should never go to waste. Drink it.”
Jetfire obeys like a fool, taking grunting sips from the flute, gradually tipped back to pour the burning high-grade down his muscular throat.
Starscream’s optics are manic, watching the liquid disappear in increments. He finally withdraws the flute, stretching to set it upon his desk, before wrapping his slender arms about the other mech’s broad pauldrons.
The old Seeker gazes at the Commander, perched upon his lap like a rather expensive, cultured pleasure frame.
“I love you.”
“I love you, as well.”
“Kiss me.”
Jetfire leans in, slowly and carefully, because he is trying to be a gentlemech about this, even if a brutish part of him desires to throw Starscream over the desk to be fragged like a rutting beast in heat.
The Commander’s crazed optics begin to flutter shut, the moment he can taste the old Seeker’s recycled air, pumped hot from his handsome vents.
“Am I interrupting.”
The mechs jerk apart with a shared gasp.
Megatron is suddenly stood in the doorway, huge and far too composed not to be extremely scary.
“Oh! My love!” Starscream awkwardly dismounts the lap he had been just about to grind upon, dusting himself off like it never happened, or if it did, it is a minor inconvenience at most. “You have returned from your business, errm, earlier than I had anticipated. Wonderful! I am so happy to see you!”
“I am sure you are, my shining Star. And you have a…” Eyes like the undying embers within the deepest bowels of the Pits swivel over, narrowing. “Friend, with you.”
“You must be Megatron.” Poor Jetfire cringes whilst grinning, quickly rising to stand, offering an outstretched servo, palm flat. “Greetings, I am–”
“Jetfire,” Megatron rumbles quietly, pausing a moment to glance at that outstretches servo, before grasping it entirely rather than touching palms, thus shaking it firmly like this is a business transaction and not a greeting. “I know. Star told me all about you.”
“Indeed? Only good things, I hope! Hahaha!”
“Quite the first impression.”
“You have such a firm grip!”
“Megatron, my love, would you like a little high-grade?”
“Yes, please, Star.”
“Right away. I think I’ll pour myself another helping.” The Captain thus hurries off.
The old Seeker is relieved when the leader of the Decepticons finally releases him.
“I am glad you are here.”
“Oh, truly?”
“Yes. I have such plans in place. Star and I want you to be a part of our future we will build together.”
“Now, hold on! Before we say anything more on the matter, I have a few concerns I would like to–”
“All in due time. At ease, Jetfire. First, let me tell you about myself, so that you may know the sort of mech I am and what I strive for, coming from my Spark, and not our lovely Star’s. He is far too kind, for which he has my undying gratitude. Old mechs like us, we are unlucky in love, are we not?”
“Yes...” Jetfire wants to scoop Starscream up and carry him to safety, some place far from here. “Yes, we are.”
“Here, darling.”
“Thank you, my dearest companion.” Megatron smiles softly now, taking the tiny crystalline flute ever so carefully within a servo that could smash rock, and has.
The Commander allows the old gladiator to cup his chin within callused, scuffed digits with that same delicateness, the massive mech stooping into a loving kiss that melts all the tension between them.
“I missed you, while we were apart.”
“Not as much as I missed you. Oh, Megatron, you work too much!”
“Only for now, Star. When all has fallen into place, I will retire with you.”
“And I shall rub your aching joints and feed you little oilcakes all day long, the ones with the mineral filings you like. You will grow fat in my lap of luxury and worship me like a god.”
“I look forward to it.”
The old Seeker flushes and looks away. Perhaps he is being too hasty in his judgment. It is evident that his friend has found someone who adores him. That someone just so happens to be seriously scary, comes with a terrible reputation, and harbours a lot of enemies. Enemies who are tentative new friends, like Windblade and Bumblebee.
“You went off-world for some time,” Megatron rumbles, turning to Jetfire as if reading his mind. “You may be out of the loop, so to speak. I do not fancy myself a celebrity among the colonies, so please be patient as I properly introduce myself.”
“Tell him about the mines, my love.”
“That is a good place to start. My origin story.”
“I like this one,” Starscream stage-whispers. “Oh, my love tells such good stories. A true orator.”
“I was once a labourer, down in the Energon mine shafts.” The old gladiator looks into the distance, as if seeing that dreadful place. “It was there, in the echoing dark, I met a mech. My first friend. He was like a brother to me, more so than the others trapped down there with us. He would sustain a terrible wound, and terrified of losing what little he had to the foreman, he hid his ailment and worked just as hard as I did alongside him. I would nurture him between shifts, sharing my rations with him, bartering for little luxuries to make him more comfortable.”
The Commander gazes up at his lover with adoration and awe.
The old Seeker contemplates such a depth to this kindness, feeling quite rotten for prior misgivings, confused by how the Council and Functionists could ever vilify such a selfless, humble hero of low origins.
“He would talk to me, listen to me. He said such beautiful things and I found my Spark in agreement with his. He was wise, but fools deny the wisdom in dreams, and such a dreamer he was. He taught me to consider the unfairness of it all, for as he suffered despite my best efforts, I realised my first dream, my desired calling – I wanted to become a medic, so I could not only help him, but fix him.” Megatron blinks rapidly, clearing his vents. “He perished in a fever. I could not become a certified medic, as such esteemed schools of thought are precluded from the lowly.”
“I am truly sorry.”
“Do not be sorry. His dreams lived on in my mind, fuelling my thoughts. I began to write my thoughts down, inspired by his wisdom. Slowly, my mission took form as something more than a nebulous escape for a lonely soul. Emboldened, I began to share this part of myself – a growing consciousness of injustice, an awareness of my place in the universe that hated me – as I spoke with the others and passed scraps around bearing my written word. Inspired, they joined me in protests demanding better treatment, we formed a union to achieve our demands, but we were crushed.”
“This reminds me of the plight of my Seekers. We too sought out rights and freedoms.”
“Yes, I note the similarities as well. You were denied. In my case, it led to a revolt, in which we bravely battled our way to freedom as brothers and sisters in arms, making our escape to the ends of the earth. A young mech filled with an inward violence, I found my way in the arena, where I redirected my rage at worthy foes, fighting my way to the top, until I found the fringe of fame and fortune. There, I made other friends, who reminded me that I was not to devolve into carnage. No, I was to remember my capacity for love. I learned to love again those two dock workers and a more sophisticated mech chasing the heels of his superiors.”
“Orion Pax, Ariel, and Sentinel,” Starscream mutters quietly.
Jetfire gasps. “Those are your friends?”
“Indeed. It is tragic, that this war has come between us, when I would have them by my side, united in our love. It breaks my spirit anew all the time.”
“Megatron, forgive me, I assumed–”
“That those are merely my enemies? I forgive you for making that mistake, Sentinel has clearly tried to deny he loves me and he tries to twist Orion and Ariel to deny me as well.”
“But Windblade told me–”
“Oh, that Cityspeaker?” Starscream spits with venom. “You want nothing to do with her. She torments Slipstream with the very ghost of her, and tortured me when I would not be so weak as to relent.”
“But she showed me kindness and–”
“Lies. Manipulations. Windblade is a wicked thing, in a lovely guise. Do not be a fool, as Slipstream was. Listen to me, now. Trust in the mech who loves you the most.”
“I… I just… I feel so confused!”
“It is alright.” Megatron looks at Starscream, who nods subtly back. “You are here, now. There is still time to stand corrected. You may yet make things right.”
“I must compose myself.” Jetfire looks to the floor. “Do go on with your story.”
“Very well, then. Thank you. So, with Orion’s help, I was first published, and from there I found myself associating with some of my betters, most of whom dismissed me, but a few took an interest in my poetry and essays. I would retire from the arena to pursue politics, in an effort to finally make my dream a reality.”
“And what is your dream, exactly?”
“For all, to be one. No more divides between the rich and the poor, no more corruption of the Senate seeping into everyday lives, no more Functionist rhetoric limiting what one can do with one’s labour and thus condemning many to lower incomes and many more to death in warfare. When we strip away these social, political and economic evils, all we are, is one. ’Til all are one, I strive to save the world.”
“That… is a noble dream. But the deaths are a nightmare.”
“I only took what lives I had to, to spare the majority, to save them. For the greater good, the few evil people must perish. Of course, if they were to repent and change, I would be merciful. But be realistic, Jetfire. You know they will never give up their vices, not even to escape my righteous wrath.”
For a while, the old Seeker is silent, staring at the floor.
The Commander and his lover, the leader of the Decepticons, both wait for their guest to speak.
“I see that you come from a place of great suffering, Megatron.”
“Yes, Jetfire, I am always in such pain.”
“And I do believe your ultimate intentions are good.”
“I am glad you think so.”
“But you have no right to kill.”
“You have killed, soldier. You have led soldiers, who killed as per your orders.”
“That is different! Seekers have no will of our own! Hence why I tried to disband us, hence why I fled like a coward!”
“I am a military leader, fighting to uplift the downtrodden Decepticons who willingly serve me as soldiers, fighting for their own freedom. It is different, Jetfire, because unlike me, you served rather wicked masters and you knew it all along. You could not be persuaded by the propaganda glorying that war. In your shame, you left.”
Starscream grimaces.
Jetfire slumps in defeat. “Yes. You are right.”
“I do not ridicule you. I only ask that you give my peace a chance.”
“And is war truly the only way to achieve this peace?”
“You know it is.”
“I… I must think on these things.”
“You must be tired. Let us prepare a room for you.” Megatron wraps Starscream protectively – possessively – under a mighty arm, drawing him close, nuzzling atop his helm. “You should make yourself comfortable. Your Seekers will be delighted to see you again. You will delight in seeing new faces, eager to meet you.”
“There are little ones.”
“Yes, I have begun restoring our guild, with Megatron’s blessing.”
“Then this truly is another war.”
The supply closet is hardly a romantic setting, but it is convenient.
“Feeling any better, Slippy?” Flamewar asks gently, expression taut with pleasure whilst Slipstream suckles on the generous curves of her breastplate.
“Uh-huh.”
“Yeah, thought so. Tits always work. And I got some fine fraggin’ tits.”
“Uh-huh.”
The bike giggle-snorts, then sighs. “You wanna talk about it?”
The Seeker rumbles as claws tickle the back of her neck.
“Because I’m the girl who went after you, I’m the girl you can have. So that means I’ll listen when you speak, if you wanna say something about what you’re thinking, or feeling, or anything.”
Slipstream reluctantly pries her intake off of the ample bosom offered so generously, sitting back on the dusty floor with a heavy sigh. “I backed Starscream up. I’m so weak, I just caved in. I thought maybe I could clap back, you know? Shadow Striker tried to make me stronger, but I’m not strong at all. What are my convictions, any more? I just cannot believe in anything. I can never belong anywhere.”
“You belong with me.”
“Please, Flames, let that be true.”
“It’s our truth. You’re plenty strong, Slippy. That’s true, too. I believe in you, I believe in us.” Flamewar is slumped casually opposite, seated amidst cleaning supplies, fiery breastplate wet in suggestive places. “You’re just tired, dude.”
The Captain finds the bike’s claws. “Flames.”
“Slippy.”
“If we’re still together by the war’s end, I’ll marry you.”
“That gives me even more to fight for. You, too. When it gets hard, think of me and the kids we’ll have.”
“Oh, Flames.”
“Boss bot said you’ll be a great mentor. Me, not so much, though I’ll do my damnedest.”
“Thank you.”
The femmes settle in silence, for a while.
“I don’t want you to go back. But you have to.”
“I don’t wanna leave you. Even if I gotta.”
“I’d apply to get transferred out, but he’d never reassign me with Shadow Striker. Who knows where I’d end up? I can’t run away, because then I’d lose you, my Seekers, my friends… if Windblade and Bumblebee even consider me a friend any more.”
“Sure they do, Slippy.”
“She didn’t call me this morning. I stopped answering her calls, but she kept trying.” Slipstream lays Flamewar’s smaller servo atop her own.
“Until this morning.”
“Yeah. Maybe that means she’s giving up on me.”
“You gotta move on too, Slippy.”
“It’d be sick of me, wouldn’t it? To expect her to never give up on me, when I basically convinced her I’d given up on her, trapping her in limbo while my silence makes it seem as if I have moved on. But I haven’t gone anywhere without her.” The Captain scoffs. “I’m still where she left me.”
The bike frowns softly.
“Captain?”
“Yeah, Thunder.”
“You wanna come out? Jetfire’s with us, we’re all gonna have a cuddle pile. Just like old times. Well, minus Star, but he never really liked cuddle piles anyway.”
“In a minute. You all go ahead without me.”
Thundercracker sighs, but his heavy steps depart, leaving the door shut behind him, locked.
“Flames, I think I’m done talking about my personal scrap.”
“Cool. You wanna suck my tits some more?”
“Yes.” Slipstream squeezes Flamewar’s claws. “Primus, yes.”
Notes:
*I am shallowly referencing two sources: 'The War That Will End War' (Herbert George Wells), as well as 'The War to End All Wars' (Sabaton).
Chapter 45
Notes:
So, this took a while. I apologise for the wait. Real life is just a bit difficult. Thank you for being patient and for showing me support. I hope things are going well for you, wherever you are and whatever you are doing.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Don’t puke on me, okay?”
“I’ll try not to, mom.”
“Attaboy.”
Jetfire’s smile is warm yet sad, his arms clung to by Nova Storm and Thrust. “You are so good with them.”
“I try.” Laid out in the dim of the barracks among other lazy bodies awaiting the morning to rise again, Slipstream rubs Nacelle’s belly, which sometimes aches and renders him nauseous. He is due for repairs soon. For now, she just comforts him, his helm on her breastplate where she can dispense little kisses upon his brow.
“I never did thank you for raising your siblings, and yourself.”
“No need to thank me. It’s just what I do, I guess.”
“Perhaps not, though I ought to apologise. I was never the mentor you all deserved. I am sorry for this.”
“Thank you, but I don’t want to hear about how sorry you are.”
“That is gracious of you. And I realise there is so much to catch up on with the Sparks I knew before I left, so many new Sparks to get to know now that I have returned. Be patient.”
“Will you stay this time?” asks Thundercracker, pushing through his siblings until his cheek is pressed against Jetfire’s own, affording a nuzzle between them. “Please say you’ll stay. Don’t go again.”
“I do not ever wish to leave my Seekers again. But I do not feel this is right. None of this is what I wished for any of you. He says peace must be claimed through force, and I do not mean to say he is wrong, but you will pay the price.”
Nova Storm huffs, instantly offended. “Star’s gonna save us.”
“I am sure he intends only the best for you.”
“He’s not gonna let us die out, like you intended. That’s for damn sure.”
“Nova,” Slipstream interjects in a curt reprimand.
Nova Storm grumbles something rudely under her vents and rolls away from Jetfire, grabbing onto the next available Seeker to cuddle instead, thus lovingly crushing Avia.
“Do you really agree with him?” Jetfire murmurs to Slipstream, who winces. “You never appreciated conflict, and yet the things you said before… I wonder if you are truly convinced, or lying to me.”
“I don’t want to do this. But it’s not about what I want, or what any of us could ever want. Our wants don’t matter. Love war or hate war, we are soldiers. Our place is to fight.”
“You sound so defeated.”
“I’m not gonna dare aspire to anything higher than a Seeker’s lot. Not again. My place is here.”
“And are you happy here?”
Megatron thinks wicked thoughts until his body burns with this inward wickedness. He jostles his lover insistently, stirring the gorgeous Starscream awake.
“Mmmph.”
“Star.”
“Darling?”
“I need you.”
“Ugh. Now?”
“Now.”
“Can it not wait?”
“No.”
“Speak to me, then.” The Commander rubs his bejewelled optics with a pretty sigh, stretching his long legs. “What’s wrong?”
“I am ashamed to entertain it. I am mortified to admit it.”
“We keep no secrets. Tell me all.”
“Very well, then.” The old gladiator rests his huge helm atop his lover’s cockpit, nuzzling the dome. “I am… jealous.”
“Of Jetfire?”
“I do not like how your optics light up when you look at him. I do not like how your smile can be so bright for any other mech. He has hurt you, and yet he owns some part of you that I cannot claim, when you tell me I am yours, and you are mine.”
“And how do you think I feel about Orion?”
“I did not say I am being reasonable, Star.”
“Megatron, my dear, you are most fortunate that I love you as much as I do.”
“Of this, I am most aware. Soothe me. Make me feel safe.”
Starscream scoops the much bigger Megatron into his shapely arms, drawing gunmetal grey lacking in ornamentation yet abundant in masculine beauty against kisses and nuzzles and murmurs of affection intended to reassure, yet there is doubt between them.
“Make love to me.”
The Commander lays the gladiator down and climbs over him.
Megatron bites his derma, his hellish optics so adorably upcast, rugged features torn, ample body shivering under the servos that caress him.
“I will penetrate. You will take me in. Let me fill you with my love, and then I will lick myself out of you.”
“Yes, please.”
“But first…” Starscream drips below, depositing open kisses on the modesty panels that burn him. When he swipes his glossa across the heat, he expects his spit to sizzle. “A little foreplay. Do not open just yet.”
“But–”
“Let me enjoy you. I’ll spike you, when I’m good and ready.”
The retired gladiator arches his back strut and spreads his thighs wider, fondling himself to clumsily mimic how those slender servos seek out tender wires within gaps of his armoured framework, plucking him like an instrument. He listens to his body, hearing his buckled old vents whistle with his hastening breaths, the whirring of his cooling fans turning into a whine, the contented rumble bubbling in his throat. He could consider himself too ancient for this sort of treatment.
Modestly panels still sealed, the Commander slides his digits through the cleft of his mech’s firm, tight little aft, encircling the puckered rim of his rear port.
“Star… I am ready.”
“I can take my time.”
In reply to that, Megatron releases his valve, preventing further argument. It is plump and dark, with a bright and rather large anterior node that twitches in eager engorgement.
“So impatient,” Starscream murmurs teasingly before blowing warm air over the node, giggling at how it quivers.
“Star,” is repeated with distinct annoyance, “I am ready.”
“Alright, alright.”
The old gladiator actually mewls as the Commander drags his glossa through the folds of hot, wet mesh once, twice, thrice, then samples the taste with a satisfied smack of the glistening dermas.
“Primus, you’re not just soaked, you’re positively throbbing.” A playful little slap to the valve, with a wondrously wet sound. “My scrumptious little slag.”
Megatron huffs with irritation, grasping Starscream’s ornate helm and pulling him in face-first, then pinning him in place beneath a huge palm and betwixt huge thighs that could crush the life out of him. “Mine. Mine!”
Take that, Jetfire.
The Commander moans, muffled and wet, proceeding to devour the huge valve that smothers him, welcoming and familiar.
The gladiator rocks his tired old hips, sneering as he imagines this victory against another old mech who was foolish enough to let his love go.
Starscream worms his glossa inside, digging his olfactory sensor against the crowning node, bobbing his helm into rhythm. He presses into Megatron’s waste port with a slender digit, seeking the internal sensory network. Optics are heavily hooded and dimmed lustfully, gazing up chiselled abdominal plating, past the swell of rippling breastplate bejewelled by beads of perspired coolant, into the undying embers of the Pits that stare back.
“Star… I love you… Star… I could die!”
Music, to the Commander’s audials. He finds a raised sensor, buried up to the knuckle inside of the old gladiator’s aft, and draws circles into it whilst nuzzling upward to delicately bite the anterior node crowning this oozing valve, pinching it painfully between dentas.
So soon, and Megatron sees stars. Too late, and he sees Starscream.
The splash of lubricant from this spasmodic valve threatens to drown the buried face plate, the buck of this great pelvis threatens to break the slender neck, the tightening of this firm little aft feels like it might rip the digit off the knuckle, but the Commander withstands every abuse.
All for the gladiator’s sake. He thrusts a few more times, then collapses, wheezing, rubbing the burning solvent and tears from his rolling optics. “Star… Primus save me! I am dying… Star, you’ve killed me… I am undone!”
Starscream starts to gnaw on the swollen anterior node, tickling the sensor within his lover’s aft with deft strokes of his swallowed digit, optics twinkling.
Megatron makes another absurd sound, whimpering as he turns his helm to one side and tightens his torso. “Gnnnph… I find you… relentless, at times… Star!”
“Mmhm.”
“Ah, ah, ahhh!” The old gladiator is yanked into another overload, unable to resist squirming and bouncing himself upon the strained berth that creaks and clangs its complaints, unintentionally scraping his heel strut over the Commander’s back strut as thighs squeeze dangerously tight about the helm subdued beneath a scraping palm, leaving ugly paint transfers behind. “Yesss, I love you, oh, oh, ohhh!”
What with all this thrusting and squirting and crushing altogether, Starscream is a little relieved when he is abruptly released and shoved off, only to be lifted like he weighs nothing and thrown onto the berth with a grunt of impact. Before he can protest the rough treatment and superficial damage done to his shell, he is kissed sweatily into a stupor, their glossas entangling.
Megatron clumsily mounts his smaller lover, clambering atop and humping his sopping valve against the other’s codpiece, begging for release.
The Commander’s spike ejects with a salute to the leader of the Decepticons, already oozing and flushed. It fails to gain entry, stabbing at other smouldering parts and folding itself, until a servo grasps the shaft and steers. Pain gives way to pure bliss when penetration is finally successful and the ample valve swallows the proud spike whole, with ease.
“Star,” is ground out between meshing dermas and gnashing dentas, “tell me you are mine, and I am yours!”
“You belong to me, and I belong to you, Megatron!”
“Forever?”
“Forever, and ever!”
“I love you!”
“As I love you!” A palm slaps an aft. “Frag me harder, you wanton harlot!”
“Yesss,” Megatron purrs, rising to sit back on his haunches with both arms folded behind his helm and breastplate pushed handsomely out, bouncing himself upon Starscream’s spike. “Oh, Star, you make me feel so good!”
The Commander takes a moment to turn down his sensitivity settings so that he will last longer. He has an entire array of performance modifications listed on his personal datapad, to be installed and tested and fine-tuned to perfection, until he finally feels complete and comfortable in his body. Maybe then, he can begin to feel happiness.
The old gladiator moans into oblivion, circling his hips now and grinding heavily down. He is a very heavy mech, indeed.
Starscream dismisses a warning in his HUD when something pops in his pelvis, swallowing the yelp under a groan and disguising his wince with an arm thrown over his face.
Megatron may be ancient, but he frags like a mech half his age.
They will greet the dawn in rapturous torment.
Windblade is angelic when she is lost to the silence and stillness of a deep recharge, peaceful without the need to think cohesive thoughts, natural without her makeup, though the marks of the Titan are permanent. Her dermas are parted like the petals of a crystalline flower, only too soft to comprehend. Her slender limbs are cast about dramatically, taking up more than her fair share of this fortunately big berth.
Chromia barely dares to recycle air from her vents, in case she might disturb this vision of feminine perfection laid beside her larger, heavier body. To love someone as much as this, was never intended of anyone below the Primes. She contemplates the lack of balance between her mortal mind and immortal Spark, whilst gazing upon the Cityspeaker, who drools against the bike’s pauldron.
All this love, and yet Windblade would look elsewhere.
It could drive Chromia a little mad, if she should meditate upon the pain too much. But she is strong, tough, capable of suffering quietly, subtly. And so she shall, for her.
The morning is relentless in its advance.
Starscream must be in a good mood, or pretending quite convincingly to be in a good mood, because first thing in the morning he declares, “Take the day off, my darlings!” with jubilance, knowing the effect this will have on his idiot subordinates.
The Seekers perk at that, predictably. They love being given permission to muck about. They love mucking about even without permission, of course.
“Today is a day to rest from all that vigorous training I’m sure our good Captain is putting you through!”
Slipstream sighs at the dirty looks she gets just for doing her damn job she does not like doing or even want to do.
“And to celebrate the return of our beloved Jetfire himself! Tonight, I will arrange for a little party, of sorts, to welcome him home. You’re all invited! And by that, I mean to say you’re all expected to attend.”
The Seekers all cheer whilst Slipstream keeps her optics down and tries not to look too miserable about everything.
Jetfire is troubled, but he smiles lovingly at his delighted brood, old and new. “A party, just for me?”
“Yes, my love, just for you!”
“Why, that is far too much fanfare.”
“Nonsense!” Starscream lightly taps Jetfire’s olfactory sensor. “Your importance to us, your family, cannot be overstated. Now you are with us, as you should be, you will be celebrated accordingly!”
Slipstream cringes in the background. She knows this is a manipulative tactic and recalls how often Jetfire fell for Starscream and his persuasion all those years before. And yet it was still so easy to abandon them all in pursuit of some personal quest yet vaguely defined, perhaps never intending to return to the trauma reflected in familiar faces.
As Starscream goes on and on like this to stir the crowd to his desired effect, digging Jetfire deeper into an intendedly inescapable pit of familial love and devotion in the hopes that this predicament will work for a change like it did not before and stop him from running away again, Slipstream is reminded of Grimlock’s soirées.
“There will be good food, good drink, and good company. I, the charming host. You, our honoured guest. Right, Seekers?”
“Yeeeaaagh!”
When Slipstream was an active part of Bumblebee’s friendship circle, she attended a few such soirées. One time, Ratchet got drunk and traumatised her a little bit by describing in vivid detail the core principles of open fuel pump surgery and also helpfully informed her that fliers have rather large fuel pumps compared to other frames and a propensity for problems in that area which would lead to painful deaths, until Windblade swooped in and rescued her. Slipstream had been led away by the femme of her dreams to the laden table, where they indulged together in the cutest little oil cakes Hot Rod had made himself as party food. They watched as Bumblebee made a move to dance on the a table and fell off with a very memorable thud, but lying on the polished floor did not stop him from doing his little dance, even as Orion very patiently tried to help the groovy little mech up. The other useless friends were laughing too much. It was a good night. Why do the good nights seem so few and far between?
“Captain.”
“Commander.”
“You’ll of course be responsible for ensuring nobody misbehaves too much.”
“Yes, of course, Sir.”
“Wonderful!” Starscream claps, smiling too sweetly up at Jetfire. “Look at them, see how your presence here delights their Sparks.”
“You are too kind, old friend. I am sure this excitement is mostly due to you, for so generously giving them the day off.”
“Well, Seekers do love to play.”
Slipstream looks to the raucous Seekers and imagines how little fun she will have at this party, preoccupied as she will be by keeping the idiots in line whilst also permitting some acceptable level of fun. Yay.
“Errm, Star, actually…”
“Mmyes, love of my life, light of my life.”
“I would like to have a word with you, alone.”
“Of course, we shall talk of many things.”
“Now, please.”
“Very well, then. Come with me. Oh, and Captain, go and sit down or something, you’re far too tired-looking.”
“Yes, Commander,” Slipstream answers tiredly indeed, proceeding to do just that.
Starscream saunters off, the bigger and more typically masculine Jetfire close beside. “What is it you wish to discuss, dearest?”
“Please return my communications module to me. I feel very untrustworthy without it.”
“Of course I trust you, but this is standard procedure, darling. All new Decepticons go through a sort of transitory phase, which includes a brief communications blackout as they acclimatise to operational security standards. Some level of secrecy must be maintained, you see.”
“I understand that, but I did not say I would take this Deceptibrand, Star. I just want to let Windblade and the others know I am unharmed. I will make the call with yourself present and I will not divulge any sensitive details to anyone.”
“Ugh. What does it matter to those fools? They are not your friends, darling. We are. You must join me, it is the right thing to do, and no, you are not to contact that wench.”
“Now, I know you dislike her–”
“With good reason! She assaulted me, led one of my precious Seekers into a deep depression, and she insists on wasting her talents on a yellow horned freak who offends me with his face.”
“Perhaps, but Windblade will be worried for my safety by now. She thinks you are… capable of harming me. Even me, Star.”
“I would never harm you! I would rather die!”
“I know that, but she must be convinced. I told her I would draw out the goodness within you, because I know you, Star, I know how loving and gentle you really are, underneath the burning ambition for power and this alienating desire for control over others.”
Starscream suddenly pins Jetfire against the wall, kissing him until he whines, as if to physically shut him up. Fortunately, this is done out of sight.
The old Seeker loses himself to the bruising kiss, fumbling to grasp a hip, a pauldron, unsure whether to pull the other mech closer or push him away. The fool is left gasping when the Commander finally tears them apart, breaking the kiss that might seal fate itself.
“I never got over you.”
“Star, I–”
“Giving me command of the Seekers was the very least courtesy you could offer, before you ripped my Spark out and took it with you when you left me behind on some ridiculous personal quest for some unattainable goal you could not even clearly define to me, hence millions of years of confused suffering on my part. And do not get me started on how badly you wounded the others.”
Jetfire flinches, averting his guilty gaze.
“You want to make things right, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Then take the Deceptibrand,” Starscream purrs seductively into the bigger mech’s neck, “and be by my side as I save Seeker kind from extinction and restore our guild to glory, to right that wrong once and for all. One final war, then we can retire forever. Imagine the little ones left to play in the clouds and the elders laid out in nests of luxury we took back from the oppressors.”
“But the killings! The Senate, those Functionists, the tolls of war!”
“All necessary.”
“Seekers die in warfare!”
“They will die heroes. Statues will be erected in honour of those heroes, just like the Seekers you served with in your war. Which is a huge improvement over dying as a bunch of nobodies who went extinct for no justifiable reason when things could have been different if only a strong, wise, cunning leader were to take command and strive for survival.”
“That is so callous, Star. You are young, you have barely any idea what war is really like. I know it all too well! I was there! Do not condemn the others to fight, kill and die!”
“As Megatron explained to you, it is a noble war we Decepticons fight, for only through force can the downtrodden masses reclaim their pride, freedom and rights from the rich and powerful few who will never surrender their comforts willingly. And as I explained, darling, this includes our right as Seekers to exist as people, not property, to be recognised as more than sentient weapons left as relics of the past war you won for the benefit of your old masters so long ago. We are not so different, in some ways. I am just better than you, in others.”
The old Seeker cringes as a glossa swipes over his throat.
“This will be our final stand. It is do or die, one last time. I want you with me when I am victorious. Do not oppose me, my love. How could you? You may as well disappear again, never to return, for such an absence would be less cruel than to resist me, to reject me.” Finally, the Captain withdraws, gazing upward, shutters lowered, pretty face soft and sad. “Join me or leave Cybertron. But if you dare side with the Functionist Council, you will make an enemy of not just I, but all our Seekers past, present, and future. You will be a traitor to your own kind, for I only fight for us.”
Jetfire shivers as silky digits caress his cheek, his breast.
“So, no. I will not return your comm link until I feel you can be trusted to do the right thing for once.”
“Understood.”
“But cheer up.” Starscream smiles like a knife. “We have that party to attend, tonight. Megatron’s idea, he insisted I give you a warm welcome. He has such high hopes for you.”
“I do not know what to think of that mech.”
“He’s wonderful, because he’s mine.”
“Yes, that much I gathered.”
“Jealous?”
“I have no right to harbour resentment. I left you, and you moved on without me. I made the mistake, not him. He just capitalised upon it. I deserve this.”
“I have only loved two mechs my entire life. Both are beautiful.”
“Myself, and him.” The old Seeker clears his vents. “You like your mechs mature, apparently.”
“Guilty.” The Commander’s smile turns crooked. “If you only give each other a chance, I’m sure you’ll get along just fine. Do it for me?”
“I will try. But I do not desire the Deceptibrand. It looks evil.” Jetfire ponders this a moment, summoning the courage to look at Starscream. “I look at you, and I do not see his mark.” Well, except for the paint transfers. Those are painfully obvious, even under all this polish that shines blindingly bright under the sun.
“I don’t appreciate being lied to, or tricked.”
“I was desperate.”
“I know that. Whilst I do sympathise with you, sweetie, I’m still mad as frag at you.”
“I said I’m sorry. I meant it. I won’t deceive you again, okay? I promise.”
“Uh-huh. That’s what they all say, when I catch them lying to me. Same old story.”
“I’m not like those people who hurt you.”
Thunderblast stiffens all over, grinding her pretty jaw, clenching her fists at her curvy hips. She has clearly been very wounded, for a very long time, and this has made her somewhat fickle and vengeful. Her strength has nothing to do with trauma, because she is simply strong by her character. However, trauma has left her volatile.
“You can trust me. I need you to trust me. Without you, without the guys on this team, I’m just… me. And I’m barely anything on my own.” Flamewar rests her helm against the taller femme’s stern chassis, hugging her about the middle. “I dunno who I even am, bro, please don’t leave me behind. I love you. In my fragged-up way, I really do love you. You’re my dreamboat. Want me back, please.”
The boat feels a stabbing sensation in her Spark and huffs into the dank air, arms coming to rest around the bike’s neck, draped over her pauldrons. “That’s a very unhealthy mindset, sweetie.”
“I’ve got a very unhealthy mind. It’s always gonna set wrong.”
“You can’t use people as a crutch. Loving yourself starts with you, not external validation. Look at me, I love myself first and foremost. Everybody else just has to follow suit. If they hate me, I just tear them apart, easy.”
“I’m just tryna make things right between us. If you tear me apart, ’cause you hate me, then I’ll cry and die a little more inside.”
“Hush. I don’t hate you.”
Flamewar is so small and adorable and twisted and dangerous. She has a loud, highly modified engine that rumbles like a purr when idling and roars if she gets agitated or excitable. With her propensity for slouching rudely when she sits and sauntering silkily about when she opts to take it slow, being explosively loud at random and eerily silent for prolonged periods of time and capable of intelligent conversation with clarity that might almost fool one into thinking she is not somewhat insane, she could antagonise or arouse those of differing sentiments. She is the social refuse, the troubled outcast, the wandering recluse many would overlook and many would fetishize. Desperate to settle into companionship because she misses pieces of herself, she tries to give as much as she threatens to take, but this exchange can never truly be equal. She knows it too, and so she shuts her optics real tight and buries her face in a friend. “You don’t?”
“Of course not. Dammit,” Thunderblast mutters fondly, statuesque and cruel, a mean girl with insecurities she hides under the veneer of beauty and vanity and competence, the girlboss who craves power yet does not dare reach for it herself, instead pursuing powerful mechs and femmes to attach herself to like a parasite so she can torment them for her own pleasure. She is unfulfilled, yet she has learned to sustain herself just fine without the burden of anyone else. Here, she hesitates, hugging the smaller femme a little tighter. “I love you too, dummy.”
“Do you love me enough to forgive me?”
“Maybe, yeah.”
“Thank you, dreamboat.”
“But forgiveness and forgetfulness are not the same.”
“So, we’re all having a party later. If you wanna join us, that’d be, like, the best.”
“Hmm. Will Starscream be there?”
“Yeah, he’s our charming host!”
“I see.” Empress saunters about with a little datapad in her rugged servos and a swing to her broad hips, her bodily language heavy yet graceful, powerful yet relaxed, entirely intended to provoke a reaction. She smiles sweetly at femmes who eagerly melt as she mightily drifts past them and simply ignores the mechs who flinch away from her. Above them all, she towers overhelm, as big as Megatron himself. “I’m afraid I won’t be available.”
“Aw, really?”
“I’m sorry, my darling, I hate to disappoint. I just have too much work to do. But I’m sure you’ll manage to have fun without me.”
“Well, are you busy right now?”
“Somewhat.”
“Okay, ’cause I got the day off, so if I can help out at all, lemme know.”
“That’s nice of you to offer, dear. You’re just too kind. I shall manage on my own.”
Utterly infatuated, Nova Storm is virtually attached at the hip to her idol, hanging on the bigger femme’s arm, all but begging for Empress’ attention, whilst the subtler and smarter Skywarp follows behind them at an easygoing pace and just acts cute, all the while sneakily contemplating the avenues for an epic prank.
“Actually, will your dashing Captain be in attendance at this party?”
“Slip kinda has to go. She’s not a party girl, but she keeps the rest of us in line, so Star gets to have fun. Why?”
“Oh, no reason.” Empress smirks whilst biting her plump lower derma, tugging on it betwixt dentas that Knock Out repaired so handsomely. “On second thought, perhaps I might go, after all. Mmm.”
Nova Storm quirks an optic ridge at that.
Skywarp whistles.
“Could we, like, unpack that real quick, or-?”
The gladiator finally draws to a stop with a patient sigh, turning to regard the smaller Seekers with amusement. She enjoys the attention, true, but it is apparent to most people that she does not reciprocate anyone else’s devotion to her. “Skywarp, darling, would you do me a favour, please?”
Skywarp chirps a confirmation, enjoying a little scratch under the chin from a curled digit big enough to cradle her entire jaw.
“Silly me, I realise now that I brought the wrong datapad to work with me today, by mistake. However do I manage such things?” Empress simpers, fluttering her shutters, stooping over a bit to push out her armoured cleavage into the smaller femmes’ faces. “Why, if my helm weren’t attached to my neck, I’d probably wind up leaving that behind too! Nothing for it, I suppose. I do believe I left the correct datapad in my locker. Do be a dear and retrieve it for me, then bring it back, won’t you, pretty please? Here, take my-”
“I’ll do it!” Nova Storm bellows, snatching up the offered keycard before she turns and sprints off in the right direction, having fallen for this deception before.
Skywarp runs after her big sister with a caw of complaint, also failing to recognise the repeated ruse.
“Thank you, dears!” Empress calls sweetly after them, waving at their rapidly departing back struts. She waits for the Seekers to dart out of sight, then sighs heavily, rubbing her brows. “Oh, thank Primus, that old trick still works. Will they ever learn?” The gladiator trusts that foolish errand will keep the femmes busy for a little while, and so she moves on, unimpeded and unbothered.
“Would you ever wear formal kibble, boss bot?”
“When it’s my funeral, maybe.”
“Morbid. What about a wedding?”
Shadow Striker is bent over with a buffer, scrubbing the metallic tiles of the shower block. She chuckles, shaking her helm. “Ah, Primus.”
“I mean, I don’t care too much, so long as you’re there.” Flamewar scrubs the other end of the wash racks. “But Slippy might like it if you dress up real nice.”
“You’re actually set on this marriage thing.”
“It’s something she wants outta life. I just want her, so I’mma marry her. Doesn’t gotta happen if she changes her mind.”
“Your commitment to her is actually weirdly charming.”
“I am weirdly charming, in general.”
“Heh, yeah, you are.”
“So, formal kibble at a wedding?”
“If that wedding ever happens and I’m still alive to see it,” the old mercenary grumbles, turning to smile back at the bike from over a bowed pauldron, “I’ll turn up with polished rims and everything.”
Flamewar looks over, grinning. “You’ll look so handsome, all fancy.”
Shadow Striker winks. It is funny how she does that, with just one optic.
The hard-working femmes will gradually gravitate toward each other, to eventually meet at the middle.
“You’re the best, bot bot.”
“I know.”
“And he hasn’t reported in?”
“No, not yet.”
“He’s gone.”
“Don’t say that. I have faith in him. He’ll pull through.”
“You barely know the mech.”
“He saved my life. That says a lot about his character.”
“Well, I think it’s quite obvious his loyalties lie with his own kind. Seekers are simply built that way.”
“That’s oversimplifying things a bit.”
“Is it, really?”
“Starscream was the one who wanted me dead. If Jetfire hadn’t intervened, I probably wouldn’t be here right now. Whatever loyalty lies between them, I know which one of them is the decent mech.”
“Ah, alas. The washed-up old hero just cannot resist the damsel in distress.”
“If you ever call me a distressed damsel again, I’ll cut you down.”
“Be that as it may, Jetfire is clearly infatuated with the villain. Starscream is a horrible personality, but he does seem charismatic enough. They’ll have the old fool branded as a Decepticon in the next few days. Thankfully, we told him nothing critically important.” Sentinel huffs, shrugging his broad pauldrons. “I suppose it was worth a try. Try not to beat yourself up.”
Windblade really dislikes this mech.
“Get out.”
“Am I not welcome here?”
“Get.” Starscream points dramatically at the door. “Out.”
“Aw, c’mon, Sir!” Nova Storm endeavours to look cute. “Please let her in! We want her to stay! She’s so cool and beautiful and stuff! This is a party, good vibes only!”
“Her vibes are rancid.”
“But I like her vibes! I like them a lot!”
“Star, I see no harm in allowing Empress to join our celebration,” Megatron intones, only to flinch at the look this earns him.
“I insist she be thrown out immediately!”
Empress towers over Starscream, thus it is easy for her to entirely overlook him as he blusters and postures himself, winking at Slipstream.
The Captain giggles shyly, flopping her wrist coyly. “Stahp.”
The Commander instantly becomes shrill. “Do not seduce my idiot Seeker! Begone, foul femme!”
“Do you practice your little quips in the holomirror, dear?”
“No! I am simply that clever and creative! I come up with wordplay on the fly! It’s a gift, a talent!”
“Ah, on the fly. That’s a good one.”
Megatron simply sighs, smiling thinly over at Jetfire, who also sighs and smiles thinly back.
Ultimately, Empress departs with sneer down at Starscream and a sultry look at Slipstream, leaving Nova Storm to mourn.
“Uuugh. This party sucks.”
“The world’s gone crazy and stuff’s all terrible out there, but I thank Primus everyday because I get to come home to my hunky boyfriend and our little buddy. Hey, little buddy, that’s you!”
Ravage is held aloft and kissed lovingly all over his scowling muzzle, his lower half dangling from Hot Rod’s servos. This is progress, as some months ago, attempting such a thing may have been lethal.
“I love you! Yes, I do! Say you love me too.”
Meow, says the frowning cybercat, who endures another barrage of kisses with astonishing patience.
“Yay!”
Soundwave is a cool and collected mech, yet this domestic silliness is something he has come to really appreciate. A part of him he tries to ignore fears for their future.
“Do you know what time it is?”
Meow.
“That’s right! Group hug time!”
Hearing this and clearly understanding the words, Ravage begins to squirm, ears flattened.
“C’mere, handsome! Get in on this!”
“If you insist, beautiful.”
Ravage throws back his adorable little head and hisses at the heavens as Hot Rod and Soundwave come together to embrace each other, with the malignant cybercat lovingly cradled between them, ostensibly hating it.
Jetfire is surrounded by Seekers, who chatter excitedly over drinks and snacks, chase each other around in ridiculous games, and cuddle in corners of the room. It is his party and he just wants to cry.* He never imagined seeing so many of his kind, since so many died in that war. The past Senate shut down cold production in fear their sentient weapons might turn against them someday, and yet they could not prevent this from happening.
Starscream sashays past, a flute in servo, Megatron on his arm, conspiring with him and disguising it with intimacy. They are having a great time.
Slipstream wags her digit at Skywarp, reprimanding her for doing something naughty.
Thrust boasts to the conehead brothers, who grunt approvingly at the lies he tells.
Thundercracker is in Nova Storm’s arms, dancing with her to the music.
How can one be so surrounded, yet feel so alone, Jetfire wonders. There is a missing part in his helm where his removed communications module would be, thus he cannot call or text anyone. He is trying not to imagine the worst, but he has been told one thing only to be told something else, so many things that disagree and demand his faith.
Skywarp solemnly swears to be good for the next fifteen minutes, then swaggers off.
Slipstream shakes her helm and goes to grab a drink.
Jetfire ambles over to her.
She smiles tiredly when he bumps his helm gently against hers.
“Are you alright?”
“I should ask you that.”
“Thank you.” He sighs, accepting a cup. “I do not know what to do, or think, or feel. I seek your council, as you have your doubts about this Decepticon business, as well. You are unhappy here.”
“I’m pretty faithless. But I never believed in anything, anyway.”
“You believe in family.”
“Guess I do. I’m just here to make sure someone takes care of them.”
“Do you desire more out of your life? You are still young.”
“A wife. A little one to call our own. A nice habsuite in a nice neighbourhood with a nice garden and a nice view of the sky without tall buildings encaging everything.”
“That is a beautiful dream. I am sure that someday–”
“Please don’t try to give me false hope. I’m tired enough already. I can’t bear any more sore disappointment and crushing failure.”
“Hey.” He frowns down at her, fatherly. “You are not a failure, Slip.”
“Well.” She shrugs. “I’m not a success, Jetfire.”
He clears his vents, looping a big, strong arm around her slumped pauldrons and pulling her close against himself, kissing her brow as she instinctively submits herself, nuzzling his chin.
“I missed you.”
“I missed you, too.”
She closes her optics, drink in servo, leaning against the bosom of a mech she never thought she would ever see again.
“And I am not the only one.”
“Mm?”
“I met Windblade.”
Slipstream jerks as if woken rudely, looking sharply up at Jetfire. “Starscream didn’t mention that.”
“No, for which I am unsurprised. He rather dislikes her.”
“How is she?”
“Strong, yet sad.”
The Captain’s frown deepens. “I’m sorry to hear that. I wish she could be happy.”
She said you were her lover, but he caused you two to fall apart.”
“Yes. She made me wayward. He didn’t approve.”
The old Seeker shakes his helm. “I do not understand. I am struggling to reconcile the mech I remember, with the mech he has become. Help me, Slip. What do you think of him?”
“Do you want me to be honest, even at risk of myself?”
“I will protect you.”
“You can’t protect me. Things have changed, Jetfire. You left us and you were gone too damn long. It damaged him. The damage just grew worse over time, festering into something rotten.”
“So it truly is my doing. As I am at fault, I must find a fix for this. How can I make things right?”
“I don’t think you can.”
“Please do not say that.”
“And what are we talking so intensely about, mm?” enquires Starscream, suddenly posing beside them, a stiff smile upon his pretty face that seems so brittle, likely to shatter into cutting shards of biting words. “Nothing bad, I hope, but judging by those frowning faces of yours, my hopes may yet be dashed.” The stink of high-grade wafts off the Commander, who is clearly quite drunk. “Cheer up. It’s a party, after all.”
“We were just discussing the Seekers,” Jetfire lies quickly, straightening his back strut and keeping Slipstream securely held against him. “More specifically, I was enquiring into their training regimen.”
“Oh? Are you offering your considerable knowledge in military matters and lived experience?”
“Errm, it was more of a general enquiry into how they are managing.”
“We would be most grateful for the aid,” Megatron rumbles softly, looming in his distinctly intimidating way, offering Starscream a supportive arm. “Our sterling Captain does a fine job of it, I am sure, but you are a veteran of war. Your experience is invaluable. I have demonstrated close combat, but the differences between us are too great to compensate. For one thing, I can hardly teach flight manoeuvres.”
“Quite right, my love! Imagine the jet you would make!”
“Or perhaps a gigantic helicopter?”
“Even better!”
Slipstream looks very uncomfortable and Jetfire cringes handsomely whilst Starscream drunkenly giggles and Megatron rumbles his amusement, a little tipsy himself, cheerfully flushed.
“Jetfire, darling, why not give it a go?”
“Indeed, now that you are settled in, you can assist our Captain tomorrow.”
Jetfire opens his intake to protest, only for Starscream to insert a little morsel of something edible.
Slipstream quietly sighs. As soon as Starscream and Megatron have forgotten about her, she leaves Jetfire to his fate and quietly sneaks outside. She transforms and ascends, intending to fly a circuit or two with the excuse that she is patrolling, should anyone care to enquire. She just needs a little space. What could be more spacious, than the open air? A Seeker is most comfortable in the sky.
However, she is not alone, up here.
After thoroughly licking off the stench of mechs from the sleek black coat that is glossy with improved health, Ravage busies himself playing with his many toys.
“I just think this will only end badly for us,” Hot Rod murmurs, sober and serious, not silly and sweet.
Soundwave is reclined over the couch with his helm in his lover’s lap, sighing musically as digits caress aimless little swirls and shapes.
“This could divide us. I mean, we’ve made it work so far, but you’re a Decepticon and I’m not. What happens when Megatron sends you to, like, go out and hurt somebody?”
“I already have hurt people, as per his instructions.”
“How can you follow a guy who tells you to hurt people?”
“He has a vision. I can see it, too. It’s his methods that are questionable.”
Ravage interrupts by noisily sprinting into the lounge and coming to a dramatic stop on the synthetic carpet, a stuffed cybermouse gripped in his fearsome maw.
“Oh, no!” Hot Rod coos, instantly back in character as devoted cat dad. “It’s a cyberjaguar on the loose! Watch out!”
Soundwave dangles a servo from the edge of the couch and wiggles his digits through the fibres of the synthetic carpet, as if stirring blades of tin grass.
Ravage growls, muffled, and hops sideways at the spidery movement, spinal strut arched and tail extended. He takes a swipe at Soundwave, then turns and sprints out the room again with the most adorable little roar imaginable.
“So, like, we really gotta figure this out, babe.”
“I realise that.”
“We keep putting it off and putting it off, but if we take too long, it could end up being too late to talk about–”
Something is knocked over within the habitation suite, hitting the floor with a thud.
“I’ll go rescue the cyberjaguar,” Soundwave croons with a sigh, reluctantly sitting up and departing from the very comfy lap.
“Still nothing?”
“Still nothing. They must’ve stripped him of his comm link. It’s totally dead.”
“He’ll be okay, bestie.” Bumblebee keeps low, crouched behind cover, using his internal comms so as to remain outwardly silent as he peers in on Decepticons who are probably up to something nefarious. “He’s got a special bond with the Seekers.”
“I still don’t like it.”
“Me neither. Megatron wouldn’t risk ticking off Starscream by hurting someone close to him, though.”
“You really think the Starscream we know is even capable of closeness?”
“He’s an unforgivable piece of scrap, but yeah, Slip sure thought so and I trust her on that. Jetfire might be way outta touch by now, but he’s still their guy. Seems Starscream was in love, back then. That’s gotta count for something.”
“And then that bitter fool made room for so much hate in his Spark. He’s changed, Bee. Jetfire has no idea what today’s Starscream is capable of. Ugh! I should’ve never let him go in there alone.”
“Jetfire’s no slouch, bestie. He’s, like, an old war hero. Clearly the guy’s capable of taking care of himself.”
“Doesn’t change the fact that I’m getting wound up here, worrying about him. I wanna do something.”
“Well, please don’t do anything dangerous. That’s deep Decepticon territory, I’ve seen the guard patrols. Remember what Sentinel said.”
“It’s not safe, we’re outnumbered, tensions are already running high and I’m not as invincible as I like to pretend I am. I know, I know. You speak sense, Bee, but Jetfire saved my life. I owe him a great debt for that.”
“Your honour is one of your most beautiful traits, bestie. You’re just amazing. I don’t tell you that often enough.”
“Aw, Bee. You’re making me blush.”
“Seriously. Your commitment to doing the right thing by people is one of my favourite things about you. I love you for it.”
“Love you more.”
“I’mma stop you right there. We’re not getting into this lovey-dovey argument again, bestie. We’ll go in circles.”
Windblade sighs over the line, airborne, keeping her distance yet watchful of movement below. “Oh, Bee. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“You’ll never have to ponder that. You’re stuck with me.”
She is about to reply, when her sensors detect another incoming jet. “Scrap.”
“Bestie?”
Turbines reorient themselves within her wings to allow her to turn sharply and hover in place, ready to defend herself. That traumatising near-death incident with Starscream and the coneheads has left an impact, clearly. From this guarded position, she does not appear friendly.
Slipstream does not get too close, tilting herself in a manner that comes across as quite shy, almost evasive, neatly skirting past her ex-girlfriend in a wide arc, announcing herself from a safe distance.
“Oh, Primus!”
“What’s going on? You in trouble?”
“Uh, no, it’s okay, Bee. Though, my Spark might explode.”
“Lemme guess.” Bumblebee’s voice is edged with excitement. “You found Slip?”
“She found me. I’ll call you back, Bee. Take care of yourself ’til then. I’ll let you know how this goes.”
“Will do! Oh, and tell her I say hi and that I miss her and I love her and stuff!”
“I’ll tell her,” is Windblade’s hushed murmur, her entire framework trembling as Slipstream circles again, coaxing the Cityspeaker to follow, and so she does, trailing after the Seeker.
Bumblebee disconnects with an adorable squee. He is a delight. He is too good for this world, or the next.
“Windblade,” Slipstream booms in her big, hunky voice, yelling over the rushing air and roaring thrusters and churning turbines, evidently avoiding maintaining a connection via her comm link in case the connection is tapped into by a third-party. Starscream likes to listen in and punish.
“Slip,” Windblade calls back, feeling a delicious shudder in her wings, a lurch in her fuel tank. She accelerates and settles beside her ex-girlfriend, the tips of their wings a polite distance apart. “It’s been a while. I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you worse.”
“Why won’t you answer my calls?”
“Because I’m a toxic, selfish mess and I know you deserve better.”
“We’re still friends, aren’t we?”
“Starscream will never allow it.”
“I don’t care what he thinks. I only care what you think.”
“I think about you all the time, Windblade.”
“Then do you still think of me as a friend, Slip?”
The Seeker is deliberately drawing the Cityspeaker out of Decepticon airspace.
“Please tell me you still love me as a friend,” Windblade says with a tremor in her raised vocaliser, “like you loved me before.”
“I still love you,” Slipstream finally replies, “as I always have, like I always will. But I don’t think we can be friends any more.”
“Don’t say that.”
“It’s easier just to let each other go.”
“No, it’s not.”
“You always could tell when I’m lying,” the Seeker mutters, dipping to transform and drop onto a rooftop, landing in a crouch before rising again.
The Cityspeaker lands more lightly, with more grace and self-control, and she hits the rooftop running. “Slip!”
“Windblade!”
The Seeker turns in time to catch the Cityspeaker in a hug, tears spent between them.
“You’ve been torturing me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Sorry isn’t enough.”
“I know.”
A dainty fist beats down on a broad bosom once, twice, thrice, the blows enfeebling a little more every time.
Slipstream rests her chin atop Windblade’s helm, nuzzling her crest.
“You ignored my cries.”
“I heard every word.”
“I knocked on that door in your mind, but you wouldn’t let me in.”
“I wanted to hide.”
“That’s just so… cruel.”
The Seeker holds the Cityspeaker’s slender body close, rubbing her trembling back strut under callused servos too cumbersome to ever truly give worship to this demi-goddess in all the ways she deserves.
“You’re a glitch, Slip. You used to be so kind.”
“Yeah. I’m getting worse all the time.”
Windblade sobs into Slipstream’s chassis.
“I’ve hurt you. I’ve hurt you all over again, and again, and again.” The Seeker’s optics squeeze shut, spilling tears hot and sour like acid burning trails of torment. “I wanted to open that door and let you in, but part of me thought you’d give up eventually and you’d be better off without me, leaving me behind. But then, I’d rather die. And I don’t even have that choice. I must survive, for my Seekers. They need me.”
“And what about me? Don’t you think I need you to survive? Aren’t you surviving for me, too?”
“I need to learn to survive without you.”
The Cityspeaker jerks her helm back, glaring wetly upward. “What are you saying, Slip?”
“We can’t be lovers, or even friends, or anything. Chromia is right about me. I’m too dangerous.”
“Don’t I get a say in this?”
“What could you say against the whims of Starscream? He owns me. How dare I ever entertain independence? Shadow Striker must’ve filled my dumb helm with wishful thinking, because I’ll never be strong enough to be free.”
Windblade opens and shuts her intake a few times, wanting to argue, to beg, to scream.
Slipstream rubs the smaller femme’s slender pauldrons, trying to smile down at her. “You gave me so much joy, while you only could. I want you to know that whatever I am forced to do, whoever I am forced to become, I loved you then, I love you now, and I’ll love you always. Thank you for loving me back.”
“…So, what, that’s it?”
The Seeker sighs quietly, reluctantly nodding once. “It has to end.”
“I can’t believe you, right now.”
“I can’t hope for anything more. I can’t hope, only to end up being crushed again.”
“You ignore me, you hurt me, then you give up on me, you give up on Bee, you give up on yourself. That’s how this ends?” The Cityspeaker tenses up all over.
“Windblade, I know I let you down, and I am very sorry. I don’t want this.”
“Then don’t settle for it!”
“I need to focus on raising my Seekers. I’ve already taken too many risks of endangering others by incurring Starscream’s wrath. I’m done.”
“No.”
“I realise this is unfair to you. I know that no matter how sorry I am, no apology can never be enough to make up for–”
“Frag you.”
Slipstream is shoved back a step, wincing as she rubs her arms, hugging herself to compensate for the cold.
“I promised to save you. And you might be too traumatised to save yourself, but I will never let him damn you. Your soul is too beautiful and your happiness means too much to me.”
“Please give up on me.”
“You don’t want that.”
“I’m trying to cut you loose.”
“Why did you even approach me, if you’re just here to tell me to go away?”
“Because seeing you is something I’ve been missing so bad. I’m awful. I’m not making excuses. I should’ve just kept myself back. But maybe this could give us closure. Or something. I dunno.”
“You still want me, Slip.” Windblade looks furious. She is actually a very intimidating femme. Her anger is rare, but when roused, it is truly something terrible. “And you know something? I dumped you, but I’m still hopelessly in love with you. I’m just as selfish and stupid as you are.”
The Seeker swoons, a palm to her throbbing Spark, bosom burning with the irregular racing of her sickly fuel pump.
“But I’m no quitter, I’m no coward. I’m sick of feeling fragged-up over Starscream, or Megatron, or the Decepticons.” The Cityspeaker holds out a servo, big blue optics burning with inward strength and resolve, utterly fearless and unflinching. “Take me.”
“Windblade, I–”
“I want you.”
“Primus’ light!”
“No, I need you. Right now. I failed you before, but I will save you. Take my servo, Slip, and I’ll take you away from here, with me.”
“I… I can’t.”
“Yes, you can.”
“My Seekers–”
“I’ll find a way to save them. Jetfire’s on my side. He’ll convince Starscream to withdraw his forces from Megatron’s war, or I’ll find some other way to spare your Seekers.”
“Flamewar-”
“She’s a friend of yours. Bee and all our other friends don’t want to hurt anyone. She’ll be safe with us.”
“I want to believe you.”
“Good. That means you still have some capacity to trust me. I need to prove myself to you, which I can only do if you let me. Please. I promise you, it will be different, this time.”
“Oh, Windblade! Don’t give me hope. I’m so tired. It hurts.”
“It’s not false hope, Slip. Let me have you. Let me save you.”
Slipstream loses herself in Windblade’s optics.
The Cityspeaker smiles as the Seeker’s servo finds hers, trembling as large digits interweave within slender alternatives.
“Save me.”
Starscream is snuggled between Megatron and Jetfire, giggling drunkenly at whatever nonsense the older mechs deign to say.
“I had him in a helmlock. I squeezed until I heard a crack.”
“Crack. Tee-hee-hee!”
“His optics had shattered in their sockets. They burst their juices like tears.”
“Juices. Tee-hee-hee!”
“Ah, but enough about my battles! You must have such noble stories of warfare! Tell me a few.”
“Well, I do not generally like to recall – oh, errm.” Jetfire’s flute is refilled and he sighs, too polite to refuse, trying to take it slowly to minimise the effects on his systems. “Thank you.”
Starscream coos as Megatron, big enough to hold his own quite admirably, pours his smaller lover a generous measure whilst kissing his slender neck.
It makes Jetfire’s synthetic skin crawl.
“Hey,” Thundercracker says to Thrust, Nova Storm currently chasing Skywarp across the large room they have sequestrated for the festivities, “you see where Slip went?”
“Huh? Went?”
“Yeah, she’s gone somewhere without saying anything. She’s supposed to be yelling at them for running indoors or something.”
Thrust shrugs, dancing in place, drink in one servo, snack in the other. “I dunno! It’s not my job to keep tabs on mom or dad or whatever the kids are calling her. She’s probably feeling like she needs a breather, ’cause her social battery’s all drained.”
“Yeah, maybe. She would’ve said something before stepping out, though.”
“Maybe she did, but nobody was listening! Hahaha!”
“That’s got me thinking.”
“Uh-oh!”
“Are we kinda mean to her?”
“Yeah, so?”
“And you thought it prudent to bring the Decepticon here,” Sentinel drawls through oozing sarcasm, “to the Council chambers, where sensitive data could be gleaned by a spy and transferred to enemy intelligence, thus jeopardising our plans.”
“She’s not just a Decepticon. She’s definitely not a spy.”
“Then explain to me the symbol she is wearing, Cityspeaker.”
“I know her, Councillor. She just needs some protection, a safe place.” Windblade stands tall, pauldrons squared, optics upcast to boldly glare up at the huge mech.
“Then you should have taken her to Caminus.”
“And left her there? Alone? I’m not leaving her, and I’m not leaving Cybertron.”
“What about your friend, the blue one? Isn’t she a native Camien?”
“Her name is Chromia. She and Slipstream are, uh… not on the best terms, at the moment. But that’s largely my fault. Besides, Chromia isn’t happy with leaving me behind. She’s staying to support me.”
“Be that as it may, what you’ve done without my approval is a monumental risk. If you keep making these rash decisions, I will have to reconsider your allegiance.”
“Hey, I know this seems crazy from the outside, because when you look at Slipstream, all you see is a Decepticon Seeker. But I see her for who she is, and she’s so much more than that.”
“Maybe Slipstream could give us info on Decepticon stuff,” Ariel interjects when Sentinel is about to chastise Windblade some more. “Like operational secrets or whatever. She’s been on the inside, she’s got rank, and she’s sympathetic to our cause.”
“I concur, let us give Slipstream the opportunity to aid her friends,” adds Orion diplomatically. “Besides, it would be unjust to turn away someone in need of our protection and shelter, Sentinel.”
“You do realise the Functionists will not like this. I’ll have to weather that particular storm, as I’m weathering all the other storms, all at once, all the time.”
“And you will not do so alone.”
“We’re on the same side, old mech.”
“Ugh. Alpha Trion, what do you think?”
The most ancient among them strokes his beard with a quiet sigh. His word, it seems, will be the deciding factor here.
“What do you mean she’s gone?!”
“I mean, she’s gone!” Thundercracker points at empty space randomly. “We dunno where she went!”
“And none of you thought to try and track her down?!”
“It’s a party! We’re all kinda turnt, Sir!”
Starscream is perhaps the most intoxicated of all present, thus his tantrum ends up being unintentionally funny.
“I am still sober enough to fly. I will determine her location.”
“No! You are staying right here, where I can see you! I do not need you vanishing as well! My poor Spark could not take it!”
Jetfire is shoved onto a chair and given a random party snack to briefly occupy himself with, confused and tipsy.
“If that damned femme has abandoned me again…”
“Maybe she’s just taking a nap somewhere quiet, Sir? She gets tense at parties and she is always tired.”
“You had all better hope so! Unbelievable! Why does she always do this to me?!”
“He’s gonna be so mad, he’s gonna come after me. Oh, Primus, what have I done? Not again, not again…”
“Hey. Chill. Okay? Starscream can’t touch you here.”
“I left Jetfire!”
“I have faith in him.”
“You’re getting dragged into this with me, just like before!”
“Calm down. It won’t be like last time, I promised you that.”
Sat on the edge of a plain recharge slab, Slipstream rocks back and forth until Windblade embraces her and forces her to sit still.
“Starscream will want you dead for this! I’m freaking out! How can you be so calm?!”
“Yeah, well, he already tried to kill me and he failed, so.”
“What?!”
“I’ll tell you about that later, okay?”
“Oh, no, no, no, we are not glossing over that!”
“I’ll tell you later,” the Cityspeaker repeats firmly, but not unkindly. “Right now, I want you to finish that Energon cube so you can get a little fuel in you, then I’ll watch over you while you have some actual rest. You’re so thin, Slip, and you look like you’ve barely recharged in ages. The meds Ratchet gave you will help.”
“That’s life in the Pits, I guess.” The Seeker hiccups, trembling against the femme who holds her steady. “He tried to kill you? How could I not know about this?”
“Later, Slip.”
“I wasn’t answering your calls! You would’ve told me, if I just let you in! Frag me! So stupid! This is all my fault, always my fault!”
“Shhh.”
“Ohhh, that bastard! If I knew, I would’ve got my servos on him and-”
“Enough.”
“Who am I fooling? I’m a coward. I’m weak. I can’t protect myself, how could I ever hope to protect you, or my Seekers, or anyone?”
“Right, you keep talking smack about yourself and I’ll find some way to shut you up.”
“You know you can’t keep me here forever. He’s gonna want me back, just to spite you. He’ll track me, even without my tracker. It’s this damned Deceptibrand. It won’t come off. I’ve tried.”
“We’ll have Wheeljack and Ratchet take a look at it. They’ll figure out if they can nullify it somehow. Don’t worry about Starscream, he can’t reach you here. Too many good guys all in one place. You’re safe. Really.”
Slipstream allows Windblade to gently brush away the tears with the smooth pads of her slender thumbs.
“I’ve gotta help out, but I’ll be here most of the time to watch over you. You’ll always have someone friendly close by, even when I’m not around. All our friends, plus loads of elite guard on patrol.”
“Like the one outside my door, to keep me locked up in here, like a criminal.”
“Just a precaution, Sentinel said. It’s only for a little while. I know we can trust you, but he’s a stubborn old mech who needs a little convincing. You’ll prove him wrong. But that’s not anything for you to think about right now.”
The Seeker is coaxed to drink from the cube of Energon, which she manages to do very feebly.
“That’s it. Little sips, nice and easy.” The Cityspeaker rubs her ex-girlfriend’s broad, firm back plates, resting a chin atop her armoured pauldron. “You’re doing so good.”
“Good girl?” Slipstream croaks.
“Good girl,” Windblade murmurs.
There is a momentary pause between them.
“Mm. Hits different.”
“Okay, I’m a little curious about what that means?”
“Shadow Striker likes to call me her good girl. Turns out, I’ve got a praise kink, ’cause I like it when she does it, too. She’s older and she’s really domineering and she was my boss at the time, so it all added up. The others would tease me about it, taking turns calling me a good girl, but it never had quite the same impact. I did like it, just not as much as whenever she did it.”
“Oh-kay. Now I really am curious.”
Notes:
*A superficial reference to "It's My Party" by Lesley Gore.
Chapter 46
Notes:
Stuff has sucked lately, between work stuff and health stuff, but things are calming down in my real life. Since this story has been planned out for a long time and in considerable detail, chapters are usually easy to whip up rather quickly - it helps that I tend to have a terrible sleep schedule, so when I cannot sleep because the thoughts get too heavy, I busy my mind with turning my crazed notes into actual story content (and I gotta say, writing about gay robots sure beats staring at the ceiling whilst remembering every mistake I've ever made). Thanks for your patience and support, you're wonderful and I hope you're doing alright.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“You fit so perfectly,” Slipstream murmurs into Bumblebee, locked away within her burly hug first thing this morning.
He drags his digits over her shell, leaving streaks of paint, sniffling wetly as his whole frame buzzes.
Rebooting to find him in her berth, cuddled against her, is surely the best way to wake up.
Starscream’s initial rage gives way to sorrow which gives way to a period of silence and stillness far more disturbing than anything else.
Megatron and Jetfire both find themselves quite unable to offer any sort of comfort. Mutually useless, they end up locked outside Starscream’s office and get to talking.
“For Star’s own well-being, you must end your crusade,” the old Seeker says, watching the old gladiator pace back and forth. “Look at how the family is divided, look at what war does to destroy a good mech. Slip has fled us, the one who raised us. Is it any wonder he is so confused?”
“No. I do not intend to stop until I have cured every social and structural ill, cleansed Cybertron of the Functionist filth, and culled the unrepentant oppressors who capitalise upon the suffering of those they deem beneath themselves. Only death will stop me, and unless you intend to try and kill me, you can forget it.”
“Then you must surrender the Commander and all Seekers to me, so that I can take them away from here.”
Megatron stops pacing, turning his rugged helm to peer down at Jetfire, who is not a meagre mech himself yet feels rather small under those hellish optics. “I cannot lose Star.”
“I know that he loves you and that you love him, but so do I, and out of this love I feel for him, I cannot let you have him. I cannot walk away from this, if that broken being is what your cause will reduce him to.”
“You walked away before.”
“I know that. And now, I must make it right.”
“How arrogant of you, to assume you can mend what you broke.”
“I must try. He is obsessive, desperate for approval and starving for validation, craving power and control over those who adore him. He will get worse. He is so much worse than I remember. She was right. And it is my fault.”
“You mean to strip him of his rank, his purpose and pride. You mean to disband the Seekers and scatter them across the earth. You mean to remove him from my arms and the noble Decepticon cause, leaving him ultimately with nothing but failure and fear. And what of this great love of yours, then?”
“He will be safe.”
“He will be miserable.”
“He already is miserable. He… always has been unhappy, no matter what I tried to do,” the old Seeker confesses with wet optics upcast to behold the old gladiator’s scowl. “Giving him my old title of Captain was my final gift to Star, in the hope that it might make him feel valuable. And of course, it afforded him luxuries, a comfortable lifestyle, a secure future.”
“Future!” Megatron bellows, his rumbling cadence casting vibrations through the floor and furniture.
Jetfire winces, but stands tall.
“Eventual, inevitable extinction is your legacy! Dying out is the future you intended for him! I helped him get the cold production facilities restored, I gave him his little ones to raise into strong and noble warriors, I united his people under my sign with a beautiful dream so close to being our waking reality! He needs me and I–” The old gladiator chokes on a sob, turning his scowling face plate away. “I need him. I cannot do this alone. I cannot bear the thought. Have I not endured enough loss? Do I not already suffer?”
The old Seeker quietly approaches, laying his palm upon gunmetal grey and caressing the old scars that criss-cross ugly streaks of silver and raised welts of past pains long healed yet never diminished.
“My friends have turned against me. My Decepticons are unruly and crude and bear their own agendas despite how hard I have strived to teach. I am ancient, without a successor, with so many enemies wishing my demise and the destruction of all I have strived to achieve. And when I look at him…” Megatron clutches at his bosom, clawing at the aching Deceptibrand. “I finally feel I am not facing all, alone. Even though he often defies me and incenses me to madness, I am his, and he is mine. Where I am, he will be. Where I go, he will go with me.”
Jetfire has nothing to say to that.
“I really missed you, dude.”
“Primus, I missed you, too.”
Bumblebee buzzes happily and deposits tearful kisses everywhere he can reach as Slipstream cuddles him closely atop her lap, huddled together upon the berth, bumping her helm lovingly against his own, nuzzling the curved horns of his sensory spires, wings flared and quivering much like his raised doors.
It makes Windblade smile like an idiot.
“You wanna know something kinda weird, Slip?”
“Yes, absolutely. Tell me, Bee.”
“I missed your cologne.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. You always smelled great. When you used to nap on my berth, you’d leave your scent behind and it was super comforting to lie in it, so it’d feel like you were there for me even when you had to go.”
The Seeker rumbles as she finds one of the scout’s servos and draws it to her dermas like a gentlefemme, kissing his knuckles with adoration. “You’re so cute.”
“Oh? Am I really?” He giggles.
“Yeah, you are.” The Cityspeaker leans in, brushing her soft, smooth cheek against a yellow pauldron. “Too cute, I’d say.”
Bumblebee giggles again as Windblade suddenly nips at his shell, harmlessly dragging her pretty dentas over his sunny paint.
“Shuffle over. Make some room.”
Slipstream suddenly finds her lap occupied by not just one aft, but two. She is very pleased with this.
The scout and Cityspeaker thus sit atop the Seeker’s firm thighs, hugging each other.
“My loves,” Windblade says softly, sweetly, sincerely. “Together again.”
“And this time, it’s for good.” Bumblebee brushes a thumb over the mark of the Titan beneath a big blue optic, the angle of a cheek below smouldering red, cupping both femmes’ faces in his palms. “We’re gonna save the world, by saving each other.”
At that moment, there is a knock.
“Come in.”
The door releases and Arcee bounds into the room, arms open. “Hi, hi, hi!”
“Hey, you.” Slipstream now has three people vying for her lap, crushing her in a group hug. She does not complain. “Long time, no see.”
“Girl! You’ve been missed!”
“I missed you, too.”
Hot Rod beams as he strolls in with a box in his arms. “We brought stuff to help you settle in!”
“Aw, thank you.”
“It’s not much, but we got holocards, a datapad with games on it, reading material and other goodies.”
“Just a few things to help combat the boredom,” adds Grimlock cheerily, “since Sentinel has you confined to quarters until further notice, and this room is rather, errm… barren.”
“You guys are the best. Really, you are.”
The last one in is Ariel, who chuckles as Slipstream gasps and attempts a salute with a lapful of Arcee, Windblade and Bumblebee.
“Councillor, Sir!”
“Hey, none of that,” Ariel says, brusque yet reassuring. “Relax. Save the formalities for Sentinel. So! You settling in okay?”
“Yes, thank you,” Slipstream answers shyly, marvelling at how big the other femme is. Nice.
“Good. You need anything, lemme know, yeah?”
“I will. I really appreciate that you’ve taken me in, given me shelter and safety. If I can be of any service to you, please just tell me. I wanna help.”
“Actually, Sentinel does have something in mind.”
There is a collective chill.
“And that’s the other reason I’m here.” Ariel frowns now, sighing. “Not to alarm you or anything, but fair warning, he’s on a mission to dig into your brain module and pull out anything he can use against Megatron and Starscream. I’ve been through it before, so I know what it feels like, but Sentinel will dig deeper into you.”
Slipstream cringes.
Sureshock frowns as she discovers a group of concerned Seekers and Megatron himself stood outside Starscream’s door, which is evidently locked from the inside.
“We love you.” Jetfire has an arm around Nova Storm, their wings drooping with upset. “We are here to help you.”
“Go away,” comes a muffled wail from within. “Leave me alone. That’s what everybody does, eventually. That’s what I’m used to – abandonment.”
“Star, my patience is wearing thin.” Megatron looks miserable, but his sorrow does not appease his temper. “I will have someone sufficiently skilled tamper with the locking mechanism, or I will apply my flail to the task, if you do not open this damn door right now. Please.”
“Um, excuse me.”
Thundercracker turns.
“Down here.”
He lowers his gaze. “Oh, a Minicon.”
Sureshock frowns up at the much larger Seeker. “What’s happened here? Why is the Commander locked in his office?”
“Well, uh…”
“Slip fragged off,” Nova Storm answers bitterly. “He’s hurting.”
“Slip?”
“Slipstream. A Seeker, like us.”
“She’s hardly like us anymore, Thunder. Don’t give her too much credit,” Thrust intones, shaking his helm bitterly. “Can’t believe she did a runner on us, after everything. All that scrap about wanting to do better, be better, all lies.”
“Bet she ran off with that Windblade girl,” Nova Storm grumbles. “Sure, the glitch is cute, and charming, and kinda cool, I guess, but she’s not all that. She’s definitely not worth dumping a whole family for. Such a load of scrap.”
“The kids were calling Slip mom and dad, too.” Thundercracker rubs his neck, sighing heavily. “How’re we supposed to explain this to them? They’ll be so confused and sad about it.”
“Primus knows, Thunder. Only Primus knows.”
Sureshock looks from Thrust to Nova Storm to Thundercracker, then takes a deep breath and steps forth. “Megatron, Sir?”
He barely deigns a glance down at her. “Yes, Minicon, what is it.”
“Commander Starscream is… a friend of mine.”
“Mm. He does seem fond of your kind.”
“Can I try?”
“That is so brave of you, little one,” Jetfire intones in an unintentionally patronising way that Minicons hate, talking down to Sureshock rather than actually addressing her with due respect. “I am afraid that this matter is rather complicated and difficult. You are kind to offer, but I am sure that he will listen to me, eventually.”
“Star, I am tired of waiting. Open at once.”
“Go away.”
“Starscream.”
“Go away, I said!”
Megatron grits his jaw. “Very well, then. A specialist will take too long to obtain. I will do this my way.” He extends his forearm, retracting his servo only to expel his Energon mace. “Stand back.”
The Seekers hurriedly withdraw, save for one.
“Wait! Stop! I thought you were making an idle threat!” Jetfire exclaims, hastily stepping in front of Megatron, arms held out. “Are you insane?! You could hurt him!”
“I will only use sufficient force to–”
“Absolutely not!”
Sureshock slips past the arguing mechs, wincing as the heat that emanates from the dangling mace kisses her cheek. She presses herself against the door, her keen audial listening to a broken voice weeping from beyond. “Starscream?”
The weeping stops with a wet hiccup.
“You don’t have to see me, or speak to me.” She strokes the door, as if able to touch him through it. “Just know that I’m here for you, like you were there for me.”
Megatron grimaces. “Step away, Minicon. I will release him myself.”
“You will do no such thing!” Jetfire scowls. “Not with that weapon!”
The door suddenly unlocks, sliding aside to expose Starscream in all his beautiful wretchedness.
Sureshock unintentionally stumbles, falling against him. She is about to apologise when his servo settles over her pauldron.
“Sureshock.”
There is a collective hush.
“You may come in.”
The Minicon feels the Commander’s servo move from her pauldron, dragging along the length of her arm, finding her digits with such gentleness.
“The rest of you, begone.”
She lifts her helm and gazes up at him, her digits cradled within his larger servo.
He steps aside, bowed to her to compensate for their difference in height, yet it comes across as deferential rather than practical or patronising.
She finds herself stepping into his untidy office, her servo in his, like a gentlemech honouring a lady of noble bearing.
Megatron, Jetfire and the Seekers gawk as the door slides shut in their faces, locking again with a bloop.
“You have come to see me,” Starscream rasps wetly. “And yet I am such a wreck. Pardon me.”
“I don’t mind. I just like visiting you,” Sureshock mumbles. She is, however, deeply disturbed to see such a proud, handsome creature, someone known for cruelty yet always kind to her when cruelty is what she expects, so utterly bereft and beside himself.
“Please, sit with me a while.”
“Of course.”
“May I?”
“Please.”
Given permission, he lays his other palm upon her hip, firmly yet carefully grasping a significant portion of her circumference to easily lift her onto a chair that she would otherwise be forced to climb onto just to sit down like the bigger bodies do. He does not release her servo as he then perches himself prettily on the edge of his desk, his bejewelled optics flooded with emotion.
“Commander–”
“Starscream, my dear. We are far beyond formalities right now. I am in no state deserving of your respect, for I am a pathetic and loathsome beast, unworthy of love and loyalty.”
“That’s a fat load of scrap if I ever heard it, but I’ll use your name because it’s a beautiful name and it suits you.”
He chuckles tearfully, squeezing her little servo within his own. “I do enjoy our talks, Sureshock. I’ve always wanted to speak with you more often.”
She brushes her thumb across his elegant palm. “Me, too.”
“Stand down or be detained.”
“I’d like to see you try. I’m a lot bigger than you.”
“We have the advantage of superior training, sheer numbers, stun batons and tasers. Confrontation is not advised.”
“I’m on the fragging Council,” Ariel says through bared dentas. “I’m telling you to let her go, now.”
“Acknowledged,” grunts a senior member of the elite guard, “but with all due respect, your authority does not override Councillor Sentinel’s orders.”
“These are dumbaft orders.”
“Perhaps. But he has the utmost authority over elite guard business. Take it up with him directly, not us.”
“Oh, you bet I will,” Ariel snarls, then turns and stomps off briskly, intending to direct her wrath at the mech responsible, as confronting the guards is getting no favourable results.
“This is outrageous!” Arcee cries, unwilling to relent so easily. “Get that scrap off of her!”
“Ma’am, please step aside.”
“Hey! Stop it!” Hot Rod is shoved back into Grimlock.
“Do not interfere with official elite guard business. Move along, Sir.”
“She’s not dangerous!”
“She’s a Decepticon. They’re all dangerous.”
The friends protest against the group of burly mechs and femmes in uniform kibble and ornamental armour, assigned altogether to secure a single captive.
Slipstream herself just surrenders to it, avoiding looking at anyone else.
“Okay, all set,” an elite guard mech mutters after briefly testing the cuffs, the muzzle, the hovering platform. “Not too tight, Decepticon?”
“She has a name,” Windblade snaps. “She has rights!”
Slipstream’s wings are forcibly sheathed so that her already considerable framework takes up less space in transit. She is propped rigidly upon a platform that hovers a little above the polished floor tiles, allowing her to be easily carted about as desired. She willingly surrendered herself to this treatment and really regrets doing so.
“Seems a bit much to me, but hey, I don’t get paid to think about my orders. C’mon, let’s get a move on.”
Will the indignities ever end, she wonders, promptly being whisked off on the hovering trolley like a lifeless statue intended for relocation elsewhere, her friends following after, kept back by other guards who trail stoically behind.
Windblade’s expression indicates rather strongly that she just might murder someone, Bumblebee quickly grabbing her servo and squeezing to restrain her just in case.
“What in the Pits is this?” demands Arcee, marching after the procession. “Is this just how we do things, now?! You already stripped her of any weaponry, what’s next, you clip her wings?!”
“Listen, lady, yell all you want, but he yells louder and he pays our rent, so.”
“You can submit a complaint in writing, ma’am, but you can’t override his orders.”
“Sorry. Just doing our jobs, here.”
Slipstream sighs, almost entirely frozen in place by the debilitating influence of the stasis cuffs tuned to their maximum efficiency, binding her wrists. However, stasis cuffs do not account for the finer motor functions of one’s facial rigging, and so the lower half of her face plate is locked within a muzzle to restrict the movement of her jaw and silence her speech. At this point, she can only blink, look around, and frown.
Windblade squeezes Bumblebee’s servo once, promising him she will not murder someone for this outrage, then pries herself out of his anxious grasp and dangerously shoves her way through the elite guard, evading their attempts to grab her and shove her back.
“Cityspeaker, please.”
“Hey, now! Don’t do anything stupid!”
“Back up.”
Slipstream is evidently not numb, because she feels Windblade touch her.
The accompanying members of the elite guard exchange looks, already reaching for their weapons.
“She’s just holding her servo. What’s the harm?”
“Fine, if it gets the glitch to shuddup, let her.”
“Aw, I think its sweet.”
“I’m so sorry, Slip.”
Slipstream looks down at Windblade, brows bent painfully, making a groaning sound.
“This won’t happen again. I’ll take care of you.” The muzzle releases its grip with a pressurised hiss, then falls, followed by the stasis cuffs. Windblade managed to pilfer a keycard off of one of the elite guard in passing, and thus sets Slipstream free. “I promise.”
“Oi!”
“Stop her!”
The closest guard stumbles back when a sword is suddenly held before his neck, his companions too stunned to react when the friends all rush forward, pushing through to stand united, inspired by the sight of Stormfall an the bot who wields it.
“She will walk freely and speak her mind, as is her right as a person. Her dignity will be upheld.” Windblade offers Slipstream an arm, helping her step off of the trolley without lowering the Energon blade or losing sight of each and every petrified elite guard mech and femme, who dare not intervene any further. “Sentinel can damn well take it up with me if he has a problem with that.” She tosses the keycard at a guard, who fumbles to catch it with a squeak. “Let her be, or else.”
“...Guys, we don’t get paid nearly enough to deal with crazy glitches wagging swords around, right?”
“...Right.”
The elite guard withdraw their forces, defeated.
Windblade finally sheaths Stormfall, exhaling slowly.
“Sweet Spark, you okay?” asks Arcee gently. “You’re shaking all over. That must’ve been so scary.”
“I felt like a prisoner in my own body,” Slipstream mumbles, hiding behind her friends. “And now you’re all gonna get in trouble, because of me.”
“Then so be it,” answers Grimlock, standing tall with his servos on his hips. “Let us embrace this trouble we are soon to be in, just as we embrace each other. We will face it all together, with courage and good cheer.”
“Bring it on!”
“Easy, guys. Nobody’s getting trouble,” Hot Rod coos. “Okay, Slip? We’ll be fine.”
“He can’t keep throwing his weight around like that,” Bumblebee mutters in a rare display of actual anger. “Orion is gonna flip when he hears about this, and Ariel won’t let it slide either. Sentinel is the one getting in trouble, not us.”
“I concur. Let him have it.”
“Frag, yeah! Screw that guy!”
None of this makes Slipstream feel any better.
“I’m so sorry.”
Starscream sobs into the bend in his raised arm, squeezing Sureshock’s little servo as she consoles him, or tries to.
“Right now, the fury of everything you’re feeling, this maelstrom of all your thoughts…” She traces his inner wrist with the pads of her digits, following the fuel lines, a tender and vulnerable piece of his gorgeous anatomy that he surrenders to her. “It must feel unending. But there is healing for you. Allow yourself to mourn her, it’s natural. You don’t have to fight yourself.”
“If I am weak, I am a target! None shall want me, when I am weak! They will only wound me! This pain will never end, I will never get past it! I do not know how to mourn, I never have!”
“You aren’t weak. Nobody’s targeting you. You are wanted. And I don’t think there’s any correct way to mourn someone you’ve lost. Please don’t hold yourself to unkind standards.”
“I am sabotaging myself? Ohhh, by the Thirteen! Why, why, why?!”
Ariel is yelling at Sentinel, who is yelling back.
Slipstream realises that Starscream was right to mock the Council all this time. This is a mess of clashing egos, lacking in group cohesion and cooperation. They stand no chance against the Decepticons, not like this.
Orion is trying his best to console and apologise, so obviously mortified by association. To see such a great mech so reduced surely breaks the Spark.
Indeed, she feels sorry for him.
“It’s not your fault, big guy.” Bumblebee folds his arms, displeased. “But he’s gotta stop.”
“This will not stand,” Orion intones wearily, edged with his gentle, reluctant anger. “Slipstream, you are not a prisoner here, but a friend. I did not approve of confining you to your quarters and I will not enforce such precautionary measures, especially in light of the way you have been mistreated thus far. You are free to go where you please.”
“Thank you.”
“Forgive me for permitting Sentinel’s paranoia. I ask that you pardon him, for he is undergoing a great deal of stress and he does not realise how his actions hurt those around him.”
“You ever try a stunt like that again, and I’ll–” Ariel is cut off by Sentinel slamming his fist atop the table, disturbing his cup of hot Energon.
“Are they usually like this?”
Orion sighs, rubbing his brows, and does not answer that.
“I see.” Slipstream contemplates the floor tiles. Oh, no.
“No, it’s not me! It’s them!”
Sureshock winces as Starscream wrenches his servo away from hers, only to grab something ornamental off of his desk in both his palms and squeeze it until it is partially crushed, before he throws the ruined lump at the wall, shattering the remains.
“I deserve the world! I feel it, that cosmic pull! Destined for greatness, am I! Those fools are all jealous haters! Even those who claim to love me, hate me for my greatness!” His optics have seared over. Spittle flies from his bared dentas. He shrieks harshly enough to leave even his own audials ringing.
She wishes she were forged big and strong and confident in herself, a handsome mech capable of sweeping him off his pedes and whisking him away into the sunset. But she is just a Minicon femme, and the world is unkind to people like her.
The world has been unkind to him, too.
“Let’s just get this over with.” Thoroughly chastised, Sentinel is in quite the foul mood by the time the meeting officially starts. “Wheeljack, if you please.”
“Okie-dokie.”
The friends collectively cringe at a set of scary forceps, snapping at the air.
Slipstream recoils. “Now, hold on-”
“Wait, no, not this old gag again. Sorry!”
The friends heave a collective sigh of relief as the forceps are quickly tossed aside, then cringe again as a scary cable is presented to them instead.
“Ta-da! A cortical psychic patch.”
“I remember those cables being... smaller,” Windblade mutters, rubbing her chin in thought. “They were smaller on Caminus, I’m sure of it.”
“And you’re plugging that thing into me?” Slipstream’s voice is a little higher pitched than usual. “Look, I know I’m a big girl, but are you sure that’ll fit?”
“Well, let’s hope so.” Sentinel takes a grumpy sip from his fresh mug. “Let me exchange that question, with a question of my own.” He narrows his bright optics, flexing his prominent chin. “Do you want us to trust you?”
“Yes, of course I do!”
“Very good. Consider this procedure step one of proving yourself safe enough to keep.”
“Oh, frag off,” barks Ariel. “Leave the poor girl alone. This whole thing isn’t even necessary.”
“It is, to me. No way around it. She takes the cortical psychic patch, or she leaves.”
“You are such an afthole.”
“I’ll mediate,” Windblade interjects. “As Cityspeaker, I can project myself through the cortical psychic patch as a power source and review her memories as her guide. We’ll do it together.” She lays her servo over Slipstream’s own, stopping her from anxiously fidgeting with gentle reassurance. “It’ll be far less stressful and invasive that way. But I won’t let you force her into anything she refuses to.”
“Fine. Seeker, do you consent to the procedure?”
“I’ve been through it myself, like I told you before. I came out relatively unscathed by the experience,” Ariel says, brusque yet not unkind, her sense of humour a little roughshod. “And I didn’t have a badaft Cityspeaker guiding me through it, though I wish I had. You’ll be okay. Your data could be really helpful to us, but we can skip this whole thing if you’re not cool with it.”
Sentinel rolls his optics, sighing loudly.
Windblade squeezes those bigger digits and Slipstream smiles feebly at her.
“Okay. I’ll do it.”
“Wonderful! Wheeljack, get it ready, please.”
“Okie-dokie.”
“Before we start, though, you need to understamd I’m not important enough to know anything too serious, but I processed enough Decepticon datawork that I know a few sensitive details and I can give you loads of data on how Seekers operate, plus I know Starscream better than almost anyone, so as Megatron’s second-in-command, that’s gotta count for something. You’re welcome to all of it. Just be gentle with my mind, please. I sorta need it intact and functional.”
“Thank you for being so cooperative, Seeker. Now, then. We’ve wasted enough time, so if you’d please sit over there.”
Wheeljack smiles invitingly by a chair, stood before a terminal.
“And make sure you’re really sat back,” Ariel adds with a chuckle. “I almost fell on my face, apparently. Sorta just switched off.”
“Oh, okay,” Slipstream mumbles nervously, falling into the chair as indicated and making sure she is very firmly situated within its confines, leaning back against Wheeljack, who grins down at her.
“Comfy?”
“As comfy as I can be, considering, thank you.”
“Alrighty, then! Now, this might sting a little, so try to relax…”
“Soon as you’re under, I’ll find you in your mind-scape.” Windblade rubs Slipstream’s cheek, stooping to kiss her forehelm. “They’ll see your memories on the monitor as we review them together, but I’ll skip anything… private.” A breathy chuckle.
“Yeah. I would appreciate that.”
“Close your optics and breathe. I’m right here.”
Wheeljack waits for Slipstream to comply, then inserts the cable into the port at the back of her neck, at the base of her helm.
“Ouch.”
“Shhh.”
“Can I ask you something personal to me?”
“Of course, dear, ask away.”
“Why are you so kind to Minicons?”
“Because as a Seeker, I can empathise with you.”
Sureshock accepts a refill, although she only takes half-measures due to her diminutive size.
“Allow me to explain. You are a worker. I am a soldier. We were both constructed cold, from thawed Sparks. Our creators assigned us our bodies and bodily functions.” Starscream pours himself another measure, a rather generous portion. “I did not choose this shape, I only chose to reinvent it because Megatron granted me that luxury. But you…”
The Minicon watches the Commander’s gleaming cockpit, a glorious amber crystal, polished to perfection.
“You never had that choice. It is likely that you will never know such luxury as this. No, you are expected to put up with however society deems to treat you and ultimately dispose of you when you are unable to fulfil your expected functions.” He sneers prettily, huffing from his vents. “My Seekers would suffer a similar fate as you and your fellow Minicons. Of course I can empathise, even if my current condition sets me apart from them. I love my people and I strive to give them a future, a real future.”
“You think I’ll never have that – a real future,” she says quietly. “That’s why you’re so kind to me. You pity me.”
“I said I empathise, darling. I dislike pity on principle, it implies that one must grovel for common decency. You deserve so much better.” The Commander finds the Minicon’s servo again, playing with her dainty digits. “I will ensure that all Minicons are given the freedom to live fulfilling lives. It is why so many have joined Megatron’s Decepticon forces, for he cares about you, unlike those fools of the Functionist Council, who would condemn your kind as they condemn mine.”
“I wish the Decepticons were all as considerate.”
“Unfortunately, our ranks are comprised of many crude, uncouth louts just looking for chaos.”
“Whoa.” Slipstream somehow finds herself in a void that is at once strange, yet familiar. “This is what my mind looks like?”
“It’s an interpretation,” Windblade replies, her avatar levitating gently closer, partially translucent and alight like a beacon.
The Seeker turns to face the ghostly apparition of the Cityspeaker, whose servo is outstretched invitingly. She takes it, interweaving their digits.
“Everyone’s mind-scape looks different, but the general structure is usually more or less the same. These are your memory files. You’re a very orderly, disciplined person, so you’ve very helpfully kept your memories organised. That’ll help us a lot, trust me.”
“This place is so… dark. Cold. Is this really me?”
“Don’t think of it like that.” Windblade peers about with wide optics and a sympathetic frown. “You’re very reserved, Slip. You like your privacy. I think this reflects that.”
Slipstream sighs, gazing out into the void. “I do feel so empty, sometimes. At least there’s some data, huh?”
The darkness shimmers and ripples, memory files represented in orderly tiles, images representing the contents. This mind has diligently categorised its memories by date, time and location, with some files additionally categorised by more descriptive headings, such as the names of significant persons.
“Aw. Flames has a whole folder all to herself. And here’s Shadow Striker, Thunderblast, Demolishor, Bee…”
The Cityspeaker watches the Seeker’s digit, pointing as it sweeps across images, some of which are motionless, some of which loop brief sequences of movement, until alighting upon a folder in particular, filled with a neatly sequestrated network of tiles.
“Ah, there you are. Look.”
“You’ve got a lot of me in here,” Windblade notes playfully, squeezing the servo in her own. “I must be on your mind much of the time.”
“You know damn well I think about you a lot.”
“Maybe too much?”
“I’m in love with you,” Slipstream replies with a shy chuckle. “I doubt I can help myself.”
The Cityspeaker rubs her neck, giggling softly. “Slip, if we didn’t have an audience right now, I might do something foolish.”
The Seeker’s smile fades. “Yeah. Best stay on task. So, uh…” A gesture. “How do I navigate this thing? It’s not like it usually is, when I’m just thinking about stuff.”
“Focus on what you want to show me. I can help guide you through it, but I won’t touch anything in here without your permission.”
“Okay. So, like… this?” Slipstream concentrates, retrieving a folder, opening it, unpacking the contents for review. “Whoa!”
“Yes! Very good.” Windblade sounds genuinely proud. “You catch on quick.”
“This is kinda cool, actually.”
“It really is, yeah.”
“If thinking about stuff could always be so fun, maybe my Seekers would be encouraged to think more often. They might turn out to be a whole lot less stupid than they seem.”
“You could say that about people in general, really.”
The Seeker browses through her memories with swipes of her digit, optics wide, expression open. “I had no idea I could contain so much data.”
“You’re not actually an idiot, Slip.” This ethereal, levitating apparition of the Cityspeaker leans in closely. “Seriously. You’ve got a good brain module. It’s the self-doubt and rigid conformity that hold you back, not some question of your innate ability to think for yourself.”
Slipstream pauses, slowly turning to look at Windblade, who is optic-level with the taller femme due to floating beside her.
For a while, nothing more is said.
“…Thank you.”
“…You’re welcome.”
“I’m really glad you’re here. I’m sorry I locked you out.”
“It’s okay. I dumped you, so I imagine you didn’t want your ex in your helm, taking up space. At least, no more than I already do, since I occupy so much of your mind in memory. Kinda flattered, here.”
“Dumping me hurt a lot, but I hurt you back. There’s no excuse for that.”
“I forgive you. I just want the hurt to stop. Do you forgive me too, Slip?”
“You know me. I could never hold a grudge against you, Windblade.”
“Perhaps it’s true, what they all say about me.” Starscream swirls a digit within his flute of high-grade. “Maybe I am the problem. Those I desire to be closest to, I push the farthest away in the end. I am the common denominator in all my disastrous relationships, after all.”
“What is it you want most from people?”
“Respect. Admiration. Trust. Affection. Loyalty. Obedience. Worship. You know, normal things.”
Sureshock tilts her helm a little to the left. “There’s something you’re not naming.”
“Love,” he says quietly, in a beguiling rasp that makes her circuits burn. “I just want to be loved, and to feel loved, above all else, above all others. But nothing anyone ever does can satisfy me, with their paltry offerings, their conditional love. It’s never enough.”
“What kind of love are you seeking?”
“All of it. I crave epic romance, intimate friendship, devoted family, bodily lust.”
“And what love are you willing to give in return?”
He sucks on his digit noisily, licking off the high grade as his soft dermas wrap around the knuckle.
Her swelling spike wants to burst from her codpiece, humid valve clenching on nothing. She folds one leg over the other and clears her vents, tearing her gaze away from him.
“I’m not sure.”
“Then you must realise that your expectations are–”
With a thud, he falls back to recline dramatically over his messy desk, pouring the contents of his crystalline flute down his pretty throat with whorish gulps.
She breaks out in a cold sweat.
The procedure is to be repeated tomorrow, just in case there is more data of use to be gleaned from reviewed memory files. But for now, rest is needed to recover.
“You girls look tired,” Bumblebee remarks gently, peering over his holocards at Windblade and Slipstream, who sit slumped with him around a shabby little table procured for the sake of this barren room having some sort of furniture.
“They would be, after all of that mind-scape stuff. Memory after memory…” Arcee sits on Grimlock’s lap whilst he plays his holocards around her obstructing frame. “It took hours! I was getting tired just watching you two going at it.”
“I’m just glad I didn’t end up showing you guys anything too private,” Slipstream mumbles, before burying a yawn into her fist. “Like a memory of myself taking a shower, or something.”
“Do you sing in the shower?” asks Arcee playfully, giving Slipstream a light nudge with the tip of a heeled pede, garnering a giggle. “That would be super embarrassing.” Gently teasing her, knowing that she can be shy and timid with people, even friends.
A smirk. “Perhaps.”
A wink. “Ah, gotcha.”
“Hey, so, when you were in the, like, cyberverse or whatever–”
“Cyberverse? That’s what you’re calling it, Rod?”
“Yeah, pretty catchy, right?”
“Actually, yeah, that is pretty catchy.”
“Anyway, when you guys were in the cyberverse,” Hot Rod continues, lounging on the berth with a holocomic, “and you were recalling memory files, were you, like, actually in the memories? Like, did you think or feel whatever you felt back then, Slip, and could you think and feel it too, Windblade? Or were you guys just observing those memories like a time-traveller? It was hard to tell from the monitor.”
“Bit of both. I was in the moment again, thinking and feeling everything afresh, but I was also aware that those times had passed, so I couldn’t really alter events even if I wanted to,” Slipstream answers slowly, carefully. “I’ve never had my memories tampered with beyond data transfers from the Seekers who came before me, but whatever my ancestors experienced back then, I experience too, through their memories that were given to me.”
“That’s kinda cool, actually. But also, don’t you get confused between their memories, and your own?”
“I keep my memories very carefully organised to avoid going crazy. It’s happened to Seekers before. But in my dreams, sometimes I’m someone else, someone long gone by now.”
“Wow. What about you?”
“I was just a tourist, as much as the tour guide,” Windblade says quietly, laying down a card upon the table so the next friend can take their turn. “I could only watch and listen, inferring whatever memories might be worth reviewing for the sake of making Sentinel happy, but I’m no mind-reader.”
“I dunno, reviewing memories seems a lot like reading someone’s mind to me.”
“It’s the closest thing to it I can do. There’s still some distance between my consciousness and the mind I’m occupying, though.”
“What about when you’re in a Titan’s mind?”
“That’s a little different. Titans can resist me, reject me, or even consume me. I’m just a vessel for their voices, so I must be able to hear their thoughts and translate those thoughts into, well, whatever anyone on the outside could understand. Titans can be quite… elusive, for such magnificent beings. Truly above the comprehension of most people.”
“You’re so neat.”
Windblade chuckles, winking at Hot Rod.
“Have Cityspeakers ever gone into counselling, or perhaps therapy?” enquires Grimlock. “Your transferable skills would be considerable.”
“Not usually. We’re pretty rare, so we tend to be exclusive.”
“Understandable. Most would assume you don’t exist.”
“I’m supposed to keep my Cityspeaking a secret, after all.”
“Ah, yes, of course.”
“I ruined that secrecy pretty quick, huh,” Bumblebee quips, giggling as Windblade ruffles his helm.
“You must’ve really trusted each other from the get-go.” Hot Rod rolls onto his belly, chin in his servos and legs bent at the knees, kicking his heels girlishly back and forth in the sterile air as he smiles over his holocomic, propped against the pillow to allow for easier perusal. “That’s so sweet.”
“Look at my face, Rod, of course she trusted me right away. I’ve got the face of an angel.”
“Yeah, Bee, you’re cute enough to look innocent, but looks aren’t everything. We all know what a little devil you can be.”
“Whaaat? Me, up to mischief? Never!”
“You’ve got the horns to prove it, little guy.”
The friends laugh.
“I missed you.” Slipstream inhales deeply, gazing at her friends with affection. “I missed this, being with you.”
“Aw, Slip.” Arcee makes a soft sound, Grimlock smiling warmly against her cheek. “Sweet Spark.”
“I love you. Thank you, all of you, for giving me a home.”
Windblade blinks against the urge to cry, swallowing thickly.
“You mean this shabby place?” jokes Bumblebee, indicating the barren little room.
“We’ll make it nice,” answers Hot Rod with a handsome grin. “Bring in some holoposters for these boring walls, rig up some twinkly lights so it’ll feel like there’s an open night sky instead of a low ceiling, lay down a nice rug so the floor’s not cold…”
Just then, there is a knock.
“Come in.”
Optimus releases the door and strides inside with a fatherly gentleness to his expression, his movements, his voice. “Hello, everyone.”
“Hi, big guy.”
Ariel pokes her helm into the room, sensory spires twitching, “And big girl.” She grins, which makes her look so much younger. “Just checking in. Everybody alright?”
“All good.”
“Just a little tired.”
“Yeah, our girls are wiped, after all of that.”
“I can only imagine. We of the Council are here to offer whatever comfort and aid that we can.” Orion’s optics are soft and kind, indicating that the immense strength of his body is to afford protection to those who cannot defend themselves. “Do not fear to ask for anything.”
“Seriously, we’re here to help.” Ariel leans against the open doorway, her own immense bulk filling the space with masculine confidence and an easygoing charm. “Don’t be shy, okay.” Her brusque mannerisms and combative temperament are not always the most sociably acceptable or even easy to work with, but she is a very kind person at her core, if only given a chance to prove it. “We got you.”
Slipstream appreciates the elders for trying to make her feel less like a harboured fugitive and more like a homed friend. “You’ve done plenty for me already. I’m very comfortable and all my needs are met. Thank you for doing all of this, for me.”
“You’re welcome.”
“And you are not in our debt.”
“But we are gonna put you to work, now you aren’t confined to this dingy little room. Sorry about Sentinel being a bolt-head before. I love the mech, but he does have his helm shoved pretty deep in himself, eh, Orion.”
Windblade giggles, fluttering her shutters up at Ariel, who flushes and shyly smiles down at the floor in response.
Arcee rolls her optics, Grimlock shakes his helm with a weary sigh and Hot Rod smiles crookedly over his holocomic. They know the score.
Slipstream, however, realises that she is not the biggest, most physically impressive femme in the room right now. She is not the jealous type, but she gives Bumblebee a sidelong look and he pats her fondly on the knee from under the table, empathetic.
“Huh. I guess he really does like Minicons,” Thrust mutters over a cup of Energon, watching Cube on one of the holoscreens mounted to the wall. “She shut him right up. They’ve been alone together in that office for a couple hours now, right?”
“Yeah. It’s cute,” Thundercracker says with a smile. “Shows his soft side.”
“A little weird, but yeah, it’s pretty harmless,” Nova Storm replies, cuddled against her boyfriend within the booth. “If having the Minicon there makes him feel better, then that’s cool, I guess.”
Skywarp is silent, slumped forward in her seat with her chin in her cupped servos, frowning vaguely at nothing. She is really bummed out over Slipstream. It is a betrayal, after all.
Over at the bar, Maccadam sets two fresh cups down. “Enjoy, and good luck.”
“Thanks, Mac.” Strongarm takes one with a tired, unhappy smile. “Would be nice, finally getting my luck to change.”
He just winks at her.
She turns away trudges over to Roulette. “Hey, bounty hunter.”
“Yes, officer.”
“Here.”
Roulette does not expect the free drink, but she does not refuse it. “Thanks.”
“You mind?”
“Go ahead.”
Strongarm sits beside her, sighing. “You don’t usually linger in one place this long. I would’ve thought you’d be chasing some bounty on the other side of Cybertron by now.”
“I have unfinished business in Iacon City.”
“Yeah, you never did manage to catch Swindle.”
“Neither did you.”
“Hey, I’m not assigning blame here. In all my millions of years of service, that one’s proved a wily little fragger of note.”
“Mm.”
“He’s definitely skipped by now. Investigation’s gone cold, we’re digging up dead ends. Aren’t you still gonna go after him? You’ll lose him if you take too long.”
“Don’t tell me how to do my job, and I won’t criticise how you do yours.”
“Easy, now.” Strongarm’s mighty biceps weigh heavily enough that the counter creaks when she folds her arms before herself, leaning on her elbows with a masculine huff. “This animosity between the police and bounty hunters is dumb as scrap. I thought you were better than that.”
Roulette keeps her visor down to hide her optics behind the crystalline shell and data readouts, but she does turn her helm to look at the femme seated beside her.
“My girl left me, I have no friends left because I’m no fun any more, and my therapist fired me since I’ve made no progress over the last few appointments, so I’m just talking to you for the sake of having someone to talk to who isn’t a fellow officer glitching about their spouse through an intake full of chewed wheel-nut,” the police officer admits quietly. “Sorry. I’ll shuddup, now.”
“Not much of a talker, myself.”
“Gee, I really hadn’t noticed.”
The bounty hunter chuckles softly.
Strongarm sighs again, then grunts when she feels Roulette shift a little closer.
“You have huge biceps.”
“It’s in my name.”
“May I have a feel?”
The officer looks sidelong at the bounty hunter, who is unsmiling, utterly serious.
“Every time we’ve met, I’ve resisted asking you that.”
“What makes tonight any different?”
“You bought me a drink.”
Strongarm considers this briefly, then pushes her cup aside and props her arm so that the elbow rests upon the counter and her fist is aimed at the ceiling, exposing the tight, swollen casing of her upper arm, bulging with the muscular fibres of her inner protoform. “Go ahead.”
Roulette proceeds to grope the proffered arm, her large digits grasping at the bicep that has her so intrigued. “Flex,” she commands in her gruff, no-nonsense undertone.
The officer rolls her optics. “Really? Aren’t we too old for this?”
“I’m intrigued,” answers the bounty hunter. “And I’m far older than you are.”
“Yeah? You don’t look your age.”
“Thanks. Flex for me, please.”
Strongarm cannot resist a smirk as she tightens the cords of her protoform, distending the shell of her bicep as her strength swells within.
Roulette hums her approval, fondling the burly limb. “Does this not impress femmes?”
“If it does, I don’t notice. Are you impressed?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Do you… wanna do something about it?”
Hours later, the other friends have left, leaving Windblade alone with Slipstream.
“So, I was just, um…”
The Seeker keeps fidgeting with the port behind her neck, at the base of her helm. It is still hot to the touch, tender.
“I was wondering if…”
She looks over at the Cityspeaker, who is idly shuffling through the deck of holocards.
“Primus, how do I even ask you this?”
“Just ask.”
“Right. Are we okay?”
“I’m okay with you. Are you okay with me?”
“Yeah. So, that means we’re okay. Right?”
“Right.”
“Okay. Great.”
An awkward pause follows.
“Please tell me you’re also thinking that maybe things could be different between us, and this isn’t just me being unrealistic. I only just got you back, so I’m trying not to pressure you with my greed, but…”
“You want to get back together.”
“I’d like that, if you’d like that.”
“I would. But...” Slipstream flushes, rubbing the back of her neck, digits probing the hot port. “Am I any good for you?”
“Of course you are.”
“You dumped me for your own health. I don’t blame you, because yeah, you’re right, I am toxic, I’ve changed and become toxic. So maybe we shouldn’t–”
“I’ve saved you, Slip.”
“And that undoes it all?”
“No. But it gives us a future together.”
“Then it really was as hopeless as it felt, without you.”
“I tried to be with you.”
“You tried really hard. I made it impossible, eventually.”
“You were only toxic due to your circumstances, Slip. Your environment changed you. But you’re not trapped with Starscream any more, you don’t have to do what Shadow Striker tells you to do, and you answer to nobody but yourself, now. You made the wrong choices back then, but you can still make the right ones going forward. You’re free.”
“Still. I’m not good like I want to be.”
“Hey.” Windblade sets down the holocards and rises from her chair, ambling over to sit on the berth, beside her ex-girlfriend. “Listen to me carefully, okay.”
The Seeker sighs heavily, leaning in to bump her pauldron affectionately against the Cityspeaker, who echoes the gesture. “Okay.”
“I never meant to make you feel bad about yourself. I’m sorry if I ever did, because you’re not bad, Slip, and you don’t deserve to feel bad. You are a good person. You only did bad things because of a bad environment and bad people who exerted influence over you. You know the difference between right and wrong. You’re capable of choosing to do good. I know you want to, because who you are, is fundamentally a good person.”
“Starscream wasn’t always bad.”
“Jetfire told me the same thing.”
“Shadow Striker’s not bad. Not really.”
“Bumblebee told me that, too. Slip?”
“Windblade.”
“Can I ask you to give me another chance?”
“Sure. You’ve given me another chance.”
“You don’t owe me because of that.”
“Because we’re still friends.”
Windblade opens her arms.
Slipstream falls into them, making herself smaller just to fit, contorted to nuzzle under a pretty chin.
“I’m sorry I dumped you like that.”
“You did the right thing for yourself, for Bee, at the time. I’m sorry I killed in your name, thinking I needed to do these evil things to survive, so I be strong enough to endure and be with you again, at the end. All it led me to were the Pits.”
“You’re here, with me, now.”
“Only by your grace.”
For a while, nobody says anything.
“You don’t wanna wait?”
“I am rather rushing things.”
The Seeker looks up. “A bit, yeah.”
The Cityspeaker gazes down. “Wanna go slow?”
“That’d be the smart thing to do.”
“True. But I would rather kiss you.”
Slipstream chews her plump lower derma in that damnably appealing way of hers.
Windblade rumbles lowly, big blue optics instantly caught by that familiar old gesture. “Damn.”
The Seeker shivers a slender digits contemplate the glossy, dark softness of her intake.
“You’re so handsome.” The Cityspeaker says this, even though see sees the stress and malnutrition and despair. “It drives me wild. When I first saw you at the bar, looking so handsome all alone, I knew I had to shoot my shot or I’d be stuck thinking about what could’ve been.”
“You ruined my life that night.”
“Should I apologise?”
“Maybe.”
“Sorry, but I’m not sorry.”
“That’s okay, too.”
“Do you regret me?”
“I sometimes wish we’d never met,” Slipstream murmurs, then closes the distance with a kiss to the painted cheek. “Because meeting you led me to feeling the closest thing to happiness I’ve ever felt. I would’ve been better off not knowing such a gain, because losing you was worse than death.”
Windblade purrs, turning her helm and answering with a kiss of her own, yet although she intends to touch her dermas to her her ex-girlfriend’s, she is met instead with the sharpness of that strong jawline as she is denied. “Slip?”
“It’s a slow sort of dying. I’ve been just… dying, all the time.”
“Let me breathe some life back into you.”
“Maybe not now, but someday soon, that could be nice.”
“I’ll wait for you.”
“Don’t wait too long.”
The Cityspeaker watches the Seeker lie down with the tectonic shifting of armoured plates on a plain berth.
Slipstream settles on her back plates, palms upon her bosom, digits interlinked.
“I can wait,” Windblade tells her. “If you’d prefer that we just stay friends forever, then that’s okay too. I’m glad just to have you home with me, at last.”
The Seeker keeps her gaze averted, nodding once.
The Cityspeaker droops, disappointed. “I feel like I should do something, or say something, to fix all this.”
“It’s enough that you give me your time and attention. Thank you for listening to me.”
“You’re welcome.”
Another pause.
“Can I join you?”
“Sure. Not much room, I’m afraid.”
“That’s okay.” Windblade thus reclines closely alongside, sharing the cramped recharge slab. She wants for so much more. She resents herself more than anyone else.
Slipstream stares at the ceiling. “I like Rod’s idea about the twinkly lights and the night sky.”
“We fliers like our skyscapes.”
“We weren’t meant for boxes.”
Their servos find each other, digits interweaving familiarly.
Notes:
The Strongarm I write here is intended to be older and more worn down, dutiful rather than enthusiastic about her job, as well as a bit more receptive to Sideswipe's philosophy and worldview.
Chapter 47
Notes:
I like characters who break the typical good guy/bad guy dynamics - Slipstream is unquestionably a victim, but she's about to do something really shitty whilst still technically doing the right thing, and although Sentinel is antagonistic, he's not a villain in this story, and although Shadow Striker is cool and sexy, she will be a bad guy until she becomes a good guy through character development and personal growth.
Possible trigger warnings: rough sex, breeding kink, the use of explosive ordinance as a form of torture intended to cause death of a captive and others.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Slipstream is in enemy custody.”
Shadow Striker’s singular optic widens. “Do you know her status?”
“She’s alive.”
“We staging a rescue operation?”
“I doubt she wants rescuing,” Megatron rumbles back, his tired old brows especially creased. “Focus on yourself and your team. Your operation is likely compromised. You know what to do.”
“Understood.” The mercenary’s expression darkens.
The Seeker got out. Finally. She could be free. This is good news. One of the better outcomes.
And yet there is no cause for celebration, for burning within those hellish optics, there is only wrath.
“And the prisoner?”
“Let Flamewar have her way with him.” The gladiator waves his huge servo dismissively, huffing. “Her creative flair will be a lovely send-off to Sentinel’s raiding party. Let her do as much damage to the place as she likes.”
“She’ll be delighted, I’m sure.”
“Very good. Oh, and Shadow Striker, one last thing.”
“Yes?”
“I realise you run a tight ship. The reports tell me you are a fair leader and fondly regarded by your subordinates. The closeness between you and your team, is a strength to the Decepticons. However, this can also prove a weakness. I strongly advise that you discard Slipstream from your mind. Her prior treachery was forgiven, but this proves that she cannot be trusted. She is an obstacle at best, a hazard to our cause at worst.” Megatron shakes his helm wearily. “Such a waste, what a shame. You are to treat her as one of them, despite the Deceptibrand she wears. That extends to the rest of your team. Do not allow loyalty and affection toward those undeserving of it, to impede your work or deny you your purpose. You say you are in this to be paid, yet such glory awaits those who do as I will them to. To deny me is to be discarded, perhaps destroyed. I do not wish for you or your team to occupy Slipstream’s precarious position as well. This is not so much a threat, as a stern reminder of your place. You have done good work, let this continue.”
Shadow Striker grimaces.
Slipstream revives with a low groan, exhausted even with the help of sedation. She stretches out one leg, the other apparently ensnared between Windblade’s thighs and ankles, thus immobilised.
“Good morning.” The Cityspeaker has been awake a little longer, laid lower down in berth with her unadorned helm comfortably at rest upon the breadth of her ex-girlfriend’s firm, flat breastplate, a dainty servo drawing aimless shapes ever so lightly over ribbed abdominal plating.
“G’morning.” Ruby optics flutter open, initially dimmed from so recently emerging from recharge, then brightening as the lenses adjust. The Seeker blinks a few times, then swivels her tired gaze over to peer fondly down. “Oh, look at you.”
“Mm. No makeup, in dire need of a shower, and I’m pretty sure I drooled on you in my sleep…” Windblade’s big blue optics are adorably upcast, brows gently bent with amusement. “Tch. Yeah, I bet I look like a real treat, right now.”
“You’re a vision,” Slipstream murmurs, voice especially husky from sleep. “I like seeing you, no matter what state you’re in.” A large digit brushes a cheek, tracing the Titan’s mark. “You’re beautiful, just like this. You’re beautiful, always.”
“Aw, Slip.” The Cityspeaker sighs, nuzzling against that digit, then turning to kiss the circular aperture that seals the Seeker’s missile payload. “You’re sweet.” She taps that spot with a soft grin. “Titty rocket.”
Slipstream’s smile turns wonky as she ruffles Windblade’s helm, ornate crest detached for comfort. “C’mon, lemme up. I need to put a face on.”
“Excuse me, I’m the one who needs a face. You look perfect. Stay in berth with me”
“No, you look perfect. Feel free to lounge in berth, I’ll get ready in the meantime.”
“But I want you lounging in berth with me,” the Cityspeaker protests, adopting a rare whiny undertone she would usually never resort to. “Sliiip.” She pulls on the Seeker’s arm as she sits up, hugging her leg between shapely thighs more tightly. “Stay. Cuddle.”
With a patient sigh, Slipstream kisses Windblade’s forehelm, then gently but firmly brushes her off, setting her ever so carefully upon her back strut with a little pinch to the pauldron.
“You don’t have to rush.” The Cityspeaker thus reclines back, inviting with her gaze, her bodily language beckoning. “It’s still early. You can afford a couple more hours with me.”
“I’m a miliary femme. Rising early is just what I’m used to. I’ll get anxious if I lie about too long.” This is not really the truth, however. The truth, is that the Seeker’s spike is painfully hard within its chute and her valve is wet enough that she expects to hear lubricant sloshing about as she swings one leg over the edge of the berth, gently grappling the Cityspeaker’s thighs apart to free the other from betwixt their warm, firm embrace with some reluctance.
“Hey, Slip.”
“Windblade.”
“Remember how you used to sneak out the barracks at odd hours just to spend some nights with me, then you’d sneak your way back to your quarters early those mornings after, and you got away with it because Starscream always slept in?”
“I remember.” Patting Windblade’s thigh fondly, Slipstream rises and trudges over to the holomirror, scratching her lower back strut. “Had a few close calls.”
The Cityspeaker is left to languish in the berth, by herself, watching the Seeker attend to her makeup. “Will you help me put my face on?”
“Sure.”
“Thank you.”
Slipstream puckers her dermas and applies the ink she likes, dark and oily, intended to withstand prolonged exposure for convenience, with only occasional touch-ups needed to keep the gloss. Maybe being forced to stare at herself up close like this with intent focus will kill her erection and dry herself up.
“Slip, listen.” Windblade heaves a great sigh. “I know we agreed to take things slow. I want to honour your wishes, but for the sake of getting something immediately, uh, urgent, off my chest…”
The Seeker tilts her helm a little to one side to look past her own reflection at the berth behind herself, the Cityspeaker laid upon it.
“I’ve got a wicked hard-on for you right now.”
Hearing this, Slipstream shudders and very nearly ruins her carefully applied ink. Satisfied, she smacks her dermas and replaces the little tube in her kit, then gives herself a miserable look in the holomirror whilst watching Windblade chew her derma as her reflection sits up slowly, slides carefully off the berth, and quietly approaches from behind.
“You know what I’m like,” the Cityspeaker murmurs, pressing her breasts against the Seeker’s broad back plates, slender arms coming to rest upon narrow hips, digits interweaving at the lower belly, barely above the codpiece. “I’m the worst.”
“Yeah. And the best.”
“Sometimes, I frustrate myself. I’m sorry I’m like this. I can’t be anyone else. My libido is part of who I am.”
“I love you.” Slipstream turns to gaze over her pauldron, looking down upon Windblade with maternal patience. “I’ve never complained or criticised.”
“Tell me to leave right now and go take a cold shower, and I’ll do it. But could you hear me out, first? No pressure, just… I’ve been thinking about us, about a solution that might really help not just me and my raging hard-on, but yours too.”
“You realise I am, in fact, wickedly hard for you, right now.”
“Then let me get you off. We can make love as friends. We can be lovers and friends. When you’re ready to be with me as my girlfriend, and I feel ready too, then we’ll cross that bridge together. But right now… our bodies ache.”
“I never imagined having casual interfacing with you. I never thought I’d get the chance.”
“You can, if you want to. Do you?”
“Primus, I do.”
“Can I touch you, there?”
“Yes. Please.”
“Okay.”
The Seeker sucks in air shakily as the Cityspeaker touches her modesty panels for the very first time. “Ohhh!”
“Is that good?”
“Y-yeah! Really good!”
Windblade buries her face plate in Slipstream’s back strut and inhales deeply. “Frag, your scent…” Delicate digits tremble with excitement as they trace the bigger femme’s codpiece blindly yet tactfully, hot and throbbing to the touch, taut with arousal. “You’re sending my body signals to breed you.”
Whinging with desire, the Seeker rocks her hips instinctively against the servos that grope her modesty panels a little more roughly, now, with increasing confidence.
“You can touch me there, too. If it still feels right, then open up for me, and I’ll take it from there. You like domineering femmes, don’t you, good girl?”
“Gahhh!”
“Easy, easy, now. Don’t overload so soon, not with your panels still shut to me, my love. I want to see it, taste it.” The Cityspeaker rumbles throatily, rolling herself against her ex-girlfriend’s aft, thrusting bluntly into the cleft without releasing spike or valve, yet. “I want it all over my face, my tits. Can you do that for me? Would that be okay, Slip?”
Slipstream nods dumbly, slamming both palms on the wall and bucking forward into Windblade’s palms, in turn grinding aft-first back against her codpiece with every alternative snap of the hips, back and forth, stimulating them both at once.
“Such a good girl.”
“Dammit, that’s so huhhh-hot!”
“Throw it back for me, yeah, that’s right.”
“Want you in me, please!”
“Where do you want this spike?”
“My face,” the Seeker croons in her handsome voice. “A-and my valve! You can take my aft too, if you want to! Please, I need you, I’ve hurt so bad for so long…” She sounds close to tears.
The Cityspeaker takes initiative as promised, using her astonishing strength to pull her bigger lover off of the wall and away from the holomirror of anguished ecstasy, drawing her over to the berth and easily pushing her over it. “Keep that aft up for me, Slip, okay?”
“Oh! Okay!” On her palms and knees, Slipstream pants eagerly, turning her neck until it creaks to watch Windblade move to situate herself close behind. “Um, before we start, please, just one more thing.”
“Anything, my love.”
“Be gentle with me at the start, then…”
“…Then?” is breathed out over the aft.
“Then,” the Seeker groans as a glossa slides through the cleft, swiping playfully over her puckered waste port, “I w-want you to pound me so hard, I won’t be able to walk for a while after you’re done with me, done using my body to give yours pleasure.”
The Cityspeaker huffs as she proceeds to grab herself by the breast, squeezing the swell of glossy red metal, lapping eagerly at the Seeker’s afthole.
“I want to feel it – every day you’ve missed me, every opportunity you’ve pleasured yourself thinking about me, every loving thought. Please?” Slipstream whimpers when Windblade resorts to biting down. “Hnnngh!”
“Solus Prime,” the Cityspeaker growls upon withdrawing from that tight, handsome little aft. “Slip, that’s possibly the hottest thing you could’ve said to me, just now, and before we start, just know that my reserves are really tight and full because of you, so expect a lot of transfluid. Seriously.” She sucks on a slender digit, wetting it.
“Mmyeah, cover me in your love. Stuff me full of it. Just know that I love you toough!” The Seeker lurches when a slick digit slides up her aft, alighting upon her internal node and drawing circles upon it. “If you keep doing these th-things to me, I won’t last…”
“I’m telling you, don’t overload yet.”
“W-Windblade…”
“Overload only when I say so.”
“Please…”
“Hush. Be a good girl, Slip. Do what I tell you to, and you’ll be… rewarded.”
“Ohhh, you demon!”
A soft giggle precedes a sigh, Windblade reaching with her other servo to cup herself, clenching her digits over her modesty panels. “I’m about to get my spike out. Are you ready to take it in, all the way in, so deep inside you that when I overload, you’ll taste it?”
“Yes,” Slipstream gasps, bouncing herself on the digit embedded in her aft up to the knuckle. “Yes, yes, yes! Frag me, make love to me! Any part of me you want, take it, I’m all yours!” She hears her lover’s modesty panel retract and mewls, bracing for penetration as Windblade’s spike swells, bumping and bending against her.
“Open.”
The Seeker releases her valve, slopping excess lubricant, dousing the berth below.
“Oh! Wow. Primus, Slip.”
“I’m a gusher. Heh.”
“I’ll make you lick that off, later. You made a mess. But for now…” The Cityspeaker keeps one digit buried up to the knuckle in her lover’s tight aft, guiding her spike with her other servo as she lines herself up, delving shallowly into the plump folds of her oozing valve, smearing the tip that already drools pre-overload, dragging it back and forth through the slick trough of quivering mesh.
“Haaah!”
“Fat little spikesleeve you’ve got, huh? Especially for such a big, strong femme. I bet you’re tight. Real tight. Tighter than your aft, even. I might get… stuck inside you.”
“You’re killing me, Windblade!”
“So beautiful, Slip. So handsome. I love you, I love every part of you. Thank you for blessing me with this. Let me worship you like a goddess, like a Prime.”
Aroused to the point of impatience when usually very patient and enduring as a lover, Slipstream resorts to shoving back, attempting to sit herself on Windblade’s teasing spike, squishing it against her firm, flat belly in the process.
“It’s okay. Shh, shh. I’ll make you feel good, I promise. Relax, Slip, you’re tensing up, I can feel it. I don’t want to risk hurting you.”
“You’re already hurting me!”
“I’m sorry.” The Cityspeaker bends to kiss the Seeker’s rigid spinal seam, realigning the ready spike with her wanton valve. “Here, take it. Tell me stop if it’s too much.”
“Why we gotta move? This is so inconvenient and you won’t even tell us what the frag’s happening,” Flamewar protests whilst slotting charge packs and Energon cells into lined cases with locks. “We’ve just got used to this slaghole and we’ve finally started making a home outta it, now you’re booting us out like we didn’t pay rent.”
“Shuddup and prioritise packing. I’ll tell you what’s up after we’re outta here and in the clear.” Shadow Striker lugs a rifle over one pauldron, a shotgun over the other. “Megatron’s arranged a shuttle with enough storage to clear what’s important, so don’t pack too much.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever.”
The old mercenary stops and stares down at the bike, crouched over her work, clawed servos catching the light as another case is slammed shut, automatically locking as the pressurised seal hisses.
“You look real sad, boss bot,” Flamewar mutters, her bright optics upon Shadow Striker from below. “That worries me.”
Sighing, the mercenary contemplates how she can tell the bike the truth, never mind the rest of the team.
“I’d offer a hug, but–”
“C’mere.”
“Oh. Okay.”
Shadow Striker sets the guns aside and wraps her arms around the much smaller Flamewar, holding her tight enough to hurt a little.
“You’re kinda scaring me, Sir.”
“Ugh. Frag me sideways.”
Perhaps it is too much to take in. Perhaps it is too late for them, perhaps they waited too long to consummate their bonding.
Slipstream throws back her helm and bays like a common whore emulating a virgin whose seal is being broken, high-pitched despite herself, as Windblade’s magnificent spike finally enters her tight, sopping valve, the feminine ridges catching against every sensor, scraping plump walls that hug tight.
“Yes… Slip, oh, Slip! Yes! Take it, take it all!” The Cityspeaker keeps a digit in the Seeker’s aft, playing with her sensor whilst slowly sliding spike-first deeper into her comforting valve, eventually bottoming out with a shaky moan. “Mmm!”
Slipstream drools and drips sweat, dropping her helm on her limp neck with a gurgle of desire, her broad pauldrons buckling soon after as she collapses onto her bosom and pants into her synthetic pillow, resorting to biting it betwixt bared dentas, back strut beautifully bent, aft held up high.
Windblade holds position, just savouring something – someone – she has so sorely wanted for so long. Eventually, however, her instincts conquer her and she begins to move, sliding out a little, sliding back in, sliding out a little more than before, sliding back in, on repeat until she almost completely pulls out, then slams back in with force to hit that ceiling node hard and fast, harder and faster each time, relentless. She grins at the sounds this provokes, her ego swimming in yelps and whimpers and squeals of a femme being fragged just how she likes it.
The Seeker clenches a fist and slams it upon the berth, bouncing with these thrusts. She would overload, only she is a good girl, given specific instructions not to do so until permission is granted, thus she suffers immensely, enjoying it.
“You’re sucking me off when I’m done,” Windblade growls over her panting vents. “Suck me clean, taste yourself on my spike.”
Poor Slipstream cannot even formulate an intelligent response, mewling in her own sweat and drool and lubricant.
“Ahhh, mmm, frag me, do me nasty, Slip!”
The Seeker jerks when a palm suddenly strikes her across the aft, still impaled over a wiggling digit.
“Ow!” The Cityspeaker waves her aching servo, her thrusts uninterrupted by the sting. “Your aft is really hard.”
Despite this, Slipstream feels those very same digits scrape over her helm, getting a firm hold on her. She offers no resistance, allowing Windblade to pull her helm back, bending her neck to bare the racing fuel lines.
“I love you so much.” The Cityspeaker bends herself over the Seeker from behind, kissing her neck, her jaw, her cheek. “I wish I could stay inside you forever. Ohhh, Slip, I–” Whatever would have been said, gives way instead to a roar like a warrior’s battle cry, wings ejecting from their sheaths to spin turbines, blasting air that overturns a cup on the berthside unit and sends a nearby datapad hurtling across the room, other various small items rolling across the floor to fill corners. A particularly savage thrust drives the spike in as deep as it can go and it does not withdraw this time.
Slipstream’s optics roll back, then flutter shut as she feels hot ropes of transfluid fill her channel. She clamps down around the spasmodic spike, trapping it against her forge, ensuring she takes it all in without spillage, to avoid wasting this opportunity her body has been begging for.
Windblade jerks and shudders, her vents hitching as she loses herself to her overload, then finally collapses atop her lover, limp. Her turbines slow, then stop spinning entirely
The Seeker makes a soft, needy sound, helm hitting the berth with a dull thud, the servo atop it offering an apologetic caress.
“Whoops.” The Cityspeaker offers a sweet little kiss to the back of the neck. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to drop you, there. Oh, and I trashed your room.” She retracts her wings. “I’ll help clean up after.”
“More.” Slipstream’s valve has relaxed, and she whines as she feels the spike withdraw. “More!”
“I’ll give you more. Get on your back for me, beautiful. Let me see you.”
She rolls over, heavy and huge, thighs open wide to expose the bubbling, oozing mess that lies between.
“Very nice.”
She peels open her optics and gazes lustily up at her lover, biting her bottom derma.
“I made quite the mess of you,” Windblade murmurs, smirking at her handiwork. She runs her digits through her own transfluid to toy with the anterior node that peeks from the pool. “I can even smell it. I don’t usually produce so much.” She indicates her spike, still partially erect and drooling.
Slipstream weakly lifts her helm off the pillow to peer over herself, cooing.
Preening a the attention, as is typical of even the most modest of fliers, the Cityspeaker purrs coquettishly, “You like?”
“I love,” the Seeker croaks, licking her dermas reflexively.
Windblade’s spike is beautiful, a work of art, perfectly proportionate and shapely, just like the rest of her. It is not the highly modified monster Shadow Striker or Thunderblast were packing when they took their pleasure of this very vessel.
Thinking about them makes Slipstream flush, somehow more aroused than before. She flutters her shutters as her anterior node is stroked and pinched through a puddle of transfluid oozing from her valve, temporarily stretched after a very good spiking.
“While I get hard again, which won’t take me long, let me service you.”
The Seeker nods eagerly, optics widening when the Cityspeaker – without her crest or makeup – bends with a sultry hum, intake open, glossa extended.
Windblade proceeds to lap up her own transfluid, giving the anterior node little flicks with her thumb as she works her glossa lower down, stooping so low as to swirl around the waste port to lick clean the transfluid that oozed down the cleft.
Slipstream’s jaw drops in a whoring moan. Still, she does not overload, rejecting every prompt for release her stressed systems throw into her HUD. She is beginning to actually suffer for it. It does hurt.
The Cityspeaker now worms her glossa inside the valve, bobbing her helm and purring to send vibrations into the mesh. It is torturous, tender.
“Windblade, I really, r-really need to…”
Big blue optics are narrowed, forming icy shards like knives of contentment, cruelty.
“Can I ’load now?” The Seeker resorts to clenching her fists until the joints creak. “Please…”
A nod, distinct from the bobbing of the helm, finally grants permission.
Slipstream desperately accepts he prompt and her systems scream. She screams until she is hoarse.
Windblade catches a burst of transfluid and lubricant to the face and snarls as some of it gets up her enstrils, burning unpleasantly. Rather than deter her, she dives in and devours the spasmodic mesh with a vengeance, her desire manifesting as this near-violence. It is too much.
The Seeker shrieks in a voice she does not recognise, weeping for joy.
The Cityspeaker growls wet and muffled when a palm clamps over her helm as if to shove her off, resorting to biting the anterior node before she is abruptly struck in the side by a heel strut upon a reflexively thrown leg, shoving her back and over the edge of the berth with a thud of impact as she hits the floor, dazed, returning to herself with a view of the ceiling.
Slipstream does not immediately realise she just kicked her lover off.
Windblade picks herself up with a shaky laugh. “Whoa! That’s a first.”
“Did…? Did I just…?”
“Yeah. Sorta.”
“Sorry, I… Sorry!”
“Hey, it’s all good. I’m fine, if you are.”
The Seeker sits up on her elbows, peering down at her ruined valve. “You brute!”
The Cityspeaker’s proud smile vanishes. “Slip?”
“You bit me!”
“I… I was just…”
“Kiss it better!”
Windblade realises with great relief that she is not actually in any trouble. “Oh, sweet Spark, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to play so rough…” Sighing, she falls to kiss the valve with murmured reassurances. “Here, let me make it all better, let me make it right…”
Slipstream makes a strangled noise and pinches off another blissful overload, sore as her anterior node is. She thus collapses, dragging a palm over her face. “Uuugh.”
The Cityspeaker is very gentle, to her credit, mindful of the swollen anterior node she bit before, fortunately without bursting the sensitive thing. She kisses it, licks it, suckles softly on it, blows warm air over it and watches it twitch, erect.
“Good girl?” the Seeker prompts hoarsely.
“Good girl,” Windblade coos, although she cannot do it like Shadow Striker can. “Can I do anything else for you?”
“Yeah. Frag my face.”
“Stay on your back and open that handsome intake. I’ll do the hard work, okay?”
Slipstream obeys with a cheap slag’s enthusiasm, glossa squirming eagerly, the recesses of her tight throat flexing on air.
With a little shiver of excitement, the Cityspeaker grips her own spike and hastily pumps it a few times, coaxing it to fully rise into that exquisite curve she is quite proud of. She then climbs over the Seeker, steering into her maw and sitting upon her face plate all at once, sighing. From this position, it is easy to lazily bounce up and down, making love to the point of occasionally gagging her. “If it’s too much, just prod me or something, okay? Good girl. Mm. Very good.”
“The boss isn’t spilling, which means she’s freaking out over something serious,” Thunderblast mutters lowly, typing away at the hard-light holographic keyboard to hastily strip the terminal database. “A lady’s inclined to her secrets, but she’s been mostly straight with us. And by straight I mean blatantly honest, not straight-straight. Like, eew.”
“I’m just the big, dumb muscle here. It’s not my place to question orders or the person who gives me my orders,” Demolishor replies as he crushes discarded datapads under his pede, quite literally destroying evidence of anything. “I trust her to do what’s best for us. She’s solid.”
“Meh, she’ll keep us alive, that much I’m certain of. I’m actually not too bummed about moving, since this place is a nightmare, buuut…” The boat gives the tank a sidelong look, managing a strained smile. “I will miss my trips out on the mercury with the little dirt bike. Primus, I hope our next base isn’t landlocked.”
“I just hope our next base has enough room for me to stand up straight without banging my helm on stuff.”
Slipstream runs her servos over the breadth and length of Windblade’s firm thighs that sit saddled upon the face plate, before cupping her shapely aft and squeezing in both palms, then tracing the dip in her belly with slick digits that tremble with adoration and desire.
The Cityspeaker continues to bounce herself upon the Seeker’s face, spike steered down her throat and thrusting against her swirling glossa. “Your dermas look so good, wrapped around me.” A wet gag makes those big blue optics, downcast, narrow a little with taunting temptation. “You’re such a good girl, Slip.”
Gagging again, Slipstream weeps, lost to the allure of this worship. She rolls her hips, ineffectually mating the humid air with her exposed valve, a purely instinctual motion. She loves the taste and texture of the spike in her intake, triggering her gagging reflex with every other thrust yet somehow never tipping her over into actually purging her digestive tank.
“I love you,” Windblade tells her, cupping both breasts and playing with them, digits and thumb plucking at the light armour. “I’ve missed you so much.”
Watching the Cityspeaker fondle herself, the Seeker gags a reply and reaches up with her long, burly arms and big, strong servos.
“Yes,” Windblade moans, “touch me.” She contorts herself whilst bouncing her aft upon that face plate a little faster, to make it easier for those callused digits to grope her breastplate. “I’m close, Slip.”
Slipstream peers up at her from betwixt her knees, hugging the helm, thighs tightening about the handsome jaw that churns to cradle the plunging spike, inky dermas tightly sealed about the girth of that slick shaft, glossa lashing.
“First, I’m gonna drop a fat ’load down your throat–”
“Mmhm!”
“Then, I’ll pull out–”
“Nnnph!”
“And stroke whatever’s left in me all over your tits.”
“Hmm?”
“Yeah, so I can lick myself off of you after.”
“Hmm.”
“You like that plan, good girl?”
“Mmhm!”
“You’re so cute,” the Cityspeaker concludes with a chuckle, only to lose her composure as her overload hits her. She was not joking about her ample transfluid reserves, for she fires off a powerful salvo even after a recent prior overload. She is virile, potent, and due to her healthy lifestyle and preference for cleanliness, she also tastes great, she even smells good. Fliers naturally lack the earthy grittiness or oily musk of terrestrial alt-modes, which is in and of itself a turn-on for some.
The Seeker swallows as best she can with a spike shoved partway down the back of her throat, gagging wetly and choking, tears spilling forth as transfluid bursts from her enstrils, the only means of escape for the backup of fluid due to the tight seal of her dermas about the spurting shaft. It burns like a fragger. Nice.
Windblade swoons, sighs, sagging upon her throne, playing with the servos upon her breastplate. “Ahhh, yeah. That’s the ticket.”
Slipstream thrusts at the air with a needy whine, wet and smothered.
“Oh! I’m sorry, my love, I’ve made such a mess. You won’t mind if I do this, then, will you?” The Cityspeaker withdraws, extracting her twitching, dribbling spike with a lewd pop as the seal of the Seeker’s dermas is finally broken. “Here, let me just…”
Snorting transfluid, Slipstream squints through tears as Windblade climbs down her, stroking her spike to squeeze out dregs of transfluid, leaving a trail from chin to cockpit, spattering the Deceptibrand.
“All over your tits, I said,” the Cityspeaker purrs through a smirk, admiring her work yet again. “Primus, you’re a miracle, Slip. I’ve never seen anyone look so good as you, covered in my ’load.”
The Seeker manages a wonky grin of pride, slick with transfluid. A sweaty impression of aft shimmers upon her handsome, angular countenance, indicating that she has been recently sat on.
“You are the most beautiful being in the universe, right now.”
“Thank you. You, too.”
Evidently enamoured, Windblade drops her spike and lays her palms gently upon her lover’s face, leaning in to kiss her.
It is heaven, Slipstream thinks, this hell. She opens her intake wide and shivers as transfluid is mixed with their mingling oral lubricant through this kiss, then slickly drawn out of her in licks and sucks intended to help clean her.
Some people refuse to consume their own transfluid even when asked, but the Cityspeaker has no such qualms about swallowing herself. She only breaks the kiss when her taste begins to fade upon her lover’s glossa, moving to redirect her efforts at playfully licking the rest of the Seeker’s ruined face plate clean, glossa roving from chin to cheek to forehelm, even going so far as to lap at her enstrils that drool transfluid.
“That tickles!”
“Uh-huh.”
Giggling, Slipstream wraps her burly arms around Windblade’s slender neck, gazing hazily up at her with adoration. “You’re like some manifestation of all my hopes and dreams.”
“Mmyeah?”
“Mmyeah. Everything I’ve ever wanted, wrapped up in the embodiment of a person so pristine and perfect, I could die.”
“That’s beautiful, Slip. Don’t die, though,” the Cityspeaker grumbles with good humour, winking. “Stay with me.”
“Keep me close to you.”
“I will.”
The Seeker sighs into another kiss, then whines when it ends far too soon.
“Hush, my love. Let me clean the rest of you. Then, I want to see your spike.”
“It’s nothing too impressive. I’m standard-issue Seeker fare.”
“You’re wonderful. I can’t wait to feel you inside me. I’m gonna ride you until I’m satisfied, and that could take a while.”
With a shudder, Slipstream turns her helm modestly aside, purring her pleasure. “Ohhh, Windblade…”
“That’s me.”
“You’re so bad… but in a good way, I mean.”
“Heh. I know what you mean, sweet Spark. Now, just you relax, and let me work.”
“But you’ve been doing all the work. When am I gonna do some work?”
“Nuh-uh-uh! Don’t talk back. Good girls know not to argue.”
“Scrap, that’s hot.”
“As hot as Shadow Striker, when she does it?”
“Well, uh, errm–”
“Hey, I’m messing with you, Slip.”
“Oh! Okay. Whew.”
“It’s okay. She’s got that older femme thing going for her, which I don’t. I geddit.” Windblade dips to lick the transfluid spattered over her lover’s bosom, which quivers as she pants, cooling fans whirring most conspicuously and casting hot recycled air. “Frag me, look at these muscles. Mm. Taste ’em. Yeah.”
The Seeker gasps as her breastplate is crudely slapped with damp palms.
“Tits.”
“Glad you like them. What little titty I’ve got, you’re welcome to.”
“Mine?”
“Yours.”
The Cityspeaker beams, as if she has just been given the best news ever. “Mine.”
“Can I just be brutally honest for a second?”
“Damn, alright. Go for it.”
“I don’t know how you do it, but you manage to be the hottest glitch ever, but also the cutest and the most beautiful, like, you’re such a slag but also you’re a real lady about it and I really hope I’m not offending you right now, because I just want you to know you’re incredible and I love you.” Slipstream stumbles over herself. “R-respectfully, of course, um, even if some of that sounded disrespectful. Is that… okay?”
“Respectfully, it’s very okay,” Windblade concurs with a little growl, big blue optics sharp with excitement. “Call me a slag again, I like it.”
“You slag.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You hot, dirty little slag.”
“Mmmyeeeaaah. Tell me I’m your glitch.”
“You damn well know you’re my glitch.”
The Cityspeaker preens in that gorgeously haughty way of fliers as the Seeker caresses her all over, settling for a little slap to the aft that has her humming in her slender throat.
“This aft belongs to me, glitch. I own you, because you’re nobody’s slag but mine.”
“Get you damn spike out, now.”
Slipstream actually yelps as she finally – finally – lets her spike eject, instantly pressurised and already wet.
“Aw, does it hurt?” Windblade simpers, gazing down at the throbbing curve, placing her dainty digits ever so gently around the shaft.
“Um, yeah, a bit.”
“I’m sorry, Slip. I’ve kept you waiting.”
“No, my love, you took your time. There’s a difference.”
Smiling at that, the Cityspeaker offers a slow stroke, applying just enough pressure to squeeze the sensory nodes along the way.
“Hoooyeah.” The Seeker’s shutters flutter and she jerks her hips once, then restrains herself.
“This is a handsome spike, Slip.”
“You really like it?”
“Yes! I love it. You’ve got nothing to worry about. Good size and shape, with such pretty nodes, glowing so bright just for me.”
“And your spike is a sculpture to virility, Windblade. I’ve never seen such a divine spike, such as yours.”
“Okay, wow. You keep sweet-talking like that and I’ll frag you again with it. Watch out.”
“Well, you are hard again,” the Seeker notes with a smirk. “Would be a shame for that to go to waste.” She wiggles her brows suggestively.
“Later. Right now, yours needs some attention.”
“You said you were gonna ride me.”
“I meant what I said.” Windblade affectionately bumps her forehelm against Slipstream’s whilst pumping her spike a few more times, before rising and readjusting to sit over it, steering with a capable servo. “Think you’ll last long enough to make my valve overload this time, good girl?” That said, the modesty panel retracts, exposing the plump, tight folds that ooze with desire.
“I’ll do my best,” the Seeker manages with a distinct whine as her tip is smeared in the Cityspeaker’s lubricant. “Oh, frag, your valve’s gorgeous! Of course it is, everything about you is so beautiful, but still! Whoa!”
“Mm. Thank you.”
“It’s like something out of a holovid. Uh, and I don’t watch a lot of porn, but from what I’ve seen, yours is even better than theirs. Sorry. That was gross of me to say, wasn’t it.”
“Actually, I’m kinda turned on by that.”
“Oh, thank Primus.”
“I watch way too much porn.” Windblade offers a reassuring smile, shrugging. “A girl’s gotta cope, when you have a libido as hot and heavy as mine.”
“That’s okay with me.” Slipstream watches her spike slide sensually within the valve’s silken mesh, slick and snug, bowing beneath a downwards grinding motion that elicits pleasure without penetration, yet. “You smell so good. Like a femme, but really concentrated.”
“Not too much femme for you, though. You can take this valve, handsome.”
The Seeker feels encouraged enough to lay her big servos on the Cityspeaker’s dainty waist, easily capturing her and lifting her until the spike springs free, before lowering her again, slowly.
“Ohhh, Slip!”
“Mmhm.”
Windblade whines as her valve swallows the swollen tip, her squeezing walls scraping over ribbed sensory nodes spaced regularly apart. Although she is on the top and unquestionably the dominant femme, she allows herself to be steered where desired. “So big! You’ll split me open, Slip, yes!”
Slipstream knows this is exaggeration intended to stroke her ego, as her spike is perfectly standard for a Seeker and only somewhat large due to being proportionate to the rest of her, which is built to be big as befitting a combat unit. She is by no means especially endowed. But still, it is nice to hear her spike’s praises sung.
“And the big mech himself said I can basically do what I like with the Functionist fragger, since this place is a write-off anyway and he’s gotta die somehow, right?”
“Right.”
Flamewar’s adorable little fangs project as she smiles sweetly at the mech in the chair, fed by a drip embedded in his arm, emaciated and muttering nonsense that barely resembles prayer any more. “Cool. I got some ideas.”
Shadow Striker sighs, turning to look back at Thunderblast and Demolishor, who are not especially moved. “You two, topside. Be ready to hail the transport. I’ll join you in a minute.”
“Yes, Sir,” they chorus, glancing tiredly at each other before departing on echoing steps, taking sparse equipment with them.
“You need help with… whatever it is you’re planning to do to him?”
“Get me one of those proximity explosives. Remember, I already rigged the lot so they won’t react to Deceptibrands.”
“The sensors will react to him, however.”
“Easy fix. I’ll take a sample of his Energon and add him to the safe list via his biometrics. Basically, until someone who isn’t a Decepticon comes along and finds him, he’ll just sit here, waiting to blow up.”
“And where will you place the bomb?”
“Inside him.”
“Primus, girl.”
“Clever, right? I’ll hide the detonator in his body, so they won’t know it’s too late until they get close enough to trigger it, and then boom. He takes himself out and anyone else in this room. The tunnels will channel the explosion a bit further than that, which deals with any waiting backup or stragglers. Might cause a cave-in, ’cause the infrastructure is so old and nobody cares about this dumb memorial anyway, so anybody who survives is probably gonna be trapped down here, in the Pits.”
“That’s fragging insane and frankly quite diabolical, Flamewar. Dammit, you have style, I’ll give you that much.”
“Aw, thanks, bot bot! I try.”
“Frag me, Slip,” Windblade utters into her lover’s forehelm, cradling her close whilst being driven upon her lap far too gently. “Harder, faster.”
Slipstream obligingly intensifies their pace, flexing her muscular arms as she lifts and lowers the slender femme impaled upon her spike with a valve that gnaws hungrily back, clenching and pulsing with fertile potency.
“I love you, Slip, I love how you fit so perfectly inside me…” The Cityspeaker enjoys herself immensely, able to do nothing more than contribute her body and words of encouragement, after taking the initiative for most of this encounter. “Like we were made for each other.”
The romantic sentiment does the job. The Seeker swells with affection as much as arousal and nips at her lover’s chin, then throat, finally nuzzling downward to slobber over that rippling breastplate that bounces over supple protoform, jostled by the motions up and down.
“Suck my tits,” Windblade coos, clasping the back of Slipstream’s helm to keep her there. “Yeah, like that. Get your handsome intake all over me. I’m yours.”
A loud moan announces that the Seeker would very much like to overload, but she is valiantly holding off. Her grip is getting sweaty and her spike twitches every time she bashes it against the Cityspeaker’s ceiling node.
“Not yet,” Windblade purrs teasingly before grinning, unseen, from above Slipstream’s lowered helm. “I’ll get you there, I promise, just hold it in a little longer.” It is cruel, but it adds delicious tension. “Be my good girl.”
The Seeker pants into the metallic cleavage that smothers her face plate, taking her revenge by slamming the Cityspeaker down rather harshly upon her spike.
Jarred into a sudden overload, Windblade lurches with a cry, her valve stuttering as she goes almost entirely rigid in place, her field flaring outward with a crackle of energy, like the aftershocks of a great explosion. Then, she collapses, as if a puppet with her strings cut, slumping atop Slipstream, unable to do much more than tremble against her.
“You okay?” the Seeker murmurs, a bit concerned she might have overdone it, this time.
The Cityspeaker pats her lover’s helm, sighing. “Frag, yes.”
“Please let me overload. My spike is about to burst.”
“Well, for being such a good girl for so long, I suppose it’s about time you got your reward.”
Slipstream does not hesitate, lifting and lowering Windblade again, only at a more frantic pace, shallow and selfish.
It makes the Cityspeaker laugh, until she registers the heat of transfluid filling her valve, automatically dispensing endorphin protocols that provoke feel-good responses in her brain module. She leans back with her arms folded behind her helm whilst absorbing the Seeker’s tremors, smirking smugly up at the ceiling.
“Ohhh, Windblade!”
“Not too shabby, huh?”
“You’re magnificent.”
“You’re pretty wonderful, yourself. So, handsome! You ready for another spiking?” Windblade flops forward to kiss Slipstream’s cheek, drooling erection pinned between them. “Because I’ve got plenty left in me to pound you until you can’t walk for a while after I’m finished with you.”
“You’ll be the death of me yet, my love.”
There is a rude knock on the door.
Windblade and Slipstream both bark a grouchy, “What!” and turn their helms at the interruption.
“Um, just so you know, this room isn’t soundproofed,” a voice says from the other side.
“Oh.” The Seeker cringes. “Thanks.”
The Cityspeaker sighs, wanting to salvage the mood, somehow. “Well, uh…”
Slipstream leans into the palm that caresses her cheek so lovingly.
“Now the whole base knows what a pair of slags we are.” Windblade giggles as she is gently shoved back. “What? I’m not ashamed, are you?”
“No, I’m mortified.”
“C’mon, I’m sure nobody’s paid us any attention.”
Shadow Striker stands before her team in the bowels of the transport shuttle, gripping onto an overhelm support to keep her balance as she soar over the wastes surrounding Iacon City, a couple of hours out by the air, avoiding the obstacles and wildlife below.
Flamewar is slumped rudely on a bench, scratching her scuffed kneecaps.
Thunderblast has one long leg folded over the other, inspecting her digits for imaginary dirt with pretty indifference in the seat beside.
Demolishor takes most of the opposite bench to himself, being as big as he is, and he looks woozy. “Ugh. I hate flying. Ugh.”
“You gonna hurl, treads?”
“Ugh. Maybe.”
“We got a barf bag back here, boss bot?”
“No. Do not vomit. That’s an order.”
“Yes, Sir. Ugh.”
“You gonna talk, now, Sir? Or are you determined to be mysterious?”
“Femmes love a good mystery.”
“Not this time, sweetie. Tell us what’s up.”
The old mercenary sighs, softening. “Not while we’re airborne. Soon as we touchdown, I’ll tell you.”
The bike and boat look at each other, frowning.
The tank groans when they hit turbulence.
As it turns out, many people paid considerable attention, judging by the meaningful looks and murmured gossip later this very morning.
Slipstream meekly steps under the shower, avoiding optic-contact. Before she can cringe herself into non-existence, a servo brushes soothingly down her arm.
“Don’t worry. Try not to mind the attention. Blame me instead.” Windblade smiles reassuringly up at her. “They’ll forgive us and forget us by the end of the day. Way too much is happening for us to be of much importance, in the grander scheme. Okay?”
“Okay. I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
They share a little kiss. Not officially girlfriends, perhaps, but undeniably closer than before.
“Aw. Goals,” an elite guard femme murmurs to her surly co-worker. “That could be us, but you keep playing.”
“Oh, shuddup, you.”
With the unmarked and seemingly unaffiliated shuttle banked and cargo offloaded, Decepticons retrieve whatever was salvaged prior to scuttling the base below the war memorial, a bored mech stood aside, taking inventory on a datapad.
“My team could do with the hour to themselves,” Shadow Striker says, reporting to Megatron in person. “They’re a little frustrated, understandably.”
“Considering the circumstances, I think your lot deserves that much,” he purrs in his thunderous undertone, patting one of his finest Decepticons fondly on the pauldron, as he does respect and appreciate her skilled work. “Take the hour. Your new facilities will be availed to you at the new coordinates. It is all prepared and secured for your use.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
“No, thank you. Dismissed.”
With a deferential nod to Megatron, Shadow Striker turns and stalks off, soon rejoining her subordinates, who all look very dull and dreary despite being quite outstanding figures against the backdrop of Decepticons. “Look alive. I got us an hour off. Drinks and bar snacks?”
“Oh, Primus, yes.” Thunderblast throws out a hip and rolls her golden optics with a moan. “I’m parched! But keep the snacks, those are riddled with nasties, ya know, because everybody touches the bowls they serve those snacks in.”
“Yass,” Flamewar intones, attempting to balance on her lethally sharp heel struts, waving her arms and swaying a bit. “I want dirty Energon goodies.”
“Like, eew. You’re so nasty. Demolishor, daddy, tell the dirt bike she’s nasty.”
“Yeah, you are pretty gross sometimes, Flamewar.”
“You love me, so accept me as I am.”
“A creature.”
“See? Boss bot gets it. I’m just a little critter, scuttling about, gnawing on cables and doing other such critter activities. And I am hungry, actually.”
“Then let’s get you refuelled. Come along, you lot.”
Orion clears his vents with paternal discomfort. “Hrrm-hrrm. Uh, good morning, Windblade and Slipstream. I trust you both are… well-rested?” The poor old mech.
Ariel is trying not to laugh and somewhat succeeding, her optics sympathetic even if her crude sense of humour does find this very amusing.
Sentinel sneers, but refrains from commenting.
Alpha Trion sits quiet with his Quill, endlessly writing something down.
Slipstream is only still standing because of Windblade’s protective presence being so close and constant, as the day advances.
“We did, thank you. We’re ready to start the memory extraction when you are. Slip?”
“Yeah, okay.”
“Then let’s cut to the chase.” Sentinel sits forward, prominent chin resting on his joined servos. “Tell me about Megatron’s innermost leadership circle.”
Slipstream looks somehow even more uncomfortable.
“Are you willing to give us names? We’ll siphon that data out of your mind and memories eventually, so just outright telling us what we want to know will go some way toward earning a little more trust.”
“One of those leaders was good to me. I want your reassurance that she will be treated kindly, if you ever capture her.”
“She’s our enemy, Seeker, and you need to pick your side.”
“Ease off already,” Ariel grunts through a frown. “Give the girl a break. She’s been cooperative.”
Before another argument can start, Slipstream raises a servo to quell their tempers. “I’ll talk. Please don’t fight.” She shakily sips cool Energon from a disposable tin cup. “Um, okay. So… Starscream’s the second-in-command of the Decepticons as a whole and Commander of the Seekers, obviously. Then there’s Soundwave, the communications expert, social media guy, and spymaster.”
“He must’ve sent that cloaked agent to Ariel’s office.” Sentinel rubs his handsome chin. “Perhaps even infiltrated my elite guard with a tantalising payout or perhaps the threat of harm, most likely blackmail considering the suspect’s track record. Admittedly, I was too lax on recruitment standards back then. This has since been corrected.”
“Next is Shockwave, the head scientist responsible for doing all the creepy experimental stuff in his lab, I dunno where that is, and he’s instrumental in getting the Seekers mass-produced again, but he’s also running those clinics remotely since he’s never on-site. If you happen to arrest a green Seeker called Acid Storm on one of those raids, please let me know. They’re harmless on their own, innocent.”
“Continue to cooperate and I’m willing to concede certain compromises for you. If I capture this Acid Storm, I will show them mercy.”
“Okay, thank you. Then I have a rather big ask of you. Can you extend that mercy a little further, to someone you’ll probably consider less deserving?”
“That depends. To whom are we referring?”
“The last name on the list of leaders. Shadow Striker.”
“The mercenary?” Sentinel’s optics narrow. “We have intelligence that leads us to believe she held a position of command over you.”
“Yes, I was stationed under her authority.”
“Noted. I can guess the answer to the following, but for the sake of the record, tell me, what does she do for Megatron, exactly? Breaking into people’s homes and murdering them to display their corpses in mockery, somewhat extends beyond your typical mercenary fare, does it not?”
“She’s a mercenary, yes, so basically she does whatever pays, but Megatron’s put her in charge of, um…” Slipstream lowers her gaze. “A team of assassins and destabilizers. That’s where I was reassigned.”
“I see. And as a member of this team, you have obviously participated in these assassinations of, say, the Senate and members of the Functionist group, intended to destabilize the old order of things, I presume? We already suspect you rather strongly, but a confession of guilt would show contrition on your part.”
“Yes. I didn’t want to, but I did as I was told. I deeply regret it all.”
Sentinel narrows his pretty optics.
“I’m responsible for a lot of deaths. This confession will never absolve me of my guilt. I will never feel clean again. I will... never feel clean, again.”
Windblade exhales shakily, squeezing Slipstreams servo, somehow trying to be supportive of the monster she loves, whose memories they will face together.
“I see.” Sentinel sits back now. “Thank you for answering my questions. I will take your ongoing cooperation into account, perhaps arrange some sort of immunity, if your data proves sufficiently useful and you part with it willingly. Now, then. Where were you stationed, when you worked for Shadow Striker?”
“Okay, are we going to have this conversation now, Sir?”
Shadow Striker sniffs moodily, peering down at the dregs at the bottom of her cup.
Thunderblast and Demolishor are watching their commanding officer.
Flamewar is munching on Energon goodies from a probably filthy bowl, but despite her wayward gaze indicating inattention, she is listening closely, as she always does. She only acts foolish, for she is actually cunning, clever.
“Slipstream’s gone to the other side.” Shadow Striker only realises her poor choice of wording when Flamewar is suddenly clinging to her arm, panicked.
“Dead?!”
“No. Desertion.”
“Oh! Oh. Oh…”
Thunderblast’s delicate facial features are open, expressing genuine disbelief. “She’s our girl. This can’t be the whole story. We bonded and everything. She let me polish her digits!”
“Megatron made it sound like Windblade swooped in and scooped Slipstream up when she was vulnerable. We’re not gonna compete with that, I’m afraid.”
“Their lost love, never truly lost, just distant due to the war, now reclaimed as they reunite.” Demolishor sighs, laying his huge, hollow digits atop the counter. “That’s so romantic. Good for her. I hope they have their happy ending.”
“Well, yeah, me too, but this still fragging sucks for us.” Thunderblast folds her arms under her ample breastplate and turns her pretty helm aside, scowling. “How’s sugar glider supposed to be my big hunky personal Seeker plaything when I assemble my consortium and take over the world, now? She’s got a girl who’s clearly more important than me. I’m not even turned on by that, I’m so mad. They better be good together and have that happy ending.”
“That’s why we had to scuttle the base and dash.”
Shadow Striker winces when Flamewar’s scarred cheek twitches below a bright, wild optic.
“Slippy sold us out.”
Notes:
I'd like to thank you for sticking by this story thus far, suffice to say I have some truly wild shit planned, so I hope you'll continue to enjoy the journey of these dysfunctional and horny robots at war with themselves as much as each other. I appreciate your readership and support, please feel free to drop me any suggestions or constructive criticisms as you feel comfortable sharing. Have a great weekend.
Chapter 48
Notes:
Possible trigger warnings: individual and shared trauma, suicidal references and ideation, casual misogyny and misandry, death of a captive and others via explosion.
Chapter Text
“Enough,” Windblade says fiercely, tossing the memory file aside with such force one would expect it to shatter, instead promptly dismissing it, the file automatically returning it to its rightful place deep in the recesses of a neatly organised folder that hides so much. “I can’t look, any more. I don’t want to see the rest of it. Please, just stop.”
Slipstream gazes at the ghost of her lover, aglow and angelic within this dark and tortured mind-scape, a cyberverse of shadows and secrets.
“Not today. Sentinel’s just gonna have to give me more time to… work though you.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Primus, Slip.” The Cityspeaker buries her face in her palm. “It’s worse than I thought. How can it be any worse?”
“I didn’t want you to see that.” The Seeker bows her helm. “I didn’t want any of them to see what I’ve done, what I’ve been complicit in doing. How can anyone trust me, after all of that?”
Windblade does not answer immediately. She buries a sob into her digits.
Slipstream squeezes her other servo, as they have constantly maintained this tether throughout these memory extractions.
“We just… I need a break. Hours and hours of digging through dirt, uncovering this rotten rawness beneath it all… I can’t stand it any more.”
“Rotten… rawness.”
“I can feel your horror, Slip. You despise yourself for the things those monsters made you do, turned you into.”
“I chose, Windblade. I was under terrible pressure and immense stress, but I still did those things because I felt I had to, just to survive. I obeyed like a soldier should, but I’m no mere drone. I don’t blame Shadow Striker or even Starscream for the lives I’ve taken.”
“It’s breaking me.”
Their digits shatter as the illusion is terminated and the world around them plunges into an even deeper darkness, featureless and silent, but this is not sleep. This is how it feels to be suddenly awake, alive, and faced with the wickedness that has been done, deeds that memories betray. And then there is light.
By the time Slipstream emerges and revives in the chair, optics fluttering online to burn under the heated stares of horrified people, Windblade has stepped out the room without excusing herself.
“I think that’ll do for today,” Sentinel says quietly, sat between the appalled expressions of Orion and Ariel, Alpha Trion rising to follow Windblade, intending to comfort her. “We have enough intel to act upon. You may go.”
“Please don’t hurt Shadow Striker and her team. I’m begging you. I know what you saw, but they’re not bad people, they just-”
“Begone, Seeker.”
“You promised me-”
“Get out of my sight until you are called upon again tomorrow. Be thankful, in the meantime, that you are not locked away in a cell as you should be, awaiting processing.”
Abandoned in the chair before a mortified audience, Slipstream shakily accepts a fresh cup of cool Energon courtesy of Wheeljack, who pats her awkwardly on the pauldron and then backs away slowly, busying himself with packing up his equipment. She wets her glossa and then leaves meekly, murmuring apologies on her way out.
Windblade is waiting with her back turned and trembling, holding herself.
“We’re due for a shipment today,” Shadow Striker reports dully, optic narrowed as she scrolls through the datapad with a scowl. “Should make up for some of what we had to leave behind, or left trashed.”
“Well, that’s just great. I’m very salty about losing some of that polish I like,” Thunderblast intones, huffing as she critically inspects the unfamiliar interior of their new base of operations. “Did you tell Megatron to send me some more? That was included in your requisitions form, right, Sir?”
“Essentials only, my dear. He was quite clear on that and I didn’t argue.”
“Um, excuse me, my polish is essential! I’ll go mad if I lose my lustre!”
“Oh, Primus forbid.”
Just then, Demolishor lumbers into the room. “Look at me, guys.” He holds out both arms and smiles adorably at the grumpy femmes. “I haven’t bumped into anything yet. This place has some room. Better lit, too, and less clutter. Doesn’t smell.”
“And we’re close to the silver sea, plus there are Energon canals all around here. I might not have my polish, but I can still get wet! Yay!”
“Uh, yeah, that’s pretty nice too, I guess.”
“Ahhh! My beloved Megatron! He chose this spot, specifically, because he thought of me, especially! He’s already smitten. This is proof that my spell has been cast and the magic is working! I bet he’ll add polish to the drop-off just because he knows I need it.”
The Decepticons thus banter whilst setting up.
All that is missing, is Flamewar.
“I stand by what I said.” Windblade’s big blue optics are narrowed, lifted to the ceiling. “Even after experiencing what you did, through your memories… I still stand by what I said about you.”
Slipstream has her helm in her ex-girlfriend’s lap, sobbing softly as she strokes her.
“You’re not evil, Slip. All the evil things you’ve done, are the consequences of being manipulated into evil. But you can choose to do good, you still have that capacity to be good, because you are good.”
“Then why won’t you l-look at me?”
“I can’t look at you just yet. I don’t want to associate your face with your faults, Slip. I need a minute, okay.”
“Oh.” That really hurt, the Seeker realises with a fresh wave of agony that has her trembling. “Okay.”
“I’ll stand by you, Slip. You’re my friend. I’m here for you, even if I can’t look at you just yet.”
“I don’t deserve that. I don’t deserve y-you. After all I’ve done, all I’ve subjected you and the others to through those damned m-m-memories I keep, how can you be so kind to me?”
“You underestimate how stubbornly in love with you I am.” The Cityspeaker shakes her helm. “You make me act a little stupid, really. You draw out my best, just by being your sweet, sad self. But you also bring out the worst in me.”
Slipstream all but swoons on Windblade’s lap, sniffling under her soft, slow servos.
“I’m just not as invincible as I like to pretend I am, so forgive me when I falter and fail. Please. Just gimme a minute.”
Alone together in a little room hastily repurposed into humble living quarters, they do not speak again for over an hour, after that.
“Thank you for your business!”
Shadow Striker grunts an acknowledgment. She does not recognise these two mechs, but she already knows she dislikes them, regardless of the Deceptibrands and illicit commerce that unite them. Of course, she dislikes almost everyone, to some degree or another, because she is a mean old glitch with far too much trauma.
“Oh, but look at us, bein’ so rude in front of the lovely ladies!”
“Uh. Are we being rude, Ransack? I did just say thanks. Was my tone off?”
“No, silly! We forgot to introduce ourselves, CZ, you big, beautiful dummy! After all, these are important contacts, like Swindle said. Megatron’s got ’em killin’ people!”
“Errm, right. Of course.”
“The bossmech wants us to impress. Understandably! We oughta respect these lovely ladies like proper gentlemechs.” The two-wheeler sets his servos on his dainty hip joints, typically diminutive of most bikes, with the typical big attitude they are infamous for. “How d’ya think doin’ business without proper introductions makes us look? Rude, that’s what! Sheesh! ”
“Ohhh. That is rude. Sorry.” The gigantic three-wheeler shyly drags a pede across the floor, tapping his digits together. “S’cuse us. We’re new to the trade. Heh. Please don’t kill us.”
“Time for introductions!” The bike strikes a dramatic pose. “Hit it, CZ! Like we practised.”
“Errm. I dunno, they’re a little scary and I’m a little nervous.”
“Just do your best, like you always do. Do it for me?”
“Ugh. Okay. For you, little buddy, I’d do almost anything.”
“That’s my guy! Take it away, pal!”
“Ahem-hem-hem.” The hulking trike strikes a dramatic pose next. “My name is Crumplezone, and this is my best friend, Ransack!”
“That’s me! And together, we’re the Deadly Duo!”
“The Kings of Carnage!”
“Rebels of the Road!”
“Handsome Guys!”
Ransack and Crumplezone continually change their dramatic poses throughout this performance, incorporating each other at every stage.
Thunderblast’s bored expression is gone by now as her jaw delicately drops with a disbelieving little ‘huh’ from beside the scowling Shadow Striker, whose scowl twitches as she processes what she is looking at.
“Single and Ready to Mingle!”
“But Together Forever! Right?!”
“Damn Right!”
Demolishor has paused in his efforts at lugging the supplies in the background to stare blankly at the performance with his mismatched optics widened.
“I Love You, Ransack!”
“I Love You Too, CZ!”
Perfectly synchronised, Crumplezone and Ransack wrap around each other in a sort of dance, sweeping across the room.
“Wow. They’re really coordinated, huh,” Demolishor notes, genuinely impressed. “Look at them go.”
“Is this really happening?” Thunderblast asks the universe, turning to watch the mechs spin gracefully past.
“Afraid so,” answers Shadow Striker wearily.
“We’re Both Baddies from Beyond!”
“That’s code for Velocitron, by the way.” Ransack whips out a delicate tin rose from his frame and tosses it aside, winking over a pauldron in passing, sultry as he presses against Crumplezone. “Mwah!”
Demolishor may be clumsy, especially due to his cumbersome digits hollowed out as flexible barrels of his internal firing mechanism, but he snatches the metallic flower out of the air and smiles at he cradles it ever so delicately in his palms. “Aw…”
“We’re Here to Make Friends and Kick Aft!”
“We’re All Outta Aft!”
“Clearly, they pull zero glitches,” Thunderblast mutters. “But at least they have each other. It’s actually kinda cute.”
“I dunno. I’m kinda impressed,” answers Demolishor, happy to have received a flower.
“I’m too damn old for this.” Shadow Striker mutters a string of curses under her vents, achingly rubbing her brows. “We geddit. We geddit! Enough. Knock it off. Please.”
“Ta-da!” Crumplezone and Ransack conclude altogether, taking a bow. “The Dream Team, at your service! Swindle sends his fondest regards!”
Demolishor, Thunderblast and Shadow Striker stare collectively with rather differing expressions.
There is an applause, off to the side. “Yeah, frag it up!”
Shadow Striker turns sharply, Thunderblast’s vents hitching and Demolishor’s brows arching.
“Whoa,” Ransack utters, rising to his full height, which is not very much. “I’m in love.”
“Uh-oh.” Crumplezone shakes his helm. “Not again.”
“Is it over?” Flamewar’s solitary applause comes to an abrupt stop. “That was cool as frag. Do it again.”
“Don’t!” Shadow Striker interjects fiercely, then softens. “You’re outta hiding. Feeling better?”
“Heard the racket. It woke me from my depression nap, so I came to investigate. I still wanna die, but I did like the show.”
“Please don’t say stuff like that, sweetie.” Thunderblast lopes over to stroke Flamewar’s helm, eliciting a little purr from the morose smaller femme. “You gotta let her go. You’re worrying the rest of us.”
Demolishor kindly offers his tin rose.
Flamewar accepts the metallic flower with a feeble smile. “Thanks, you guys. I’m sorry I’m dysfunctional and kinda crazy.”
“At least this drew you out of whatever hole you crawled into these past few hours.” Shadow Striker sighs heavily. “Right, then. Do you boys have something for me to sign, so you both can leave?”
“Yes, right here, please.” Crumplezone holds out a datapad with a polite smile. “On the dotted line.”
“Thanks. Give Swindle my best, the fragger.”
“You’re very welcome, ma’am. Will do!”
Ransack gazes upon Flamewar with awe. “She’s so perfect, CZ.”
“Little buddy, don’t even start.”
“No, no, I mean it this time.”
“You say it every time, though, and you always say you mean it.”
“This is different.”
“You’ve said that before, too.”
“But she’s skrunkly, like me! Those other two-wheelers weren’t skrunkly. We even got complimentary colourschemes!”
“Okay, fair enough, but she looks kinda sad.”
“And our epic intro made her feel better. I’mma go talk to her, cheer her up.”
“Please don’t be weird.”
Shadow Striker’s scowl follows Ransack as he swaggers on up to Flamewar, as if outright offended that he is even attempting such a thing.
“Oh, little buddy. Always with the two-wheelers. Why do I gotta have three wheels?” Crumplezone grumbles, rubbing his neck. “That’s one wheel too many.”
Demolishor gives the other large mech a sympathetic look. “Hey, uh, I liked your routine.”
“You did?”
“Yes, it was an impressive feat of teamwork and physical prowess.”
“Aw, thanks. We do make a great team, my little buddy and me. And we are pretty physical.”
Ransack, meanwhile, is trying to look cool while chatting up Flamewar, whose misery seems to abate a little when his clumsy efforts to endear himself to her wind up making him look very stupid, in a roguishly cute, vaguely charming way. She giggle-snorts at something he says and he delights in making her do a thing that is almost like a laugh.
“Jealous?”
“Frag, no.”
“Overprotective, then.” Thunderblast rests her chin on Shadow Striker’s pauldron and sighs. “Relax. He won’t bite her, but she might bite him.”
Windblade puts on a brave face for Bumblebee, but does not look at Slipstream nearly as often as he does. She saw her memories, whereas he and the other friends had been spared by various missions for the Council. Ignorance and bliss.
The scout stretches on the tips of his pedes, but the Seeker still stoops to meet him in a kiss, intake pressing upon intake with a mutual sigh.
The Cityspeaker looks away.
“I love you, Slip.”
“I love you too, Bee.”
Bumblebee can sense the tension, but he pretends all is fine, because he is just so relieved to have Slipstream home.
Windblade at least does not reject being touched, threading her digits through theirs as she closes her optics and leans back against the wall, exhaling softly.
“She likes me! She actually likes me, CZ! I’m so giddy right now, I can barely drive straight!” Ransack swerves dangerously. “Weee!”
“Hey, watch where you swing that thing! You’re gonna crash into me! Damn.” Crumplezone adjusts his massive alt-mode to compensate for the bike’s reckless driving, the trike hanging back a bit for safety’s sake. “You really hit it off with her, huh, little buddy. She actually smiled at you. Most femmes don’t do that. They tell you to shoo or frag off or stuff like that, but she didn’t do any of that.”
“I know, right?! I even got her comm link! Can you believe it? I only asked once, and bam! Didn’t have to beg or nothin’! I am just so smooth, bro.”
“Too smooth, even.”
“Abso-fraggin’-lutely! I put on all my best moves, really had that swag! She was lookin’ me up and down, lickin’ those hot little fangs of hers, laughin’ at my dumbaft jokes! Wow. I still goddit. Take that, scooter!”
“Oh, yeah, I remember that scooter. You really should’ve been nicer to her.”
“Puhlease. I was plenty nice! She was a total glitch, though. Thought she was better than me, just ’cause she won a few races. And only ’cause I let her win, like, duh! A lovin’ boyfriend should let his glitch win! I coulda totes smoked her if I wanted to.”
“I mean, we are from the Speed Planet. Speed’s a big deal to us. It’s sweet of you if you meant to lose, but maybe she just thought you were slow.”
“Whatever! I want somethin’ more outta life than races! Watchin’ rears on the racetrack, huffin’ exhaust fumes, gettin’ put down by that fraggin’ announcer guy for fallin’ behind, finishin’ last place - that’s all we’ve ever known! It’s depressin’!”
“Yeah. I do get sad sometimes.”
“That’s why we’re here, CZ. Megatron and Swindle are gonna carve Cybertron up real nice for us. We’re gonna make bank and settle down at our own pace from now on. Here, we can be winners.”
“I wanna win for once.”
“Damn right! No more gettin’ picked on cause we can’t compete in some stupid races. ’Sides, Velocitronian glitches are all the same, way too competitive. It’s hot for the first few frags, then it gets sore.”
“Ugh! Tell me about it. The mechs are pretty terrible like that, too.”
“If you ain’t the fastest guy ’round at all times, forgeddit! Not gonna get a lick of valve or a whiff of aft or a seat on that spike for the life of ya. Nope! No hittin’ what ya can’t catch.”
“Yeah. You’re fast, bit she was pretty quick on her wheels, for a scooter.”
“Frag her! She’s old news. Now, Flamewar? Way better lookin’, first of all, with the sick paint, fat tits, fat aft, fat thighs and fat heel struts.”
“A lotta fat on her, sounds like.”
“Just how I like it! And even better, she’s not a damn scooter, but a bike like me. I never, ever wanna even see a scooter again. Brrr!”
“Helps that scooters aren’t common on Cybertron.”
“And you just know she’s wild in berth! Got those claws and fangs on her! Gonna carve me up like a roast tinfoil turkey!”
“I love a good roast tinfoil turkey.”
“And she seems real easy, like low-maintenance, sorta. Just too chill to care if I win or lose a race. She’d definitely be whatever ’bout it. Yeah, I bet she wouldn’t make me cry.”
“Maybe you should leave races out of your relationships from now on.”
“That’s a smart suggestion, CZ. Here on Cybertron, I can do more, be more.”
“With me, right?”
“Duh! All the way!”
“You’re so handsome and cool and smart and everything, Ransack. That never changed, no matter how many girls broke your Spark. I want you to know that. Sometimes, I feel like I don’t deserve you.”
“Aw, CZ, thanks. You’re such a cutie.”
“Heh. I try.”
“You don’t gotta doubt yourself. I had your love and support on the sidelines from the start, big mech, no matter what I went through. I gotta thank you for always bein’ here for me, givin’ me backup…”
“I just love you so much and I want you to be happy more than anything I’ve ever-”
“As I backed it up right into her lap! Ayo!”
“Huh? Oh, right. Flamewar. Did you actually sit on her? I wasn’t looking, uh, if you did do that. Seems a little soon.”
“Not yet! But it’s lookin’ good for me! Real good. I scored a girl’s number, CZ, can ya believe it! I’mma be pullin’ on her handlebars one of these nights! Take her for a long, hard ride! Vroom-vroom, honk-honk!”
“…That’s really crude, Ransack. But cute, ’cause it’s coming from you.”
“Why do you not listen?”
“Because Slip said the same things you’re saying, and both of you guys left us when things got hard,” Thrust points out with a scoff, tossing a canister of coolant over at Nova Storm so she can chug it greedily.
Jetfire flinches handsomely, recoiling into himself. What can he even say to that? It is the truth, in all its hideous visage.
“We’re not cowards,” Nova Storm adds after some chugging, dragging a burly arm across her chin to wipe away the slopped coolant, an erotic display somehow intensified by the cruelty in her gaze. “You gotta commit to the war efforts and commit to your soldiers, Sir. If you leave again, I’m not following you. Star deserves loyalty, after all he’s had to put up with to save us. He is our hero.”
“If this war is truly salvation, then why did Slip so eagerly leave? Did she not see the damnation in this?”
“I just told you. She’s a coward. She fled for selfish reasons.”
“Nova,” Thundercracker reprimands very gently, “that’s not really–”
“Fair? No, it’s not. That’s the damn point. Leaving us to run off with her girl isn’t fair, Thunder.”
“Gotta agree with Nova on that one.”
“But Thrust, we can’t talk about each other like–”
“Oh, frag off, brother. Lemme be bitter about it. This hurts, okay.”
“You gonna do that same thing she did, Captain? Like how you left us before? She clearly takes after you.”
“Nova, please!”
“Ah, I see how it is.” Jetfire’s optics glimmer as he clears his great vents and turns his helm aside, so that it is perhaps a little less obvious that he is about to burst into tears before his subordinates who love him yet do not honour him, do not respect him, and do not trust him. “Yes,” he confesses quietly, “I see it, now.”
“I can’t believe you linked comms with him!”
“He’s a guy. I hit up guys sometimes.”
“Well, he is kinda hot, not gonna deny that, but dodgy as frag! I sorta see the appeal, but still! Girlfriend, you’re inviting trouble into your life. Stay away from bad boys.”
“I’m sorta bad myself.”
“Oh, right. I forget that, since you’re such a sweetie.”
“I wasn’t always.” Flamewar is sullen again, but she is not currently in hiding somewhere, so this is still a step forward. She is making herself useful taking inventory. “I used to run with a rough crew. I can remember that much. I am trouble. I can handle Ransack easy.”
“I’m sure you can. He’ll bend over for you like a little slag. They always do.” Thunderblast is pretending to work, but really she is here to gossip. “Sweetie, listen.”
“I’m listening. I’m a good listener.”
“I know you’re vulnerable right now because you’re fragged-up over Slipstream, but you honestly can do so much better than some scavenger from Velocitron working for Swindle, of all people. You might catch something if you wind up letting the little guy hit. I could just smell old oil wafting off of Ransack like cheap cologne.”
“I’m not looking to hit.”
“Then why’d you give him your number?”
“He’s a skrunkly little motorbike, just like me. We could have fun, without bumping our nasties together. I struggle to make friends, so I’m making the effort to reach out to someone new.”
“That’s just so brave of you, but sorry to say, he’s only gonna wanna frag you, sweetie. Guys like him, that’s all they think about. They don’t do platonic friendship, not without endless whining and begging for you to change your mind. Trust me, I would know.”
“He seems funny. I just hope he can make me smile again.”
“Aw. Sweetie!”
“Smiling is real hard without Slippy. Just when I thought I could get better and do the long-distance thing, she went and ripped my Spark out all over again. Worst part is I know she doesn’t mean to hurt me. She just hurts me. I’m not sure we can come back from this. I dunno what to do.”
Thunderblast ruffles Flamewar’s helm with a sisterly sigh. “Ugh. Girls really suck sometimes, huh.”
“Yeah.”
“Do you wanna put those plasma grenades down and come gimme a little cuddle real quick?”
The bike nods, setting aside the explosives before turning to cling to the statuesque boat. “I love you, dreamboat. I love you a lot.”
“I love you too, my skrunkly little dirt bike.”
“Scanners are picking up a Spark signature.”
The beams of headlights cross streams, sparkling with dust, as the power was cut before the memorial was fled due to the damage the Decepticons did to the place on their way out just to make things harder for the raiding party.
“Here, help me get it open.”
Festering in agony and delirious with malnutrition, Five-of-Twelve gurgles unintelligibly as his prayers are finally answered, the security door being forced aside to admit the lights of his salvation, these very saviours aiming their weapons into the gloom of his prison.
“Oh, Primus.”
“The smell!”
“Check him.”
“Scanners indicate he’s desperately low on Energon. Whatever they’ve been feeding him, it - wait.” One saviour steps forth with her arm raised before herself, facemask lit an ethereal blue by the holographic interface projected from her forearm, squinting at the data readout. “What is that?”
The mech in the chair can barely squirm, choking wetly, his drip tugged limply in his feeble struggles.
“Sir, there’s a strange mass in his–”
Altogether, in an instant, comes upon them a searing heat and far too much light.
“So. What do you think?”
“Well, this is an upgrade, for sure.” Flamewar turns about within the new armoury under her purview. “Now I’ve put it all away, everything fits real nice, plus we got a little space left for more goodies.” She has unpacked and assembled their equipment neatly, including inventory courtesy of Swindle trying to further ingratiate himself and his booming business with Megatron by supplying his Decepticon forces with quality weaponry, tactical gear and other useful supplies at competitive prices, so competitive in fact that it is suspicious, hence why the cops called for a bounty hunter. Unfortunately for them, Roulette seems more interested in fragging the charismatic and attractive Swindle, at least for now, and so his business continues uninterrupted. “Everything else still sucks, but at least the facilities don’t. Decent rig. Makes me feel marginally better.”
“That’s good. I’m glad. I hoped you’d be happier here.”
“But you’ll be watching me, in case I try and off myself, right?”
“Yes, I’m still monitoring you and restricting your access, until I trust you not to pose a suicide risk. But I won’t forbid you entry to this armoury, under appropriate circumstances. Don’t frag this up, okay.”
“Better than before, I guess. I’ll try not to, boss bot.”
“Thank you.” Shadow Striker sighs at length, laying a palm upon the shorter femme’s helm, ruffling it.
The bike sniffs, scratching her breastplate until a larger servo neatly smacks her claws. “Ow! Hey. I only like getting slapped in berth, or maybe sometimes a little spank on the aft between friends. That spank didn’t feel friendly.”
“Don’t cut yourself open again.” The mercenary points with a large digit, wagging it in reprimand. “Or I’ll get the sealant out and slather your tits in it, like I did before.”
“Primus, boss bot, anything but that stuff, on my beautiful tits. That stink’s gotta be burned into my memory banks by now.”
Shadow Striker softens her surly facial features and smiles fondly down at her subordinate, looming over her. “I’d like another shot at those beautiful tits of yours, though. I could slather them in something a lot more pleasant.”
Flamewar’s adorable scowl turns into a wicked grin, fanged and scarred. “You big slag, you.”
“That’s me, alright. Been a bit since we last fragged. You wanna go?”
“Here? The clanging of our frames could cause enough friction to send sparks flying.”
“That’s cute.”
“Very dangerous around gear like this, though. We could explode.”
“Relax. Only thing blowing up is my spike on your rack, if you want it to.”
The bike’s grin fades. “Nah. Not feeling it. Sorry, boss bot.”
The mercenary sags a little, disappointed. “Okay, well, when you’re feeling it, just let a glitch know.”
“Thanks. You’re gonna probably have to wait a bit. I think I’m keeping my legs closed for a good while.”
“Is this really all Slipstream’s doing?”
“My body misses hers. I don’t want another body taking her place just yet.”
“It’s interesting.”
“What’s interesting?”
“The way you think, versus the way I think. First thing I always did after a messy breakup, back when I bothered with relationships and all that scrap, was find somebody new. And the first thing I’m still likely to do, soon as I realise I’m lingering a little too long, getting a little too comfortable with somebody specific, is hop onto the next fragger waiting in line who looks alright for a bit of fun.”
“Yeah, but you don’t fully realise how heavily fetishized I am as a bike, do you, boss bot. Slippy offered me something real. She indulged all my weird kinky stuff because she loved me, not because I’m built different and there’s this mythology around bikes that convinces bigger guys like you that little guys like me are all dirty slags with wild fantasies just begging to burst. Only reason anybody else would even touch me is because I’m hot and it’s easy to make up a bunch of assumptions about what me based on the way I look and act. I even play into it a little because it’s just easier that way and it got me through some tough times in the past. You know how often skeevy dudes approached me, offering me gigs in brothels, or starring roles in porno holovids? Often enough. I’d be a hit, they all said. But Slippy was safe. She made me feel safe, because I just wanna be wanted, and she wanted me too, but it was beautiful and pure. This want.”
“Oh. Damn. That puts it all into perspective.”
“Uh-huh.”
“But I’m not like those other bigger guys. I actually want what’s best for you. I’d almost go so far as to confess that I actually…”
“…Care about me.”
“Yes. Despite my bad glitch self being too big and strong for such soft scrap, you’re special to me. Not a lotta people matter, but you do.”
“You got a little crush on me, don’tcha?”
Shadow Striker rolls her scope and turns her helm aside with a huff, scowling, flushed. “Don’t be a dumbaft. I haven’t had a crush since… I can’t even remember when. Longaft time ago, though.”
“Maybe. But then again, I am downplaying your feelings for me.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. You know what I said. Want me to repeat it?” Flamewar pokes her glossa out at the taller femme, having to aim upward by a considerable margin, neck bent back to level out their difference in height. “You’re so tough, sure, but some of that’s just an act. I give you fuzzy feelings, I’m the glitch putting static in your helm. You keep denying it even when it hurts you. Scares you. You did the same thing to Slippy.”
The mercenary slowly stoops to bring her scowl very close to the bike, easily within kissing range. “Careful.” Never before has that word sounded so dangerous.
Instantly, Flamewar sobers, wincing. “I’m sorry.”
Shadow Striker slowly rises again, looming, distancing herself.
“I’m being an afthole. Teasing you is fun and all, but there’s a lot happening inside and I acted out on it, just now. I’m all up in my own feels, y’know? I have so much frustration I gotta strangle and pin down all the time. But that was too much, way too much. I apologise.”
“We all have to come to terms with scrap. You’ve been pretty selfish, all things considered, vanishing like you do when you go into hiding, not being around to help out your team, refusing to let us help you.”
“Boss bot…”
“You can’t keep doing this to me. Or to Demolishor and Thunderblast, obviously,” the mercenary grumbles, sullen. “We need you.”
The bike ducks her helm. “I’ll do my job. I’ll pull my weight.”
“It’s not just about your productivity.”
Flamewar is now chewing her derma anxiously, resisting the urge to claw herself open.
“You mean something to someone. A few someones, actually. All of us. And unless you wanna be toxic, being cared about comes with a level of consideration for others. I can’t believe I, of all glitches, am the one reminding you to have a little empathy for the rest of us degenerates, but here we are.”
“You’re right, boss bot. I’m sorry. I’ve been scrappy to everybody, made you guys all worry about me, and I even bit you that one time. I’m sorry for all of it. Yeah, it’s a vibe. We’re all feeling something. I don’t mean to act like I’m special or the only one with feelings around here.”
“Nobody thinks you’re special. Just strange.”
“Oh, boss bot, you are such a charmer.”
“I know.”
“And I do hate myself for it. I hate myself for hurting you, for hurting them.”
“Don’t bother directing that hate at yourself. Waste of energy. Channel that hate into something productive, like these endless chores that always need doing. Just don’t direct that hate at your people, either.”
“I could never hate you, boss bot.”
Shadow Striker grunts as the shorter femme gives her a quick, tight hug about the torso, then slinks off with a feline stealthiness before that hug can be returned. “Hey. Where are you going?”
Flamewar stops, looking back past her pauldron kibble. “Not someplace secret to hide. Just thought I’d go check in on Demolishor, see if he needs help with those cables.”
The mercenary smiles at that. “Good girl. Just remember something.”
The bike tilts her helm. “Yeah?”
“Nobody’s perfect, not even me, and I’m damn close to perfection. Nobody expects you to be perfect, especially if I sometimes fail at it. Even I had to figure out my own scrap, after Slipstream–” Shadow Striker stops, sighs. “Ugh.”
“Will there ever be a time, when I can tell you how you make me feel, boss bot? When you can allow yourself to admit how you feel, too - about me, about her?”
“If you’re gonna use the l-word to describe it, then no, never.”
Flamewar manages another fanged grin. “Lesbian.”
This makes the old mercenary chuckle, relaxing all over. “Actually, I like that word. We’ll go with that.”
The bike winks, then skulks out. She is still miserable, but this is progress, between them.
“By the way, your aft is far too fat,” Shadow Striker calls after Flamewar.
“Yup.”
“How did training go today, Captain?” rumbles Megatron pleasantly enough.
Jetfire stares at his plate. “Please do not call me that.”
Starscream sneers prettily into his crystalline flute, reminding himself to be patient and charming.
“The Seekers are receptive to my teachings. They are all physically fit and capable of performing whatever feat is required of them. They work well together.”
“Do they improve?”
“Yes. And quickly.”
“Very good, my darling. Of course, we will preserve this knowledge and impart it upon the data transfer when the next batch of Sparks are thawed and implanted. Oh, you should visit one of the old factories we restored. I’m sure it would be nostalgic for you.”
“I should have never told you of those secret places.”
“Well, you did, and now I’m repopulating our people.”
“So that they can die in masses to achieve this Seeker utopia under the Decepticon banner.”
“We’ve been over this.”
“Slip was unconvinced. I was willing to listen, to try and understand, until she was gone and I was the one to be left behind.”
“She is a fool!”
“Only because she is the only one smart enough to escape this waking nightmare. No, Star, although I love you, I cannot love war, even a war fought on the battlefield of noble ideals and intentions. Such things inevitably die, as well.”
“You sanctimonious old fool! You haven’t changed at all, you fraud!”
“Star, please.”
“You… are just like her! Both of you! You never believed in me, you only pretended because you thought that might finally make me happy!” Starscream pushes back his chair and stands at the table, stooping over it to yell down upon Jetfire’s lowered helm. “She left me! Are you going to leave me again?! After I took you back, returned you to the very Seekers you abandoned, fed you, housed you, restored your rank! How dare you even consider it?!”
Megatron attempts to soothe his lover, to no avail.
“How could you?! Why do you always do this to me?! Why does everyone I love leave me?!”
Jetfire endures Starscream’s distinct shrill volume, silent.
“I just want what’s best for our people! I just want the loyalty and adoration I rightfully deserve! You will see, they will all see! To the ends of the earth, my greatness will shine high above, casting rays of hope upon wings, burning the bent backs of those who looked down on me and mine!”
The crystalline flutes shatter, spilling pretty little shards and Engex upon their plates.
“Starscream, that is enough!” Megatron so rarely raises his voice. It is truly terrifying when he does. “Compose yourself at once!”
Wings folding demurely, all the fight suddenly gone like a light that has been flicked off, Starscream meekly falls into his chair, panting and cringing.
“How can I accept that your way is the only way?” Jetfire asks quietly, carefully.
“Because if you go, I will not forgive you again. I will not let you leave. It will not be over between us.” Starscream’s servos tremble atop the table, optics wide and wild, seared over. “Not over,” he mutters through trembling dentas. “Never over.”
Calmed, Megatron very gently lays his massive palm over his lover’s more delicate digits, one servo enough to cover both, pinning them, as if they might try to wrench themselves away.
For a while, there is silence.
“How many Sparks do you have frozen?”
The unstable Commander looks up at the unwilling Captain. “Enough, for now.”
“And what happens when you inevitably run out?”
The leader of the Decepticons, a tired old gladiator playing his part as a warlord, seems uncomfortable answering that.
“Oh, do not worry. I trust Shockwave and Acid Storm to solve that particular problem.”
Chapter 49
Notes:
Potential trigger warnings: substance abuse, public humiliation, suicidal ideation, existential dread, trauma.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“This whole time, she’s been with me or she’s been with any of our other friends. Constant supervision, like you insisted. She isn’t a Decepticon spy, Sentinel, and she didn’t warn Shadow Striker about the raid - how could Slip ever benefit from doing such a thing? She finally broke free! On my honour, I swear it. This is a tragedy, but there’s no treachery here. They know she’s with me and they just assumed you’d attempt a raid on the war memorial because they held a prisoner of war underneath.”
“Mm. This is logical, yes, and by your sheer conviction, I’m inclined to believe you speak the truth, or at least what you believe to be true, Cityspeaker. Besides that, the Seeker has a very stupid look on her face right now, which tells me she is as shocked as to this turn of events as we are.”
Slipstream stares vapidly into space, trembling, clutching at her gut, mute. Once again, her actions have led to deaths, directly or indirectly, and she will never feel clean again.
Windblade sighs, rubbing her ex-girlfriend’s arm. “Sentinel, I am so deeply sorry.”
“As am I. Those were good people who were sent to their deaths. We’re still sifting the rubble, in the hope that a faint Spark signature may yet reveal itself. For those confirmed dead, may their souls find eternal peace in the AllSpark.”
Everybody hangs their helm in a moment of silence.
“I’ll need to attend more funerals over the coming days,” Sentinel mutters, breaking the pause first. “But there is something else I must do.” He seems to be speaking to himself. “Something I should’ve done from the beginning, yet I was dissuaded. No more.”
“Sentinel?” Ariel tries to touch him, but he shrugs her off.
“Leave me be. I’ll prepare myself.”
“Prepare yourself for what? What’re you–?”
“A speech.” He gets up and walks out. “Do not disturb me!”
Windblade shakes her helm.
Orion lays a palm on Slipstream’s trembling pauldron. “You appear unwell.”
In reply, she wrenches herself from his fatherly touch, stumbles out her seat, stoops over to rip the lid off of the garbage disposal unit and proceeds to wretch as she vomits into it.
“Tell me what to do,” Jetfire intones, cupping Skywarp’s young face in his weathered old palms, stroking the flawless synthetic membrane of her cheeks with his callused thumbs. “I am a fool.”
She gazes up at him, saying nothing.
He sighs.
“Are you feeling a little better, now?”
“A little, yes.”
Windblade stands with Slipstream stooped over a sink, washing away the bile of before.
Shadow Striker pauses, peering down. “By the way, Megatron just confirmed your kills.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yup. He wanted me to pass on his commendation for being creative and crazy. Primus help me if I ever end up on your hit list. Your track record thus far terrifies me.”
“Aw, c’mon, boss bot! You’re just saying that to make me feel badaft.”
“You are badaft. It genuinely concerns me.”
“Hey, someone’s gotta be the hot little whackjob around here.” Flamewar smirks. “Good thing I like you, huh.”
“Yeah. Good thing, for me.”
“I hate seeing you so anxious.”
The femmes sit side-by-side, one looking at the other, who looks anywhere else.
“Sentinel’s assigned me on a mission.”
“Oh.”
“The work I do for the Council is important and I need you to know that.”
“I do.”
“I’m just worried about leaving you behind. Will you be okay on your own, for a few hours?”
“Don’t worry about me.”
“After what happened earlier? Of course I’m worried about you.”
“I can survive without you for a few hours, if I have to.”
“Yeah, well.” Windblade squeezes Slipstream’s thumb, sighing. “I want this to work, more than anything. I never want to be without you, ever again, so I guess I might overthink things a bit.”
“You’ve done all you can for me. Do what you have to do, for the rest of Cybertron. Go out there and save the world. I’ll be alright, waiting for your return.”
“The moment there’s trouble, call me, okay. I’ll swoop in and rescue you.”
“No need for that, my love. You already saved me.”
The Cityspeaker seems unconvinced, frowning prettily at the floor.
The Seeker flinches.
“I love you, Slip.”
“I love you, too.”
This love must be enough to sustain them, or what is the usefulness in love? Without sustenance, all that is left, is sacrifice.
“Darling, the answer is no.”
“Uuugh!”
“Don’t throw a tantrum in my ward. I’ll have Breakdown toss you out.”
Starscream does that thing with his face that indicates he is about to get very loud, only to change tactics slyly, slinking over and sliding his arms around Knock Out’s handsome neck instead.
“Get cute all you like. I can’t keep sedating you. Deal constructively with your problems and learn your lessons after the third or fourth time making the same mistake, like you’re supposed to.”
“Why not appease me, good Doctor?”
“Addiction, for one thing,” answers the medic readily, saddling his palms companionably upon the Commander’s shapely hip joints, squeezing fondly. “Permanent damage to your neural network, for another.”
“Oh, pish posh! What is life, without risk? I need to feel nothing for a little while and only you can dispense that medicine I’m begging you for. Be my hero.”
“This act of yours would work on lesser mechs, but not I, my dear.”
“Well, fine. I don’t know what all the fuss is about.” Starscream huffs, moodily resting his chin atop Knock Out’s pauldron. “You have no license to lose, good Doctor, so are you really still bound by that silly little oath you swore, not to do any patient harm?”
“I don’t want to harm you, dear.”
“You don’t?” The Commander’s optics widen. “You don’t.”
The medic answers that with a little slap on the hip in reprimand.
“Ow!”
“Of course not, you ridiculous bird. Are you learning to assume everyone close to you means you harm?”
“Perhaps I am.”
“That calls for therapy, my dear.”
Starscream eases back, gazing into Knock Out’s gorgeous optics.
“I’m not qualified to give you that sort of treatment, but I can give you a candy.”
“I don’t want the damn candy. I want a sedative.”
“Have a seat.”
The Commander plants his aft on the gurney whilst the medic retrieves his jar of Energon candies, intended to encourage Decepticons to behave during medical procedures.
“You will do this for me. This is not a request.”
Cornered and separated from any rescuers, Slipstream nods silently, sullenly, submitting to Sentinel as if he were Starscream.
“And in return, I can be quite amenable. The Functionists like to parade about like they own the place, but I am the one in command, here. We understand each other, mm?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Very good, Seeker.”
She accepts a patronising little pat on the helm, though some part of herself does want to bite him for it.
“Aches and pains again, treads?”
“Yup. When you get as old as I am, you’ll feel it too. Doesn’t help that so much of me is broken or breaking down, so I gotta get replacement parts, but they just don’t make mechs like me any more, so I’m using whatever Megatron can find that’ll fit. Don’t get me wrong, he saved me from the scrap heap and I’m grateful, but it’s just…”
“…Not comfy.” Flamewar sets the spool of fresh cable aside. “Being a cold construct fragging sucks.”
“Damn right it does.”
“Where does it hurt?”
“Everywhere,” Demolishor grunts back, stooped and sweating into his work.
“I can rub some oil into your joints if you don’t mind the claws.”
“No, I won’t subject you to that. Thanks, though.”
“I could try kissing it better, but I’m not a leggy mech with a fat rack, so…”
The tank pauses to smile aside at the bike, strained with physical discomfort.
“How about a hug?”
“I could use a hug.”
Flamewar is so much smaller than Demolishor that it is absurd, but she wraps herself around one of his burly arms and rests her cheek against his pauldron all the same.
“That’s helping.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
“Love you, treads.”
“Love you, too.”
She giggles as he attempts to pat her fondly on the helm, only for his servo to utterly engulf her in the effort.
“My good Doctor…” Starscream curls his pretty upper derma snidely as he inspects the bright yellow Energon candy held aloft betwixt the polished tips of his dainty digits for his inspection, optics narrowed critically as it catches the light like a gemstone. “I came here for a sedative, and you offer me a sweet. Are you quite serious?”
“Would you prefer I take the sweet away?”
“It’s just… Uuugh.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“It’s such a Bumblebee shade of yellow! Too bright, too sunny, too cheerful!”
“How about a sombre blue? Or an ominous purple? I like the red ones myself.”
“Bah! I’m in no mood for blue and purple. Red reminds me of Windblade… and you.”
“Don’t you like to be reminded of me, darling?”
“I do. But you went and offered me a yellow one, didn’t you! Honestly.”
“My apologies. Let me remove the offensive candy at once.”
“Now, now, I didn’t say that. It’s fine. It’ll suffice. Leave it.”
With a dramatic roll of the optics, Knock Out sighs and reaches for the Energon candy, as if to snatch it back.
“No!” The Commander whips himself around, clutching the bright yellow candy possessively against his bosom, wings flared out as if to make him appear bigger against an encroaching threat. “It’s mine! I want it and you can’t have it!”
The medic raises his palms and steps back, whistling. “Perhaps I should reconsider that sedative.”
Starscream hisses, then savagely shoves the Energon candy into his intake, bulging out against his cheek as he glares adorably at Knock Out.
“Can we keep him?” Breakdown asks from his place at the desk, typing away, a diligent assistant and model husband. “He’s feisty. It’s cute.”
“Sentinel,” Orion mutters delicately through a frown, “why is Slipstream here, and not with her friends among the audience?”
“Because the Seeker is about to be useful to me.”
“Useful? She has complied with your demands thus far. A public appearance such this is surely unnecessary.”
“Ah, but you see, I have a plan.”
“I am certain you do. However, we have a duty of care. We are to shelter her, not draw her out into the open to weaponise her image. Is that your plan, Sentinel?”
“Because that’s a really fragging cruel plan, old mech. You can’t be serious.”
Slipstream feels so small, surrounded on all sides by the imposing figures of Sentinel, Orion, Ariel.
“I know what I’m doing, Ariel, and I know this will work. Orion, you’re the one always blabbering on and on about unification - ’til all are one, was it? This will prove your dream a plausible reality in the optics of the common idiot watching our broadcast. They will be watching and they will be convinced.”
“And why are you subjecting Slipstream to this public perception? Are our good deeds and noble arguments not enough?”
“Clearly not, you sanctimonious old fart! And even if your way were to prove effective, your way takes too long. Now is a call for action. I am a mech of action. And we’ve got a real, live Decepticon among us.” Sentinel shakes Slipstream as if to illustrate, causing her to wince, flushed and pathetic, feeling so very small. “Of course I’m going to make use of that. I’ll make her into a sad little symbol of desertion. She fled the Decepticons and crawled into our nurturing arms for comfort and here we are, comforting her. We are the good guys!”
“She doesn’t look comforted.”
“Stage fright, obviously. She’ll be fine!”
“You never ran this plan by us, Sentinel.”
“Too late to debate it now. Besides, you two never listen to me, why should I even bother trying to talk to you about my plans?”
“Because we’re a team! We’re on the same side!”
“Then act like it!” Sentinel prods Ariel in the chassis, making her growl as he streaks his paint over hers. “We are to present a united front, you two fools!” Orion gets a glare, which he tolerates patiently, and so Sentinel goes on. “And when the people realise that we harbour a willing defect, it can only boost the public perception of our cause! I’ve even convinced the Functionists to skew their own scripture a little, to further justify how her purpose resides with us now! That nonsense about form and function can be twisted however we like, really, with a little creative interpretation.”
“How in the Pits did you manage to convince the Functionists to adopt a Seeker? They call her a solider, a weapon, and nothing more.”
“You forget, my darling Ariel, I happen to be very charming and persuasive when I try a little.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And after what happened to Five-of-Twelve, well, the Functionists are desperate enough to let me do what I must to win. I just need to ensure the victory myself, or they’ll gloat and assume too much.”
“Do you not realise the danger in this? A public display of desertion puts Slipstream, and those who revolve around her, at risk of retaliation.”
“Yeah, Starscream will be furious, that’s for fragging sure. Crazy little twink just might try something.”
Hearing Ariel say this, Slipstream suddenly breaks out into nervous laughter, but it dies quickly. “Oh, we are so screwed.” And so she quietens down again, wishing to die.
“My dear Megatron, who already feels so betrayed, will only have more ammunition to use against us. Please do not incite them further.”
“Oh, please, with the security presence here, she’ll be perfectly safe and so shall we. As for inciting anything, well, obviously that’s the point.”
Orion and Ariel are both about to question that.
“Enough chatter! We don’t have much time left before the big performance.”
“For pity’s sake, Sentinel, she’s terrified. Don’t string her up on camera like that,” Ariel intones irritably, shaking her helm and huffing. “The girl’s got enough on her plate. You’re not only endangering her, you’re humiliating her.”
“Nonsense! The Seeker agreed to it.”
“No, you bullied her into it.”
“Be that as it may, what’s done is done.” Holding up a huge palm and infuriatingly dismissing any further argument or voicing of concern for the captive, Sentinel keeps a firm grip on Slipstream’s elbow joint as he addresses his fellow Councillors with haughty superiority. “I assume you have no speech prepared, Ariel, as you never bothered before, so I ask that you keep back and look pretty for the cameras, please.”
“Bite me.”
“Lovely. You will go first, Orion, as the universal father figure, and dispense your paternal platitudes before I take my fabulous turn to be the hero the public adores.”
“Oh, Primus spare us.”
“Of course, Alpha Trion is recording proceedings for his endless records and will not be on camera this occasion.”
“I urge you to reconsider, Sentinel. Do not use Slipstream as a prop to aggravate the Decepticons.”
“She will make a lovely prop.”
“I will not permit it.”
“Just try and stop me, really make a scene in front of all those people, looking to us for love and leadership. That’ll inspire so much confidence in your dream. ’Til all are one, as you always say!”
Orion hesitates, wincing as he looks between Slipstream, Sentinel, and Ariel.
“That’s what I thought. Play your part and leave the rest to me.”
“You’re such an afthole! You might push Orion around because he’s too damn good for the rest of us, but I’m not standing for this.”
“Then sit down.”
“Listen here, you petty glitch, I-”
“Or better yet, leave. Go and attend to your organic fetish. Your tortured little projects matter more to you than this silly affair that will decide the future of this planet you willingly left behind.” Sentinel sneers, his chin quivering with emotion. “You never have a speech prepared because you can barely bother to care. You can’t even pretend to care, for me.”
“I do care.” Ariel bristles, clenching her fists, and yet she lowers her helm with a shaky exhale, evidently wounded by those words, sensory spires lowering to press flat against her helm. “So much for the pretence, huh. United front, my aft.”
“You were invited to participate. You are invited to leave. You could stay, of course, but you won’t.”
“Stop it.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time you’ve stormed off and left us behind.”
“Sentinel, enough!”
The damage is done, for the proud Ariel cannot meet Sentinel’s cold glare, giving Orion a little pat on the arm and Slipstream a brief squeeze over the pauldron before Ariel turns and retreats with her dignity in tatters.
“Though I do expect you to pose for holograms, later!”
Slipstream swallows the bile at the grim acknowledgment that this is the mech who claims to be the hero they all need, yet do not deserve.
“Forgive the interruption, my dear,” Empress murmurs huskily into Megatron’s neck as if to be discrete, “but the Council is putting on another show.”
“More of Sentinel’s posturing and Functionist drivel. I care not.”
“Yes, but I think you’ll want to watch it unfold. Trust me, dear.”
“Do not waste my time.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
Megatron grimaces, his ghastly expression reflected back at him from within the wide optics of a terrified Decepticon who cowers below him, pooled within his mighty shadow, a pathetic figure frozen in the process of being publicly reprimanded for subpar work.
“Let us watch it together, somewhere private.” Empress clears her vents and offers her burly arm, indicating that she is being polite, but insistent. “Shall we?”
“We shall.” He begrudgingly accepts her firm invitation. “Lead on.”
“Oh, thank Primus,” croaks the disciplined Decepticon as the enormous bodies depart, taking their fearsome shadows with them.
Orion concludes his speech, a gentle and sombre affair, advising for rational minds and compassionate Sparks to prevail so that all may stand together as one, a future Cybertron united under the common goal of peace and freedom.
Ariel is not present. She generally prefers not to say anything herself, feeling increasingly alienated among her own people, her willingness to stay and defend the world she had once left behind in pursuit of her own peace and freedom called into question again, and again.
Sentinel strides up to the podium. “I’ll be brief.” He glares into the camera drone that hovers before him, its hovering stare adjusting to his impressive stature seamlessly. “In the wake of this tragedy, one thing is clear. In truth, it has always been clear, and this tragedy only reaffirms it. Megatron’s madness must come to a swift and decisive end, by any means necessary, before he kills again.”
Orion clenches his fist tightly enough to creak, his gentle soul aching.
“Decepticons who now see the truth and have come to doubt your master, I implore you to surrender yourselves and abandon the cause, for it is wickedness he will bestow upon you, wickedness he will have you do in his name, and only wickedness will be the legacy left to inherit with the ruination of our world. There is only doom, if you go down that dark path. However, the light of my mercy shall extend to all who would desert his banner. See here, this Seeker that I have spared.”
Slipstream flinches as she is pulled before the camera by the elbow, presented to ogle at, her Deceptibrand baleful and menacing upon her bosom like a branding of villainy, rendering her vile.
“Good people of Cybertron, I am just the mech to put a stop to the Decepticon menace.” Sentinel sucks in air, swelling himself, handsome and gleaming before his audience. “But I do not mean harm to those Megatron has wronged, yet would escape his clutches and come to my side, seeing through his lies - the great deception is upon you. See, how this one has been spared. She is proof that it isn’t too late for you. She is a testament to the benevolence of the Functionist Council. We know what is best, we want what is best, for you. This criminal can go on to live a productive life as a restored citizen with the aid of our rehabilitation programmes-”
Flushed with fear and shame, burning under the unblinking camera lens symbolic of so many stares attributed to this broadcasted propaganda piece, Slipstream still manages to give Sentinel a critical sidelong look. She is not aware of such social initiatives. She was just threatened with imprisonment.
Thunderblast is on the move, sprinting down the corridor with a comical grimace. A femme of many talents, she is scarily fast when immersed in liquid or skimming the surface, yet she also moves astonishingly quickly on solid ground. An explanation would attribute her speed to her fortuitous proportions, endowed as she is with long, powerful legs designed to aid in swimming whilst in root mode, in turn granting her kicks that prove lethal in melee combat, the ability to leap over considerable distances, and the shock absorption necessary to survive long drops. In spite of expectations to the contrary, she can compensate impressively for the limitations of her aquatic alt-mode when out in the field. As if she needed any more assets to prove a dangerous huntress.
Shadow Striker curses, jerking with fright as her speedy subordinate bursts into the office. “Primus’ ball-bearings!”
“Boss! Boss! Boss!”
“What!”
“You gotta see this!” The panting boat slams a datapad down on the desk.
The mercenary scowls down at the broadcast, exhaling harshly. “Oh, frag me sideways.”
“She’s making us look bad in front of, like, the whole world!”
“Bah. Never mind Scream. The big mech himself is gonna love this.”
“And what about Flamewar? She’s barely even functional right now, but after this? It’ll crush her precious little Spark into, like, a billion bits!”
“I really hate my line of work sometimes. I should’ve cut my losses and retired a couple million years ago like Roulette said.”
“Who’s Roulette?”
“My sister.”
“You have a sister?”
“I had two.”
“Hey, guys. Ugh, I can’t see! I hate being short sometimes. What did I miss?”
Hot Rod is unsmiling as he finally turns to look down on Bumblebee. “Everything, little dude.”
“That’s… ominous.”
“It is not good,” Grimlock intones over the noise, crammed between smaller bodies, stood pauldrons above the sea of helms. “Not good at all.”
“You guys are freaking me out.”
Grimlock offers Bumblebee an arm, Hot Rod offering another, allowing the smallest mech to grasp onto them within the confined space. Together, they lift Bumblebee high enough to see things as they do.
“Oh, frag, no!”
On top of previously established responsibilities to the Council, Windblade makes a point of circling the periphery of the Decepticon stronghold, keeping a keen optic out for Seeker activity, careful not to lure Starscream into another confrontation, hopeful to scout Jetfire from a safe enough distance to reassure herself he is okay. She has returned every day since they parted ways.
In the midst of training the subordinate Seekers, imprisoned by love and duty and guilt, Jetfire searches for traces of Windblade, too. He has not forgotten his newfound friend and intends to return to her once he is able to convince his Seekers to escape this war, but Starscream refuses to back down and persuasive personalities such as Nova Storm refuse to leave their Commander, not even for the likes of Jetfire himself, alienating him from his own kind, perhaps somewhat deserved.
A friendly ping alerts Windblade that someone is attempting to hit up her comm link. As she recognises the contact, she answers with an audible smile. “Hi, Bee.”
“Hey, bestie.” Despite the affectionate choice of wording, Bumblebee does not sound like he is smiling.
“What happened? What’s wrong?”
“Not to freak you out, but you might wanna get back to base ASAP. Sentinel pulled a stunt.”
“On my way.” The Cityspeaker turns gracefully in the air, reorienting her turbines. “What’s he done this time?”
“So, like, the Council’s addressing the public as planned, right.”
“Right.”
“And he’s making a big speech about Decepticons turning from their wicked ways after embracing the light of his salvation, blah-blah-blah.”
“He takes all the credit. Of course.”
“Yeah, exactly,” the scout scoffs, “and the Functionists are all begrudgingly nodding their helms like they believe a word of that scrap. That’s all fine and whatever. Anyway, um… I need you to promise not to blow up when you get here, not with all the cameras around.”
“Bee, please.”
“I’m serious. Orion really needs us to all get along in front of people and Grim says it’s important we boost our approval ratings with this speech. Nobody can stop Sentinel without making a huge scene and the Council can’t afford to look any worse than they already do.” Bumblebee pauses for a shaky exhale. “These speeches are supposed to help convince people to believe in us. Talking sense into people, it’s gotta work eventually, right? So I’m holding myself back. But I just wanna scream.”
“Bee, what did Sentinel do.”
“He’s dragged Slip onstage.”
Windblade feels a clench within her fuel tank.
“Megatron, I know you’re listening. Listen well.”
Sat upon a sagging chair as if it were a throne, Megatron leans back against Empress' massaging servos, laid over his pauldrons in adoring attendance whilst her optics devour a Seeker in dismay onscreen.
“I will save, I will spare, and I would show this grace even to you, if only you would surrender.”
Tearful yet unwilling to openly weep, Ariel keeps herself busy tending to organics with Arcee attempting to provide good company.
“But I know your Spark. I recognise the darkness that has befallen your mind and gripped you in mania.”
Starscream is wasting time, laid out on the gurney, unbothered by the comings and goings within the medical bay, unwilling to face Jetfire or Megatron or the world at large, the attending Knock Out seeking slender digits to squeeze in passing.
“For all your poetry and prose, all you truly know is combat. Fighting defines you, gladiator.”
Shadow Striker and Thunderblast share a datapad between them. They draw closer out of some instinct to survive, until their helms come to rest familiarly together in silence.
“Your words incite others to think and feel as you do. You mind is turned to thoughts of violence. Your Spark yet dwells in the arena. I must lower myself, stoop from civility to meet you at your level beneath me, in order for us to come to an understanding and settle this score. We are both tired, old friend.”
Windblade finds Bumblebee stood between Hot Rod and Grimlock in the crowd, all equally unhappy. When she sees Slipstream and roars, friends who mean well seize her in a combined hug, in turn holding her back.
“And so, by the power vested me, I formally challenge you to–”
Orion realises what is about to happen and rushes forward as if to yank Sentinel off the stage, but it is too late.
“Trial by combat!”
There is a collective gasp.
“Your crimes will be meted out by my hammer! You choose the time and place! We battle, once and for all!”
“Have you gone mad?”
Slipstream shuffles out of the way whilst the bigger frames scuffle, wings drooled and helm ducked. She can hear Windblade calling to her.
“Meet my challenge, Megatron, you fiend! No more agents sent in secret to do your dirty work!” Sentinel clings to the podium, comically dragging it with him as Orion wrests the bigger mech off his platform and pulls him mostly out of view of the cameras, to the astonishment of all who witness it. “Face me, you coward! Fight me like a mech! Winner takes all, and I swear to Primus that upon my victory, I shall take all you have, all you are!”
The elite guard collectively cringe, police officers uselessly standing by.
Slipstream is left alone onstage, staring at her own Deceptibrand. As journalists yell questions at her, a media drone flies in a little too close for comfort, drawing her optics to look up into the lense of the camera. Gripped by the most dreadful anxiety of her entire life, she manages a shaky wave and soft, shy smile. “Hi, Starscream.” Primus. Why did she say that.
Jetfire and Slipstream make it seem like a Seeker’s lot is ultimately hopeless. Seekers are made alike, thus being an individual who dares to think for oneself in defiance of the collective is dangerous. Is it selfish, therefore, to aspire to be oneself, even if one is different in socially undesirable ways, even without intending harm?
“C’mon, Warp.” Any opportunity to meditate upon this early onset of existential dread is shattered by Nova Storm’s big servo fondly ruffling Skywarp’s helm. “Let’s go grab a shower and some grub, eh?”
The Seeker who refuses conventional forms of speech allows her burly older sister to pull her up and take her away.
“How dare you?”
Sentinel smugly smiles down at Windblade’s ire. “Now, now, Cityspeaker. The Seeker agreed to do it.”
“How dare you! Parading her in front of the whole of Cybertron for your political campaign, capitalising on her trauma to goad Megatron into a fight! That’s loathsome! Even for you!”
“Be that as it may, I’m about to win this war. You should thank me.”
“And what makes you so damn certain you won’t lose to him?”
“Oh, ye of little faith. You have no idea what I’m capable of in combat. Just you wait and see. You’ll be singing a different tune once I emerge glorious in victory and drag his broken body into the streets for all to gawk at and mock. And I did say I have the power to grant your beloved immunity, as you recall, so her compliance with my command was actually rather smart on her part. Clearly, she’ll do just about anything I tell her to, if she has any hope of being with you again, as a free femme, and not locked up in a cell for the rest of her life, as she deserves.”
Windblade looks like she is liable to take a swing at any second.
“My elite guards, kindly escort the Cityspeaker out my office. I have matters to attend to and she’s distracting me from my work.”
“Get your fragging servos off me! I can escort myself just fine!”
He has the gall to wave as she is shoved out the door.
Flamewar saunters into the recharge bay mid-yawn, scratching rudely at her modesty panels, slumped with fatigue. “Oh. Boss bot. ’Sup.”
Shadow Striker is already reclined over one of the available slabs, staring at the ceiling. Her scope swivels over and peers at her subordinate. The older femme manages a subtle smile, equally tired. “Hey.”
“You don’t usually…”
“I know. Don’t make a big deal out of it.”
“You’re doing this for me, then.”
“Just shuddup and come to berth already.”
None the wiser, the bike giggle-snorts, then throws herself over the other recharge slab with a clamour. “Ah. Just as uncomfy as the last.”
“Are you going to snore like that?”
“Yup.”
“Okay. And the one solution that consistently works is…”
“A cuddle.”
“I see. Just confirming what I already know.” The mercenary is quiet for several seconds. “You gonna come on over, or what?”
Flamewar lifts her helm, perked with interest. “You serious?”
“I am so serious.”
“Aw, boss bot.”
Shadow Striker gives the smaller femme a sidelong glare. “Well? Do you want this or not?”
“Aw, yeah, let’s gooo!” The bike eagerly leaps onto the mercenary, clambering over her to sprawl happily atop her much bigger frame.
“Fine, but I don’t want to hear a peep out of you this entire recharge cycle. Understood?”
Flamewar draws a line across her smile as if to seal her intake shut, nodding enthusiastically against Shadow Striker’s ample breastplate, chin propped between her headlights.
“Good girl. Go to sleep.”
Those big, wild optics that burn so bright and hot, flutter demurely shut with a rumble of the bike’s highly modified engine. Obediently, she settles down quickly, powering down without any issue.
The mercenary gazes at her subordinate with fondness, a foolish feeling. She drags a callused, large palm very gently along the smaller femme’s curved spinal strut, back and forth, intensifying the rumbling purrs that resonate so deeply between them. “Sweet dreams, you little maniac.”
Flamewar does not stir. She does not know.
Shadow Striker sighs, an eerily sad sound.
Notes:
Don't worry, Orion and Ariel will both become badass in due time. Remember, these are meant to be ordinary people (and not even youngsters), prior to their respective upgrades as Optimus and Elita. They haven't got much leadership experience yet, as they haven't been fighting an endless war for millions upon millions of years. They also love Megatron and don't want to harm him, so please be patient while I try to organically lead this plot up to that point, starting with Sentinel. Old robot men are gonna throw hands next chapter, so I hope you're looking forward to it. Thanks for reading!
Chapter 50
Notes:
The road ahead is very long and the happy endings are very limited. In the previous chapters, I established the politics. From this chapter onward, we dive into open conflict. For the sake of this story, I've reimagined the Cube arena/gladiatorial arena as two separate arenas, the Cube arena being more modern and slick, whilst the gladiatorial arena is older and more traditional. I figure it would be really weird, tonally speaking, to host both forms of entertainment in the same place. This chapter was not the easiest to put together, even with my prior planning. It turned out to be huge, so I've split it in half. I'll upload the second half in a few days or so.
Possible trigger warnings: failed friendships, emotional/physical abuse, psychological torment, acts of violence, collective bloodlust, mass death.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Over and over again, we have met in secrecy like this, to transcribe together the future of our people – your foresight and my Quill combined. And yet this great work is not meant for us alone. I am soon to be written out.”
“Does this distress you, my friend?”
“I am at peace with my death. Above all, I shall miss my darling pupil, the mech I have fostered and fathered, fit for his purpose as Prime.”
“Orion Pax, for a little longer. Ah, yes. He’ll grow into his new name. A more splendid fellow, I’ll never meet.”
“He will resent me, when I am gone.”
“As is his right. But don’t worry, I’ll watch over him, give him guidance to help nudge him along the path we’ve chosen.”
“Thank you.” Alpha Trion takes a delicate sip of his Energon, sighing. “I know it must be this way. We cannot predict how their story ends. It will be up to them to decide their final chapters, shaping the remnants of their world as an inheritance they will leave behind to the generations that follow. I think it is only fair, after such manipulation, that you and I never see the end of it all.”
“Old mechs like ourselves have no right to dictate the fate of all, forever. The balance of power must shift. This burden shall pass onto the young. Yes, this burden shall pass.” Maccadam’s perpetual smile fades slowly, softly, as he finds the other ancient’s servo and squeezes it. “Sooner for you, than I. The Judge is a long time coming.”
“Ah, Councillor! I see no Cityspeaker as your escort, this occasion. Such a shame.”
Ariel wants to get to Megatron, but she finds herself blocked off by his gleeful second-in-command. She narrows her optics and clenches her jaw, sensory spires twitching irritably atop her helm.
“Have you come to plead for Sentinel’s life?” Starscream scoffs, sauntering up to the bigger femme with total confidence, meeting her fury with a smug expression. “Aw, that’s precious.” He simpers, rapping his knuckles playfully against her chassis with a dull knocking of metal against heavier metal. “But I’m afraid it’s rather too late for that. He did involve the cameras and all those journalists, after all. Really, Megatron was left with no choice but to accept the challenge. Can’t very well back out of it now, mm? That wouldn’t do at all.”
“I don’t care about your pride or honour or any of that scrap, Megs. I’m talking to you as a friend, not an enemy. You’re not a gladiator any more,” the Councillor intones firmly, ostensibly ignoring the Commander as she glares over his helm at his one true master, the progenitor and leader of the Decepticons. “You can’t fight Sentinel. It’s wrong and you know it.”
And yet Megatron himself says nothing, his hellish optics downcast, helm turned aside.
“You don’t look happy. I can see you don’t wanna do this.”
“Unfortunately for Sentinel, what Megatron wants is irrelevant. Starscream is correct,” Empress drawls with her back at rest against the wall, her burly arms folded, dermas curved invitingly. “It’s not just about pride, honour, or any of that scrap, as you call it. Too much is at stake to leave unanswered challenges issued by ballsy mechs with the world held in suspense. People take these things seriously, but they don’t give a scrap about a gladiator’s dignity. It’s entertainment. Like Cube, only people don’t usually die horribly in Cube.”
“Would you fragging speak for yourself, Megs! I didn’t come here to hear it from your goons, I came to talk to you!”
“I am no coward, nor am I a fool, Ariel.”
“Sentinel has a lotta courage because he thinks he’s hot scrap, but he is a fragging idiot! He’s our fragging idiot!” Ariel shoves her way past the gloating Starscream, who is supremely offended, marching past the smiling Empress whose optics twinkle flirtatiously, until stopping before Megatron himself. “Listen to me!”
“I am listening.”
“I’ve seen what you do to your opponents! I couldn’t bear seeing you do those things to him! Please!”
Megatron is seized by the upper arms and shaken, his massive, ancient frame creaking as he is jostled.
“He doesn’t deserve to die like that.” Ariel bows her helm, cringing as the tears burst free. “Please, Megs. I’m begging you. Call it off. Blame me, let me take the fall for it. Just don’t hurt him. Don’t…”
“Kill him,” the old gladiator finishes quietly.
The Councillor weeps.
“Ariel, forgive me.”
“Megs…”
“I aspire to maintain the image of a strong, fearless, indomitable leader. My Decepticons demand nothing less. I must uphold this image to retain their respect for my authority.”
“You’ll tear him apart!
“He assumed the risk of his own accord.”
Ariel trembles when Megatron hooks a digit below her chin and tilts back her helm. She winces when he touches her face, dragging his thumbs across trails of tears. “Please spare him.”
“I am not known for my mercy in battle. He realises this, and so he will anticipate my violence, though he will not withstand it. I cannot promise not to land the killing blow. However, I do not desire to take his Spark offline this night, nor any other night. He may have forgotten our friendship, but I remember it well.”
Starscream sneers and Empress sighs.
“I will try to disable him and end the fight quickly, thus minimising harm. His injuries will be grievous, if not lethal.” Megatron kisses Ariel’s forehelm, bending a bit to do so. “That is all I can offer you now.”
“I implore you. Do not face him in battle.”
“Blah-blah-blah. Would you give it up already? Have a little faith in me, for once.”
“I do believe in you. And I believe in him, also.”
“Ugh.”
“My concern comes from a place of love. I wish you no harm, old friend. Yet I know that he is capable of harm. He has proved himself too dangerous. This fight is folly.”
“This fight is the finisher.”
“Do you truly think that?”
“Mark my words. I will end him tonight.”
Orion drags his palms over Sentinel’s broad back strut, a massage. “Please. Let us find another way. ”
“Your way takes too long and achieves too little. Now, shoo! I’m trying to put a face on. Stop distracting me or I’ll smudge.”
The old archivist falls into silence for some time, dismally watching the leader of the elite guard and fellow Councillor applying his makeup.
Sentinel is a gorgeous mech, thus it is purely for his own pleasure at being perceived that he applies ink to his puckered dermas, powder to his sculpted cheeks, and a little extra polish to his distinguished chin, finally inspecting his handsome facial rigging from all possible angles when he is done.
“You look beautiful, old friend,” Orion says sincerely, slumped as if hollowed out.
“Thank you. I know.”
“Do not make me confine you to your quarters indefinitely.”
“You have no such authority. Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I am part of the Council.”
“I am the Council.”
“Then why are you so afraid of doing all of this, alone?”
“And you intend to keep me locked in my quarters, I presume.”
“Yes, exactly. But only because you haven’t been very good to me and I’m not sure it’s safe to trust you just yet. Prove yourself worthy and I may yet change my mind.”
Jetfire lowers his gaze, his wings dropping as his jaw trembles with emotion.
Starscream sighs, stepping closer, stretching a bit to deposit a little lingering kiss to the taller mech’s cheek. “And yet, despite the pain of it all, never doubt that I love you very much.”
“I love you more. I only wish you could believe me when I say it.”
“Show me your love is real. Obey me, honour me, and be mine.”
“But the company you keep, the mission objectives of your leader, the terrible things you’ve done or allowed others to do for your own gain? Am I just to accept things as they are?”
“That depends. How sincerely do you wish to make amends with your Seekers, with me?”
“You are torturing me, Star.”
“Now you know how it feels, Captain. Start by using my proper title more often, mm?”
“Yes, Commander. My apologies.”
“Very good. Now, you stay here, in your nice little room, and wait for my return. You can watch the battle on the holoscreen over there and I’ve assembled enough snacks to keep you comfortable and otherwise occupied.”
“This battle is a brutal incompetence. You do realise this, yes?”
“Mmyes, well, I am bonded to a gladiator. You get used to it eventually.”
“That makes me feel very sad for you.”
Starscream’s smile vanishes. He says nothing more, simply locking the door behind himself.
Jetfire stares at the floor, listening to those departing heel struts, then slowly turns to look at the holoscreen mounted to the bare wall.
Ariel gazes at Sentinel for several seconds too long, lingering, then sighs and sharply turns away from him, shaking her helm.
“Something to say? Say it.”
“You look good.”
“I always look good.”
“Okay, well, you look great. Did you pretty yourself up just for him, or did you do it for the cameras?”
“I did it for myself, actually. A little vote of confidence, since my friends don’t believe in me. I will prove everyone wrong. If only you would be there to see my triumph.”
“And risk seeing you destroyed? No. Never.”
“Then I am to assume you’re not coming with me.”
Silence.
“Typical. I ask for your faith and support as someone you supposedly give a damn about, and here you are, letting me down again. Given the choice, you choose your animals over me.”
“You’ll be late to your glorious battle, after you prettied yourself up so nice for him to smash you to bits in front of everyone.” Ariel sits at her desk, stroking Captain Snuffles, sombre. “You’re imagining yourself as the hero of this age. Whatever happens out there, you don’t need me slowing you down with my concern for your well-being.”
“If you truly cared, you’d believe in me. You’d follow me into battle, cheering me on from the sidelines. I could turn to you for a nurse, tending my wounds.” Sentinel leans in the doorway, huge and handsome, arms folded and optics narrowed, wearing far too much cologne. “But that’s just not bound to happen.” He sighs, shaking his helm wearily. “Oh, my dear Ariel. Always a bit quirky, but so far gone by now. You’re going to die alone and bitter, at this rate. Such a waste. You do it to yourself, you know.”
“Do not speak to her that way,” Orion actually growls, clamping a palm over an ornately armoured pauldron and yanking Sentinel out the office. “Your fight is with Megatron, you fool, if you so choose to face him.”
Sentinel grunts as he is shoved back against a wall, Orion pinning him in place, smaller but strong enough to pose a physical challenge.
“She is not your enemy! She is terrified! She fears for you, as I do! We love you, old friend, yet you feel the need to posture and prance about, as if you do not love yourself.”
“I do not prance about! Get off me!”
Orion is pushed aside, allowing Sentinel to dust himself off.
“Wait for me outside.”
“No, I will not leave you alone with her, in this state.”
“Fine.”
Ariel looks up when Sentinel pokes his helm through the door, frowning sourly at her.
“Can I at least get a kiss for good luck?”
“I dunno. Ask him.”
“Ugh. Femmes.” He rolls his optics and departs in a huff, marching on his heavy heel struts.
“Ariel.”
“I won’t go.”
“Please.”
“No, Orion.”
The old archivist settles gently before the organic enthusiast’s desk.
“I tried talking Megs down. He won’t budge. Just said he’d try to make it quick and minimise the damage, whatever the frag that even means. You’ve tried talking Sentinel down and he clearly doesn’t see himself losing. He just thinks we’re bad friends. Maybe he’s right. But Primus knows we tried. And I dunno about you, old mech, but me, I’m done.”
“Sentinel is an old fool who will not listen to our pleas, but he still needs us. He is our friend.”
“I doubt it.”
Orion pushes his face plate into a burly pink pauldron, as if to hide his anguish in her shell. “Do not say that,” comes out small and muffled.
Ariel’s sensory spires are lowered, indicating unhappiness, and the rims of her optics are clouded with tears, but she rises from her desk and leaves Captain Snuffles to his sleep, striding over to an incomplete project. She keeps her back straight and her servos busy extracting the remaining organs of a small organic creature dissected upon a slab.
“He does love us. He does need us.”
She reaches for the preserving salts and sprinkles a pinch into a jar of fluid, briefly stirs, then takes up her tweezers and removes one organ in particular from the carcass, carefully lowering the flesh into the dissoluble mix with a strong chemical stink, sterile.
“He may perish this night.”
“I’m not turning up just to watch them assault and possibly kill each other. If I can’t stop it, I can refuse to look.”
“And what then, old friend?”
“I don’t know.”
“Thank you for staying with me,” Slipstream mumbles.
“Hey, I love you.” Windblade’s smile is gentle. “And I never liked the gladiatorial games much, anyway.”
“You’re not gonna berate me, are you?”
“Of course not, silly. Whatever you choose to do, I’m supporting you.”
Captain Snuffles is in his cage, running in his spinning wheel, destined to go nowhere.
Ariel stares at her beloved pet, pondering. “What should I do?”
“I’m not sure. I’ll stay here with you, if you choose to stay. But if you change your mind and go after him, I’ll be right behind you.”
“Just tell me what you think I should do.”
“Whatever feels right, I suppose.”
“Nothing feels right.”
“Okay, then do the next best thing.”
“And what would that be?”
Arcee smiles softly, sadly. “Whatever will leave you able to forgive yourself, after all is said and done.”
“Bee! Grim! Over here!” Hot Rod waves over the crowd, Soundwave turning to regard the approaching mechs coolly despite the heat of his visor.
Bumblebee offers awkward apologies as he navigates the bigger bodies on his way over, people naturally parting to allow the huge Grimlock safe passage. “Hey, Rod! Soundwave!”
“Windblade and Arcee stayed back, huh?”
“Yeah. They’re with their girls. You know how it is.”
“Don’t I!” Hot Rod turns to smile adoringly at Soundwave, who handsomely inclines his helm with a soft chuckle. “Got my guy right here. And he reserved good seats for us.”
“I did. You’ll be getting the VIP treatment.”
“Ah, that is too generous,” Grimlock intones, servos on his hips. “We are being spoilt.”
“Thanks, dude. I wish I could say I’m stoked, but considering the combatants and everything that’s riding on this fight, I’m just not feeling it tonight.” Bumblebee sighs and shakes his helm.
“Yeah, me neither.” Hot Rod fades, sagging on his pedes. “I’m really not sure what to think or feel about anything right now. The vibes are way off.”
Soundwave squeezes his servo.
“But I’ve got my people. And so long as I’m not alone, I know I’ll find the strength to face whatever happens next.”
“Yeah. We’ll be okay, somehow. Because we’ve got us.”
“Hear, hear! Let us face the unknown, with courage and good cheer!”
“You guys are so cute it’s disgusting.”
The mechs all turn to behold Shadow Striker, emerging from the flowing crowd, large and angular and dark, scowling in that way she always scowls, scope a menacing pinprick of searing red light that swivels to mark every face with an invisible yet tangible targetting reticle, tailed closely by her intimidating subordinate Decepticons.
“Any later and we would’ve taken our seats without you.”
“Oh, please. You’d wait for me all night.”
Soundwave and Shadow Striker bump their helms affectionately together, a fleeting gesture of their friendship, a force not to be trifled with. It is actually adorable.
“Hey, Shadow Striker,” Hot Rod greets awkwardly through a strained smile, thinking about Slipstream whilst glancing warily at Bumblebee. “Nice to, uh, see you. And you brought the whole squad with. Wow.”
“I sure did. The shiny one’s Thunderblast, the big one’s Demolishor, and the little one’s–”
“Me.” Flamewar sidles up to Hot Rod, smirking up at him as he smiles shyly down at her. “We’ve met.”
“You remember me?”
“Sure I do. You’ve got the flames like me, but only a strip. Conservative, you called it.”
“And I said you got flames all over. So jealous! Yours still look great, by the way.”
“Thanks. So do yours. Mine need a touch-up though, and you clearly take better care of yourself since the colour still pops and there’s good gloss up there. Don’t forget to gimme your comm link this time, yeah? And for real, you’re dating Soundwave? Nice. Got game, son.”
“Well, not to brag, but I pulled a real baddie by being my dumbaft self, so I guess I do. I think the flames helped.”
“Ooh. He’s cute,” Thunderblast purrs, tilting her hip and biting her derma.
“Which one?”
“All of them.”
After a momentary pause, Demolishor nods once. “Yep.”
Bumblebee manages to tear his upturned gaze off of Shadow Striker long enough to clear his helm. “Uh, sorry, I didn’t introduce myself. I’m–”
“You’re Bumblebee, he’s Grimlock, and I’ve already met Hot Rod,” Flamewar interjects, pointing rudely at each mech. “You guys are Slippy’s friends.”
“Oh. She told you about us?”
“’Course she did. She loves you.”
“Slipstream was one of us, remember? She told us all about you.” Thunderblast lightly taps a slender digit over Bumblebee’s forehelm with a metallic sound, her smile sweet yet sinister.
“Aw. She was thinking about us the whole time.” Hot Rod rubs her cheeks, flushed. “That’s so… her!”
“She loves you enough to leave me, anyway.”
“Flamewar,” Shadow Striker interjects firmly, yet gently, laying a palm over the smaller femme’s pauldron and squeezing. “Don’t.”
“Perhaps we should be seated,” Grimlock says cautiously. “Soundwave, would you be so kind as to show us to our seats?”
“Certainly. I also booked places for you and yours, of course.”
“Thanks,” Shadow Striker mutters, gaze lingering intimately on Bumblebee, who meets that look, before she shakes herself and lurches past him.
“I love a mech with financial stability,” Thunderblast compliments Soundwave, who gives Hot Rod a tired sidelong look. “And by stability I mean the ability to spoil me and my friends.”
“That’s us, right?” Flamewar gets a patronising little pat on the helm.
“Of course, sweetie.”
“Can we get snacks?” Demolishor asks, taking up the rear of the procession. “I dunno why, but the wheel-nuts they sell at the arena are the best.”
“Really? I’ve always found them kinda stale.”
“You girls gonna be okay?”
“We’ll be fine,” Windblade murmurs into a hug, kissing Arcee’s neck before they ease themselves apart. “And we’ll be watching on the holoscreen. Consider us with you in spirit.”
Slipstream nods at that, offering a reassuring smile, tired as it is.
“I love you.”
“We love you too. Now, go. Hurry. You should make it there before the battle begins. Give Sentinel my best, the fragging fool.”
“And you’re absolutely sure you’ll be okay without-”
“Grab your girl and get outta here already!”
“Alright, alright! You heard the lady!”
Ariel is pacing anxiously aside when Arcee grabs her by the servo and runs.
“How do you feel, my love? Confident, surely!”
Megatron frowns at his reflection in the holomirror. “Conflicted.”
Starscream looks to Empress, who tilts her helm with a burly shrug.
“Ariel,” Sentinel intones softly, “you came for me.” He is within the gladiator’s chamber, where final preparations are made in private, usually in the presence of a significant sponsor or the holder of the contract that binds a gladiator to the arena. Deals are also made to rig the gladiatorial games in secret, in which the outcome of fights are predetermined for financial gain.
It is famously known that Megatron has never accepted a sponsor, nor was he ever permissive of bribes. He rose to the top through sheer strength, ferocity, and will. The Decepticons adore him for it. Now Sentinel must face one of the finest gladiators of Cybertronian history, named after none other than perhaps the most ferocious and imposing Prime.
“I sorta had to, in the end.”
“So, you do still love me.”
“Of course I fragging do!”
Orion is sick with anxiety, yet me manages a wonky smile as Ariel takes a swipe at Sentinel’s pauldron, only to wind up embracing him with passion.
“I know I can’t convince you. But I can support you, even if I’m not gonna watch the whole thing. I have the right to look away sometimes.”
“I will accept those terms, so long as you see me in victory.”
Arcee sighs, rubbing her arm. She looks up when Orion lays a palm upon her pauldron.
“Thank you for bringing her here, my friend.”
“You’re welcome, big guy. I guess.”
Slipstream and Windblade share a wide holoscreen with members of the elite guard who chatter excitedly amongst themselves, discussing the battle before it has begun, placing their bets, and passing snacks back and forth. Unanimously, the renown gladiator Megatron receives overwhelming support, whilst very few have any faith in Sentinel’s chances of survival, never mind the possibility of him actually winning the fight.
Chewing on a wheel-nut, Shadow Striker passes the foil bag over. “Want one?”
No answer.
“What, you gonna keep pretending like I’m on mute all night?”
“I’m not talking to you,” Bumblebee mutters, pushing the bag away.
“Yeah, I can tell.”
“You’re a bad influence and you hurt Slip.”
“Hey, now. Watch it. I protected her. Trained her. She didn’t want to, but she had to. She needed to be stronger, tougher. I made it happen. But she’s still that sweet, stupid softie you’re so in love with. Gimme a break.”
“You made her murder people.”
“I didn’t ruin her, okay. Stop talking about the girl like she’s tainted by me and mine. She cares about this squad and she’s got it extra good for me, lemme tell ya.”
“Shuddup.”
“Face it, toots.” Shadow Striker smirks, leaning back against her seat. “I bear no ill will toward her, or you, or any of your adorable little friends. Call me a villain if you want to, but I’m just hoping you’ll ease up enough to at least tell me how you’ve been. Not like I get to hang with you much any more.”
“I’m managing, thanks. Stuff’s stressful and everything seems like it’s going to scrap all around, all the time. I just do what I can and love my friends.”
“Yeah, I get that. Me, I try to take care of my dumbafts and I’m looking after myself just fine. Looking forward to the fight.”
“You do realise that if Sentinel wins, it’ll be bad for you, right?”
“Oh, please. That old fart’s got nothing on Megatron. We all know who’s winning tonight. That’s why you’re sweating so much.”
Bumblebee grimaces, scratching his knees.
Grimlock lays an arm around him, which does nothing to help the sweating, but does offer comfort. “Ignore her, my friend.”
“I’m really trying, Grim.”
Shadow Striker huffs, turning to Flamewar, offering the bag of wheel-nuts. “Want one?”
“Thanks, boss bot. Leave some for treads though, yeah?”
“He’s got his own. The rest are for us to share.”
“No, thanks!” Thunderblast admires her digits, as if she is not sat in a crowded and boisterous arena. “I’m saving my appetite for dinner. You’re taking me out.”
“I am, huh.”
“Mmhm. I deserve it.”
“Fair enough.”
“You treating treads and me too, boss bot?”
“Frag. Guess I am.”
Flamewar has been deeply depressed, but she smiles into her partially chewed wheel-nut and snuggles against Shadow Striker’s side, earning a fond little pinch on her tyre, split and propped behind her pauldron when in root-mode. “That sounds nice.”
Thunderblast gives Shadow Striker a wink, garnering a handsome smirk, then turns to Demolishor, playfully elbowing him as he digs into his bag of snacks he hoards all to himself. “You think you’ll still have room for a late dinner date, daddy?”
“Oh, yeah, I’m always starving. It’s a side-effect of being big and broken and an old war machine.”
“Tanks are hungry, huh.”
“Definitely. Especially tanks like me. Folks were a lot less fuel efficient back then, when I was forged.”
“What did she just call him,” Hot Rod hisses to Soundwave moments too late, who shakes his helm and sighs as if to wisely opt out of answering that.
Just then, a cheer erupts within the stands as the announcer declares the entry of none other than Megatron, flanked on either side by Starscream, waving to the adoring public as he sashays along, and Empress, sauntering huge and handsome with a chin raised proudly.
“Guess we know who the big mech’s favourites are,” Shadow Striker mutters to Soundwave, who scoffs.
“Indeed.”
“Heeey! That should be me down there, by his side!” Thunderblast pouts, then leans in, squinting at the holoscreen that presents a hovering camera drone’s view, focused on the procession, zoomed in and enhancing their faces and figures. “Starscream does look beautiful, though. And get a look at that big lady. Damn. She’s as stacked as Megatron. Mommy likes.”
“She’s a gladiator, too.” Shadow Striker grins. “Not as long in the game, not as old, but almost as good, I’d wager. They call her Empress.”
“Well, I call her mine. She reeks of power, same as him. I want them both and I will have them.”
“Given up on Scream, then?”
“He’s pretty, sure, and I love a mech with rank, but he’s cruel to my sugar glider, so I’m not falling for it.”
“How noble of you.”
“I know, right? I’m such an angel sometimes.”
“That Empress lady could sit on me,” Flamewar declares suddenly. “I’d definitely die, for sure. So squished.”
Hot Rod looks confused and concerned.
“Leave it,” Soundwave advises his boyfriend. “They’re all a bit insane.”
“Ohh. Right.”
“So, where’s Sentinel at?” Thunderblast taps her chin. “I’ve never really been into these things. I just like looking at the gladiators with the buff bods. Isn’t the challenger supposed to enter first, or whatever?”
“Yeah. He’s probably having a panic attack and stalling since it’s finally sunk in that he’s screwed himself in front of everybody. He’s gonna flake, then Megatron wins by default.”
“Ugh. How embarrassing. I hate weak mechs. And here I thought Sentinel might be more than a pretty face and fat tits. Oh, well.”
“Hey, guys.”
“Arcee, you’re here!”
“Finally! Took me a while to find you. It’s just a sea of people! And I had to, uh, sort stuff out with the guys.” She falls into her assigned seat beside Grimlock, waving over at the neighbouring Decepticons.
Shadow Striker gives Arcee a respectful nod. “Hey.” They have always got along in their limited interactions, surprisingly, despite possessing such strikingly different personalities. “How’s it goin’?”
“Oh, you know, with the war and everything else that’s been happening lately, I’ve been busy.” A limp flop of the wrist and an airy chuckle. “But anyway, how’re you?”
“I’m alright, thanks.” The smirk softens. “Keeping my idiots in line.”
“She’s cute,” Thunderblast murmurs. “Pretty in pink.”
“Hey, you’re not so bad yourself, bright optics!”
“Mwah, sweetie. Mwah!”
“Dude, where’s Sentinel?” Bumblebee anxiously enquires, thus capturing Arcee’s attention. “He’s supposed to be out there. Megatron’s gonna make us look bad, waiting around like that.”
“Oh, uh, well, Ariel and Orion might be trying one last time to convince Sentinel to throw the fight. They were all hugging each other when I left to find you guys. It got really emotional in there! I cried a little bit, not gonna lie. Should I call him? I should call him. Let me call him quick.”
“No need.” Flamewar points. “Look.”
The announcer declares that the challenger has finally deigned to exit the gladiator’s chamber, the holoscreens divided between two warring factions – broadcasts of Megatron’s stern grimace, flanked by Starscream’s radiant smile and Empress’ haughty smirk, as well as Sentinel’s proud scowl as he finally strides out the gate to meet his opponent upon the battlefield, followed by Orion and Ariel, both of whom look absolutely miserable.
Decepticons boo and jeer and throw things over the stands, chanting their leader’s name and stomping heel struts and banging fists to generate extra uniform noise, drowning out the few voices that call out in support of the Council’s representative combatant.
“So shiny. Such a pity he’s an imbecile. You know, I can excuse a scrappy personality up to a certain point, but that guy is just sooo unpleasant. Sentinel and Starscream are kinda samey for me now. A shame!”
“Yeah, they’re both aftholes, no matter how good they look doing it.”
“No matter how this ends…” Windblade draws Slipstream close, kissing her softly to reassure her, as much as herself. “I’ll be here for you.”
“And I, you.”
“C’mon, Sentinel, Sir!” barks an elite guard mech, punching at the air excitedly, as if to punch Megatron through the holoscreen. “Kick his aft! I got my pay riding on you!”
“Ha! No way!" A femme coworker chortles at the notion, slapping herself over the armoured thigh with a clang. “You dumb? Megatron’s gonna wreck the boss, and you’re gonna pay up! You still owe me from the last bet you lost, don’t think I forgot!”
“You look lovely, Sentinel,” Megatron rumbles, appraising his opponent with fondness. “You did not need to put a face on and dress up for this occasion, though I do appreciate the effort. I am sure the crowd does, as well.”
“I did it for myself, actually. It’s very empowering to wear tasteful makeup and fashionable kibble every now and then.”
“Ah, you always were cognisant of making an appearance. It reminds me of our courtship, all those millions upon millions of years ago.”
Starscream releases a strangled noise of disgust and outrage. “Could we please not?”
Empress directs a flirtatious smile from Orion to Ariel, wandering gaze sweeping back and forth with enjoyment. “You have good people in your corner, Councillor. You must feel very confident.”
“In fact, I do,” Sentinel says with a dramatic flourish for the cameras. “This day, all shall rue ever doubting me or challenging my leadership.”
“Of course, dear. Show us who’s boss, mm?”
“I rather like you. Pity you sided with the villain.”
Empress is not overly wooed, but she flutters her shutters at Sentinel all the same, because despite being a difficult mech to like, he is very handsome, especially tonight. “Such a charmer. If only we’d met under friendlier circumstances, darling. Oh, well.”
“We could still be friendly, perhaps, if you behave once he is defeated.”
“Indeed, perhaps.”
Ariel rolls her optics and Orion rubs his brows.
“Anyway! I intend to make a speech, before we battle. As I am fashionably late, due to… last-minute preparations, as they were – ahem – I will allow you to present your case to the audience first, Megatron, and await my turn afterward.”
“How kind. Thank you, Sentinel.”
“Of course. Go on, then.”
“I will not take long.”
“See that you don’t.”
That said, Megatron gives Starscream a kiss to the cheek and squeezes Empress’ pauldron, nodding once to Ariel and Orion before ascending the levitating steps that lead up to the hovering platform, suspended over a dark pit that has claimed many lives, situated at the centre of the roaring, brightly lit arena.
“Sentinel, please don’t–”
“Silence. It is done. I won’t retreat, not now, not ever. And you’ll both feel wretched once I’ve won and demand a sincere apology for being such terrible friends all this time.”
Ariel looks like she is about to lose her temper, but Orion soothes her with a one-armed embrace.
“Why did you join him, by the by?” Sentinel asks Empress, shifting his large, impressive self confidently closer to her, meeting her imposing stature with his own. “I’ve seen you in the arena before. Is it a warrior’s honour, sort of thing? Do you seek kinship with him?”
“He’s a splendid mech. I can appreciate that.”
“Ah, not to brag, but I’m the superior mech.”
“We’ll see.”
Once situated upon the circular stage, Megatron throws up his servos and grins at the explosion of voices that answer him. “People of Cybertron! My noble Decepticons and all others, I welcome you! Bear witness to I, Megatron, as I rise before you to answer a challenge in kind! But I do not do so for my sake, no, but yours! I fight for you, all of you, and I fight to save you, to bring about a better world and future for you, for your children! It is as I have always said to you, my beloved! A gladiator stands alone in the arena against his opponent…”
Starscream looks starstruck, cupping his servos and sighing. He fell in love with Megatron after attending his public speeches, after all, and not because of his success in battles.
Empress only pays some attention to Sentinel’s flirtation, more impressed by Megatron.
Ariel and Orion are both awed, yet it is besmirched with great sorrow.
“But I am never alone!” Megatron sweeps his arms as he turns gracefully in a slow circle, his voice consuming the Sparks of so many people. “For you stand with me!” He is their hero. “And that is all! Watch me win, for you! Because I love you, as you first loved me! Words cannot describe my gratitude for your devotion! Here, have my body, let it break before you! For there is no greater love, than that of a warrior willing to lay down his life in a battle fought for his friends!” The great mech wipes a tear from his optic. “And so, should I die tonight, do not despair! I will die a most honourable death! Only for you, only you are worthy!”
Of course, the crowd eats it right up.
Megatron turns, nodding once. “You may speak, now.”
Sentinel pales a bit when he realises his speech is not quite this epic. He glances at Orion and Ariel, who beg him with their optics to surrender, only to boost his resolve. Gritting his dermas and tightening his impressive chin, Sentinel ascends the steps and meets Megatron upon the hovering platform. “Well done.”
“Thank you. The stage is yours.”
“Ahem-hem-hem. Cybertron, heed me!”
The audience mostly subdues, giving the far less popular mech a moment to speak for himself.
“I have strived tirelessly to serve you, to show you the error in your ways, to guide you onto the righteous path! I wish only for your very best! Believe me, and allow me to prove it to you, tonight! Let this battle signify an end to this ridiculous war, and the beginning of a peaceful, prosperous era! To ensure you thrive under a sane and just government, I will stake my reputation, my position, my very life, if I must!” Sentinel keeps his chin up, standing tall and broad, arms folded behind his lower back, pauldrons squared, projecting his booming, masculine voice. “In the past, mistakes were made! I intend to right those mistakes, my way, the right way! Be it through a show of force…” He is very cognisant of the booing. He hates being booed. “Do you mind! I am speaking! Let me finish, you barbarians!”
Starscream huffs, prodding Empress, who scoffs. “Get a load of this guy, eh.”
“He’s making a fool of himself,” Ariel groans into a palm, leaning on Orion for support, who merely sighs.
“As I was saying! Be it through a show of force, if it must be so, I do declare that I will be the architect of a better Cybertron! I will lead the way! Even if I do die, let my actions set in stone the righteous will! That is all!” When Sentinel does not receive a standing ovation, he stomps over to one side of the platform, Megatron waiting at the other side. “Bunch of unwashed simpletons without an ounce of gratitude. Humph.”
The stairs leading up to their platform withdraw, slotting discretely away, leaving only empty space too far to cross.
“And now, we show each other the customary respect.”
“How does that go, again?”
“Do as I do.” Megatron slams a fist over his breastplate and bows, then rises again.
Sentinel copies him, a bit flushed, flustered. “Like that?”
“Very good. Are you ready?”
“Yes, let’s get it over with.”
“Are you certain you want this, old friend?”
“Oh, not you, too! I wouldn’t very well be up here if I wasn’t sure about it.”
“Choosing one’s battles wisely is not a shameful thing. It is not cowardice to withdraw from unfavourable duels, if you only declare that your confidence was misplaced.”
“Don’t patronise me, I’m weary of it.”
“Think carefully, old friend. If you wish to call it off–”
“Fight me, glitch.”
Megatron arches his brows. “Oh, well, in that case.” He extends his left arm, retracting his servo before releasing his Energon-infused spiked mace, which hangs heavily from a searing chain, swaying a this side, threatening. “Let us begin.”
Sentinel pries a rod from his framework, which extends and swells, forming the magnificent war hammer that was bestowed upon him by his beloved superior upon retirement long ago.
“It is a splendid weapon, your hammer.”
“Your mace is imposing, I’ll give it that.”
Megatron twirls his flail in slow, ominous revolutions, the sheer heat it emenates causing a hum in the disturbed air as he circles his opponent, assessing Sentinel from various angles and avenues of attack, seeking weaknesses and attempting to intimidate him. It works.
Sentinel is terrified. He just does his best to pretend he is not, with all those voices screaming at him in mockery, chanting his opponent’s name.
“I will allow you to strike first.”
“So kind.”
“And do not hesitate to strike me down. It is in your best interest to kill me quickly.”
“Duly noted.” Sentinel twirls his hammer above his helm, then swings downward, striking the platform they stand upon with an almighty thunderous clamour of impact. A shock wave radiates from the weapon, surging harmlessly through its wielder, radiating outward.
Megatron gasps, stumbling at the initial blow. When the force hits him a moment after, he is thrown off his pedes and sails through the air, bellowing, until he hits the platform upon his back with enough force to knock the wind from his vents.
People suddenly contemplate the possibility that their hero may actually not win this fight as easily as they all assumed.
Sentinel is quick to capitalise, raising his huge, heavy weapon with impressive fluidity, charging a few steps forward before twirling on a heel strut for leverage and fully extending his range, bringing the head of the hammer down upon his opponent’s torso before he can rise with a terrible crunch.
Ariel buries her face in Orion, who looks away out of fear.
With a shower of spittle tinged blue with spilled inner Energon, Megatron coughs and lurches in place, pinned by the hammer embedded partially in his belly, bubbling within the burning wound where the armour is not quite as thick. His optics bulge as he bemusedly stares up at Sentinel, gracefully poised and unblemished. “Old friend, you…” The words are wet and hoarse. “You have wounded me.”
“Surrender now and I shall spare you.”
“I did not think… you would actually strike me so.”
“Did you think I was unprepared to maim you, kill you? You’re just like all my other detractors, all those naysayers who never believed I could best you. I never got used to the criticism, you know. All my life, I’ve clawed my way up the ladder by being the best, to ascend unto my rightful place, and still I’m mocked and put down, even by my supposed friends. The only person to ever believe in me was the mech who gave me this hammer, and believe me, I worked myself delirious just to earn that faith, because he was a hard old bastard. I earned this right to fight you, now.”
“I always… believed in you.”
“You teased me for being uptight and preoccupied with my work. You ridiculed me for recognising myself as your superior and acting like it. You sided Orion and Ariel against me, convincing them I was the enemy class, when I could’ve helped them rise above the rabble. I could’ve helped you. Still, they have more in common with you than they ever did with me. They believe in you. No more, after tonight. Ah, but you’re not so confident in yourself any more, either. Good.” Sentinel yanks on the hilt and extracts the hammer from Megatron’s belly with a wet scrape.
“Aaargh!”
“The next one is aimed at your face. Do you yield?”
Starscream has his servos wrapped about his appalled expression, Empress’ faceplate quite vacant as she considers changing alignment to preserve herself.
“I repeat – do you yield?”
“Grrrmph!”
Sentinel watches Megatron writhe in pain, perhaps pitying him for a moment.
“I have… doubted you.”
“Yes, you have.”
“Forgive me… I realise I was wrong… about you.”
“I accept your apology. Now, surrender to me and I’ll get you the medical attention you need, whilst you’re in my custody.”
“What of my… Decepticon brethren?”
“What of them indeed. I’ll give them the opportunity to turn themselves in and lighten their sentences if they do so. The rest I’ll capture and process with the full weight of the law – my law.”
“Those people… I need you to promise them… that you will do better… be better… than the Senate.”
“I’ll be more efficient. I’ll consider social appeals. I have plans in place for affordable housing, medical care, education. I’ll ensure there are more jobs and I’ll keep the public parks tended to. Etcetera.”
“Will there still be… the rich, preying upon… the poor?”
“I’m a wealthy mech myself. I’ve attended silly parties and functions hosted by other wealthy mechs. I have some experience. Rich people are not all bad, you know. Their sponsorship is useful to running a government.”
“You cannot… repeat their sins.”
“Sins! The bored, cruel whims of rich people help keep the gladiatorial games running.”
“Do not… say that… to me.”
“You never accepted payouts directly, true, but you still made your fortune entertaining the ruling class. You’ve funded an entire uprising. Impressive, really. Do these Decepticons of yours realise that you are, in fact, one of us?”
“No… I will not listen to this!”
“Hypocrite. You live in luxury now, no matter how harsh your history may be. Long gone is the miner with dreams of being a doctor. The gladiator is formally retired, replaced by a politician fancying himself a poet and philosopher.”
“Silence… I warn you! Be silent!”
“Deceiver. You lie to yourself as much as anyone else. I feel sorry for you. At least I know who I am.” Sentinel cannot resist the opportunity to gloat, assured in his victory. “What was your real name again? I mean the one you used to go by, before you took the moniker of a demigod. D-Something…?”
Megatron roars as he suddenly surges into motion, sitting upward despite his weeping belly and swinging his flail with as much force as he can muster from below, wrapping the chain about the hammer’s hilt to ensnare it, locking it into place with himself attached and anchoring it.
“Fool! Let that go! Get off!”
“Grrrrmph!”
There is a grim comedy to this spectacle, Sentinel struggling to shake off the huge mech that has succeeded in restraining the hammer, Megatron enduring kicks and punches as he is dragged a short distance across the platform, never relenting despite the abuse.
Starscream looks to Empress, who shrugs.
Ariel and Orion cling to each other, appalled.
“Enough!” Sentinel stoops and strikes Megatron across the cheek with the gleaming back of a servo, only to shriek when jaws snap and dentas sink into the tender joints of digits. What follows is a panicked struggle to yank the servo out of those gnashing blades, only worsening the injury.
There is laughter, there are gasps, and truly this will be a battle to celebrate and fondly recall for the ages to come.
Finally breaking free of those jaws, recoiling in agony, the hammer is consequently released, forgotten, as Sentinel stumbles back and brings up his servo before his optics to discover three digits have been entirely bitten off at varying lengths, spraying fluids from the jagged stumps.
Megatron spits the severed digits out, rolling over with the hammer in his arms, managing to get to his knees, bracing himself buckled and bowed over the weapon with his own sweaty forehelm pressed to the platform.
“What…?” Disbelieving, Sentinel ponderously flexes his ruined servo and squirts pressurised Energon and oil into his faceplate, then shrieks again, gripping his wrist with his uninjured servo to clench the fuel lines in an effort to still the bleeding.
Kneeling, Megatron dismisses his flail, freeing the hammer.
“You animal! Beast!” Sentinel’s optics well with tears. It is clear that he knows how to fight, yet he has never had much to do with real combat, therefore he is still soft and scared. “I’ll kill you for this! H-how could you?!”
Megatron rises and the hammer rises with him.
“Behave like a cyberdog, and… a-and I’ll put you down like one!”
“Raaargh!”
Sentinel looks past his gruesome injury too late, for the hammer strikes him in the torso, buckling his largely ornamental armour and scattering his many medals, the subsequent shock wave sending him careening. He falls hard, skids across the platform, smearing his own fluids until he is met with the edge, scrabbling to claw his way away from his doom, only to be met with it as his helm flops forward, dangling upon his strained neck. Below, the yawning pit that has swallowed many mechs whole echoes with his scream.
Megatron trudges over in an aching limp, dragging the hammer with him, drooling Energon from his bared dentas, his belly wound partially cauterised and bubbling with lingering heat.
“Wait!” Sentinel lifts an arm to shield himself. “Please! D-don’t!”
Seemingly ignoring these words, Megatron raises the hammer high above his helm, poised to strike one last time.
Weeping, Sentinel turns his face away and chooses to stare into the abyss instead, awaiting the killing blow. Instead, he watches his beloved hammer fall past him, plummeting into the gaping shadows, thrown away. He reaches for it with his broken servo, futile, wailing.
“Do you yield?”
“Nooo!”
“I could tear you apart… without any need… for a weapon. Do not… force me to. I do not… want to.” It is a struggle for Megatron to speak. It is a struggle for him to seize Sentinel by the arm, pulling him up. “Stand. Stand!”
Blubbering, Sentinel obeys, allowing Megatron to hoist him onto his pedes.
“Look at me!”
“Please!”
“Yield! Tell me… you yield!”
Sentinel can only weep.
Megatron’s glower turns crooked with emotion. He turns, trembling, to behold Ariel and Orion, who are shouting from the sidelines.
“Let him go! Please, don’t kill him!”
“It is over! Let us take him home!”
Sentinel vomits, tinged with his own Energon, his breastplate horribly concave.
“There is… no honour… in doing this.” Megatron exhales raggedly, returning to face his foe, hellish optics unusually wet, glistening. “I beg of you… to yield.”
Clutching the ruined servo to the ruined bosom, Sentinel throws out his other fist in a reflex of fear, punching Megatron soundly in the cheek, transferring paint and denting the handsome architecture of his facial rigging as his helm snaps back on his neck. “Go away!”
One would expect fury, but Megatron only takes a moment to gather himself. “Do not make me… do this dreadful thing… to an old friend.”
“I hate you! I hate e-everyone! That hammer was everything!”
“We could talk… though I would not surrender… and perhaps we could… negotiate.”
“You’ll die! I’ll end you myself!”
“You do not… truly mean those words. Do you?”
Sentinel lunges, throwing his considerable weight and brute strength against one focal point, namely the joint in Megatron’s left pauldron, attacking it with such savagery that gunmetal grey armoured plating is torn away and softer metal is pummelled out of shape.
Megatron eventually wrestles himself free, a quick jab to Sentinel’s chin sending him stumbling aside, but by then the damage is done. The left arm dangles uselessly from his sputtering, gruesomely buckled pauldron, sparks spat out of the wound.
“No one believes in me,” Sentinel sneers bloodily, his bared dentas stained blue with his own spilled inner Energon. “Even you, my e-enemy! You’re holding back, out of pity! The insult, I won’t take it!”
“I am not known… for my mercy in battle.” A smile, merged into a wince that drips perspired coolant. “But I love you. And even then, I now realise… you are more talented… and dangerous… than anyone foresaw.”
“Too little, too late! Flatter w-won’t save you now!” Sentinel coils his large, handsome body, bracing himself on his mighty heel struts. “I’ll show you, fiend! I’ll show everyone!” Spittle catches the light like diamonds, gorgeous blue optics wide and wild. “From this night forward, never again will I be u-u-underestimated, disrespected, overlooked! A-and you will be humbled, your Decepticon menace torn down, law and order restored!”
“You intend to carry on… those same old oppressive systems… that empower you… yet would enslave me.”
“You got out! You got your fame, your fortune! Stop feeling sorry for yourself and act like it!”
“I sold my soul… to the arena… for an escape, old friend.”
“You enjoy the maiming, you relish in killing! Monster!”
“I found pleasure, true… but the pain is ceaseless, raw.”
“And you’ve made your suffering the shared grief of our entire world, you s-selfish maniac!” Sentinel gestures broadly around himself, at the oceans of people and hovering media drones bearing witness. “But I stand between you and world domination, old fool! I am your greatest obstacle! Not those Functionists, not Orion, not Ariel! Me!”
Megatron’s smile twitches as his hellish optics brim with tears. “Are you truly… this lost… old friend?”
“Bah! The loser is you, old fool!”
“My love… you break my Spark.”
“Of course, you could surrender!”
“Never.”
Sentinel is about to say something, and the instant he opens his intake wide to yell, he reels as a sudden swing of a fist connects with his prominent chin, knocking his helm aside with an awful snap of stressed neck cables and spinal joints and something else he cannot identify even with a damage assessment, for the shock is too great.
“Be silent.”
Sentinel’s partially dislocated jaw flops lower than is natural and hangs unevenly open at one side, glossa falling out as he bellows in pain, pawing dumbly at the broken hinge with broken digits, the distortion in his cheek clouding his optic with pressurised oil and Energon forced to flow elsewhere, redirected by injury, quickly blinding him in that optic. Drooled inner Energon slops down his breastplate into the concaved injury as he staggers, narrowly avoiding falling off the edge of the raised platform.
Ariel and Orion cling to each other with expressions of horror, unable to cross the gap to reach the hovering platform suspended at the centre of the arena, above a terrible pit.
Starscream cackles shrilly, forgetting all animosity as he pulls on Empress’ arm and points mockingly at a gigantic holoscreen broadcasting the battle from the perspective of a circling camera drone.
“I love you… yet you will not yield… to me.” Megatron approaches slowly, left arm disabled, right arm raised to wipe away the sweat, spit and tears from his stoic expression. “Ariel and Orion… beg for your life… though you consider them… bad friends.”
Sentinel can only gargle wetly on the edge of the platform, cringing aside, holding his jaw shut.
“It is finished.” Megatron draws close enough to lay his palm firmly, yet gently upon a pauldron. “Let us end this.”
A whimper.
“I will not kill you.”
A sob.
“I will force you… to sleep.”
Flinching away, shoving that servo aside, Sentinel coughs as his heel stumbles against the edge of the raised platform and his weight is improperly distributed.
“Sentinel!”
He topples backward with a gasp, choked on his own bile, the world beginning to tip. This is it, he thinks to himself. This is the end. He will die. He wishes, in his final moment, that he had been perhaps a little nicer to the people he loves. Do they know he still loves them?
“No!” Megatron lunges, quick to seize Sentinel by the wrist, skidding a short distance until ceasing upon the edge, stopping him from falling into the pit below. “I have you! Grab me!”
At the old gladiator’s mercy – for which he is not renown – the Councillor weeps.
“I have you,” Megatron repeats with audible relief. “Primus’ light! Is this not… the greatest thrill?”
“Eeeaaauuugh!”
“Take hold of me!”
Sentinel does, clinging to Megatron’s functioning arm for dear life.
“Regain your footing… and focus on my face!”
Sentinel scrambles to get both heel struts back onto the edge, optics bulging as he stares up at his saviour.
“Do not struggle.”
He whines, lurching as he is heaved from what may very well have been his demise.
“You are heavy… under all that ornamentation,” Megatron remarks with good humour, dragging the other large mech safely onto the platform. It is a feat of impressive strength and kindness that has many voices cheering their admiration, some booing their disappointment.
Sentinel’s jaw flaps uselessly, horrible noise passing as a voice.
“I am so glad.” The moment Megatron releases Sentinel’s wrist, is the moment of hubris, though he does not know it yet. “That was too close.”
Seizing an opportunity in a final fit of desperation not to lose everything, Sentinel bends his burly arm and slams his elbow joint against Megatron’s wounded pauldron with a screech of warped metal and a spray of sparks, knocking him back a few dangerous steps, roaring in agony.
The audience goes wild.
Sentinel hastily grabs Megatron by his disabled arm, broken digits scraping over gunmetal gray, and wrenches so hard, it might entirely rip the damaged joint right out of its socket, pulling him off balance and swinging them around, thus throwing their weight in a dizzying axis together so that their bodies swap places, then letting him go at the pinnacle of a masculine scream. Sentinel falls on his broken jaw, almost shutting down from the pain, and Megatron keeps on falling, still screaming, until he is gone.
Nobody quite believes what they have all seen, until the Decepticon second-in-command Starscream confirms it for everyone.
“MEGATRON HAS FALLEN!”
Ariel bellows and Orion barely manages to yank her back from the edge, as if she might try to dive in after Megatron, who has stopped screaming.
“Oh, dear.” Empress lays a palm to her Deceptibrand as she disbelievingly peers down into the pit. “Oh, no.”
Sentinel twitches as he tries to pick himself up, slipping in a puddle of his own filth, but he heaves himself onto his palms and knees, pushes himself to stagger and stand. He did it. We won. He is the better mech. None can deny it now. He does not get the opportunity to gloat, however, before he is consumed within a flurry of missiles, scatting bits of his body about in the combined explosions.
Orion shields Ariel with himself, scorched shrapnel embedded in his broad back strut as she weeps into his breast.
There is a shrivelled, scorched thing slumped upon the platform, once the smoke has cleared.
“YOU WILL SUFFER, AS I SUFFER!” Starscream has ascended high above the rabble in root-mode, the multitude of missile apertures built into his torso revealed, scattering his remaining payload into the panicked elite guard, scattering mechs and femmes with the force of the explosive ordinance. “SEEKERS, TO ME!”
Nova Storm hastily throws her snacks aside and leaps out of her seat to momentarily free-fall from the best spot reserved for herself and her kin, transforming mid-air, thrusters scorching the ducked helms of terrified terrestrials condemned to inferiority within the lower stands as they all stoop to shield themselves. She is followed by the other Seekers, who altogether swarm to surround their Commander, encircling him high above with terrible noise, awaiting further instruction.
“DECEPTICONS, HEED MY VOICE!”
It is hard not to, considering that Starscream can clearly be overheard despite the noise of his Seekers and the commotion of panic from bustling bodies beneath him, people attempting to flee the arena in droves.
“I – STARSCREAM – AM NOW YOUR LEADER!” Starscream throws up his fist, tearfully shrieking unto the heavens. “DECEPTICONS, ATTACK!”
The remaining Decepticons look to one another, the vast majority of their movement comprised of labourers, pleasure frames and other undesirables wanting social and economic equality. And yet they are more than they seem, as over these months of tireless preparation spent ostensibly sowing discord upon the streets, in reality they have been trained, equipped, and empowered to fight as an army.
“IN HIS NAME, LET NONE ESCAPE!”
“That’s it,” Bumblebee intones. “I had my suspicions, but this confirms it. That guy is officially, totally bonkers.”
And to Starscream’s delight, as miserable as he is upon witnessing what must only be his beloved Megatron’s awful demise, Decepticons obey, Seekers providing aerial support to the ground-based troops below.
Violence erupts within the crowded stands, Decepticons attacking unmarked frames and assaulting the elite guard and basic security presence posted throughout, overwhelming all those who dare to go without the Deceptibrand due to sheer numbers. Chaos spreads like wildfire, spilling from the thrumming stands out onto the greater arena grounds. People are thrown from great heights, fists are embedded in crumpled faces, dentas gnash on fuel lines, and weapons that were snuck by lax security fire off plasma rounds and bolts of molten weaponised Energon. The Seekers, being weaponised themselves and afforded elite status within society, swoop from above to rain death and destruction upon the hapless grounders.
There is much screaming.
Notes:
I hope you enjoyed this update and I thank you for sticking by me this long. Your support is very kind and encouraging.
Chapter 51
Notes:
The other half of the previous chapter, kept separate due to length. Please enjoy!
Possible trigger warnings: abuse, toxicity, injury, gore, violence, death.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“What’re we gonna do?” Hot Rod yells above the noise of discord and destruction and death.
“We’re gonna fight back,” Bumblebee yells back, optics narrowed and pauldrons squared.
“I’m with you, Bee! But we’ve got no weapons, barely any combat training, none of that military programming!”
“We have to try! Those are innocent people down there! The Decepticons are at war with us, not them! If we turn our backs on Cybertron now, then Sentinel died for nothing!”
“I, for one, will not let the likes of Starscream maim and kill unapposed!” Grimlock grabs Arcee’s servo, squeezing. “Are you with me, my darling? Shall we fight together!”
“Always, Grim! Let’s go kick some Decepticon aft!”
“Ahem,” Flamewar interjects with a snap of her claws to draw attention to her small self. “Excuse me, we’re Decepticon aft.” She indicates her team, plus Soundwave.
The friends collectively cringe as Shadow Striker narrows her optic, Demolishor cracks his neck and Thunderblast smiles coyly.
“Let me go with you! I can help.”
“No, Slip, it’s not safe for you.”
“It’s not safe for anyone! My Seekers are massacring unarmed civilians! I have to help you stop them!”
“If Starscream sees you–”
“Screw him! Our friends are out there, Windblade! I won’t let him stop me from helping people, especially the people we love! I am so sick, and tired, of being scared of him. I feel so emasculated all the time. I hate it. And what kind of girlfriend would I be if I just stayed behind and let you go out there on your own? Please. Let me be useful for once.”
“You’re a Seeker, Slip. I know you mean well, but you’ll just scare innocent people who don’t know you like I do.”
Slipstream flinches hard, wings lowering with an emotional quiver as she gazes down at herself.
“They’ll take one look at your frame, at your Deceptibrand, and they’ll think the worst of you. They’ll lump you in with all the other Seekers Starscream has out there on a killing spree. You could cause more panic, trying to help. You could get caught in the crossfire.”
“Oh.”
“I’m sorry.” Windblade cups her cheek, stroking once, then withdraws. “Stay here, where I know you’ll be safe. I’ll go help the others. But I promise to come back to you. Okay.”
The Seeker says nothing, squeezing her optics shut with a hiss through her vents.
The Cityspeaker turns away.
“I can shoot back.”
She pauses on the periphery of leaving the room. “Slip?”
“My null-rays are in the armoury. They stripped me of weapons when they admitted me here,” Slipstream intones quietly, seriously. “If you can get me in, I can reattach them and fight back. You don’t have ranged weaponry, so I’ve got that advantage.”
“I’d never ask you to shoot at your fellow Seekers, or any of those other Decepticons. I can’t expect you to–”
“If I look like a monster, I might as well behave like one, if only to be useful for once in my life. Please, let me protect you, let me protect our friends and those innocent people my brethren are slaughtering.”
“Could you shoot another Seeker?”
“If I really have to. I’d do it for you.”
“Slip.”
“Null-rays aren’t always lethal. I can incapacitate, instead of kill.”
“That doesn’t change the fact that I can’t give you permission to harm. It’s too close to doing to you the very things people like Shadow Striker and Starscream have done. I won’t be complicit in that.”
“We’re at war. I have to fight.”
“I’m at war. You’re safe now. You need to heal.”
“And what about our friends out there, fighting for their lives? I’m not special! We’re all in this and we’re all playing our parts! Except me.”
Windblade clearly wants to argue, but she cannot.
“Get me access to my null-rays and take me with you,” Slipstream pleads. “We’ll fight back, together.”
“So, you’ll help us?”
“Despite my better judgment, yeah.” Shadow Striker nods once, crouched low within the VIP booth with the others, avoiding being noticed by Seekers who dart past the viewing port. “We’re with you.”
“And you promise you won’t kill anyone, right?” Arcee narrows her optics.
“Me and my guys here will try real hard not to.”
“Thank you.” Bumblebee manages to smile, tired and terrified as it may be, and holds out a servo. “With your help, we just might stand a chance out there.”
“Nah, probably not.” Smirking back, Shadow Striker takes it firmly, thus sealing their alliance, at least for tonight. “If we somehow survive this, though, do you think we can patch things up a little, maybe?”
“Maybe.”
“Lemme just make sure I got this situation right. All those hostiles, and you’re telling me we’re supposed to save lives and defend ourselves and get outta here alive, using non-lethal take-downs and evasive maneuvers only?”
“Pretty much.”
Flamewar shakes her helm solemnly. “We’re so screwed.”
“Don’t say that! Have faith in us! We have each other, you guys! We’re a team!” Hot Rod holds onto Soundwave, who cradles him close as the metallic walls creak with scattered impacts. “I know it looks really bad, but–”
“It is really bad,” interjects Demolishor stoically, leaning low as he can, a little bigger than even Grimlock who barely manages to hide from ocular detection within the confines of the crowded elite stands. “We’ll be labelled as traitors, deserters, or both. Commander Starscream’s gonna have us dismantled for spare parts.”
Hot Rod looks horrified, but Soundwave consoles him, somewhat.
“The Decepticons are done,” Shadow Striker mutters. “They won’t last long, not under Scream. Megatron was the mind and Spark behind the movement. They’ll be all over the place, disorganised and distracted. After tonight, I say we grab our gear, dig into our savings and ditch Cybertron for the colonies. A vacation in Velocitron, to start.”
“Take me with you, boss bot.”
“Of course. Sure, mercenary gigs don’t pay as good out on the colonies, but I’ll take you on as a partner and we’ll split the cut between us. You like that?”
“That’s so romantic. I like that a lot.”
“Good for you girls. But there go my carefully laid plans for world domination. Back to the drawing board to polish up by secondary plan,” intones Thunderblast, huffing and tossing her helm prettily. “Lucky for me, I have many plans. With my darling Megatron gone, Starscream is a little too crazy for my purposes, though that hunky Empress lady could still prove useful… assuming she is as powerful as I sense, and survives long enough for me to seduce her. Cybertron will be mine someday, somehow. Just a little setback.”
“You might be kinda intense, but I can totes admire the girlboss energy.”
“Thanks, Arcee. It’s a mindset.”
Canisters of spray paint are laid out over the workbench.
“A bright, bold shade of red, like a beacon of hope! A stern, noble expression, reminiscent of a hero! Nothin’ like that spooky ol’ Deceptibrand! Oh-ho, this is gonna be a hit! Brilliant!”
“Uuugh!” Windblade paces, furious. “We don’t have time for this! Please hurry up!”
Slipstream fidgets, anxious. “And this, uh, new symbol is supposed to make people less scared of me?”
“Absolutely! Trust me, this’ll work! It’ll be worth it!” Wheeljack cornered them in the armoury, where he keeps his excess stock of prototype tools and experimental gear as per Sentinel’s insistence, regarding such things as weapons, and in typical Wheeljack fashion, others are being subjected to a wild and reckless idea yet to be tested. “Just gotta add the finishin’ touches… almost done… ah-ha! There it is!”
“Finally!” Windblade grabs Slipstream by the arm and drags her out the armoury. “Grab your science stuff and haul aft, Wheeljack!”
“Will do! See ya there!” Wheeljack waves after the femmes, then gathers an armful of technology. “Time to test some hypotheses!”
“Release me at once!” Stripped of weapons and locked in a fortified room, Jetfire cries for freedom. “I demand that you let me out of here! Anyone! Please! I must stop him!”
The holoscreen broadcasts the degradation of civilised society, people killing and dying, consumed by fear and hate and violence under the wings of a maddened mech.
Bumblebee is just a little guy, cheerful and loving and fun to be around. He has always avoided physical altercations, not only because he is gentle, but also because he is smart and charming enough to avoid most fights. He became a scout, a good one, in service of the greater good as Orion described it, but now Bumblebee almost regrets not being someone more akin to a soldier, built big and strong and intimidating.
“I’m gonna squash you like a bug!” the bigger Decepticon femme boasts, slamming her fists together to emphasise her point.
“Wow, real original. Never heard that one, before. Got another?”
“Raaargh!”
“Very clever.” He realises, of course, that he looks harmless, but looks can be - for lack of a better word - deceptive. His old job working in general maintenance required that he be outfitted with an electrical discharge device he playfully calls his stinger. When she gets within his range, he ducks below her punch and swings his fist as if to retaliate with a punch of his own, only to release the so-called stinger and jab the tool into his unsuspecting target’s torso, in turn discharging an electrical surge potent enough to briefly stun the bigger femme without killing her. He has only ever used this tactic to escape Starscream, and only used it once, but it gave the jet reason to believe in the scout’s ability to defend himself.
“Run!” Hot Rod cries above the chaos, clearing a path with a gust of fire from his exhaust pipes, scattering Decepticons who flee in terror, singed. “Go! Hurry!” He never imagined that his performance upgrades, intended as a flashy party trick and to tease rival racers on the track and generally just to look cool when cruising about at night, would turn into weapons of war.
“Th-thank you!” The weeping mech flees with his wife close behind, the couple safely making their escape. “Primus bless you!”
“Flamethrowers?!” Thoroughly impressed, Flamewar almost forgets to fire off another quick volley of stun arrows into the advancing wave of Decepticons who recognise her as a traitor, turning upon the spot with her compound bow held aloft, perfectly steady, dropping her former comrades with precision and ease. “You’ve got fragging flamethrowers?!”
“Uh, yeah! I guess so!”
“Bro! We gotta hang out more! You’re wicked!”
“Heh! Thanks! You’re pretty slick with that bow!”
“You’ve inspired me! I’m gonna whip up some incendiary arrows! I’ll name them Hot Shots!”
“Oh, I know a guy called Hot Shot! He likes jam!* Really, really likes jam! It’s a little weird!”
“This way, people!” Arcee exclaims as she kicks a Decepticon in the belly, before performing an array of backflips to bewilder any other attackers, awed as they are by her athletic prowess. “Heee-yah!” She recovers, only to deliver an uppercut to an astounded Decepticon, who drops with a groan.
“We’re here to help!” Grimlock has his servos full as a gigantic mech wrestles with him, until Demolishor cups his palms together and slams the full mass of his joined fists over their foe’s helm, cleanly knocking the behemith out cold. “Ah, my good fellow, a most elegant solution!”
“Yeah, well, it works. And I figure it’s bit less lethal than shooting people. I don’t fire blanks.”
“Oh-ho! That’s quite the claim, big mech!”
“You’re telling me! Especially at my age!”
Demolishor and Grimlock share laughter over that, combining their strength to terrorise the marauding Decepticons.
“You mess with me…” Similar in build, yet imbued with far more confidence than Bumblebee, Cliffjumper shoves his horns into a Decepticon, puncturing her shell and knocking her aside with his small yet stout strength. “You get the horns!” He then yelps as a Decepticon attacks from behind, grabbing him by the horns and lifting him off his pedes. “Whoa! Too literal! Lemme go!”
A flash of blue, a crunch of impact, a pained gasp. The Decepticon lets go.
Cliffjumper is promptly dropped, turning to defend himself, only to find his assailant in a crumpled heap, Chromia stood behind her shield, optics aflame and protoform muscles fully distended within her shell, slick with sweat. “Whoa! My hero!”
“Where’s Windblade?! She won’t answer my calls!”
“Uh, sorry, dunno! Probably up there, giving it to the Seekers!”
“Ugh! That femme shall be the death of me, by Solus Prime, I swear it!”
“W-wait! I’m on your side!”
“Not anymore, sweetie.” A Decepticon screams as Thunderblast pins him to the floor beneath her heel. “Stay down, you naughty boy.”
“You sure are freaky like that, dreamboat. Me, next?”
“Of course! Anything for my little dirt bike.”
“Nice.”
Soundwave braces himself and releases a blast of truly horrendous dubstep from his built-in speakers, channeling the current and aiming the concentrated weaponised noise at a mob of Decepticons, throwing them off their pedes and flinging them afar. It is effortless and impressive. There are many reasons why he is among the top Decepticons in terms of rank and efficiency, or was - he never imagined sacrificing a lucrative career for the sake of family, but he loves Hot Rod and their moody little cybercat son Ravage, and they come first. Starscream has shown his madness tonight, lacking in the nobility and patience of Megatron’s leadership, and so Soundwave can no longer juggle this job with his familial responsibilities. A choice has to be made, and this must be the right choice.
Shadow Striker slashes her former comrades with her twin blades, careful to cleave superficial wounds sufficient to intimidate her opponents without killing them, as promised, and thus they flee from her. The very sight of the old mercenary spattered with fresh Energon sends most enemy Decepticons into a panic, only the most brave and foolish daring to try her on, inevitably losing to her skill. She ends up pressed back-to-back with Wheeljack, holding some sort of contraption. “You the science guy? Shockwave’s old squeeze, right?”
“Yup! That’s me! Hi!”
“Hey. You got a gadget for this?”
“Sure, I got a gadget for everythin’!”
Before she can snarkily quip back, she recognises another femme within the throng. “Sis!”
Roulette slams her elbow against a Decepticon’s throat, visor down and dermas drawn tight with focus. “Sis.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Arcee does another unnecessary backflip, landing beside Roulette, who looks surprised and impressed at the same time. “You have a sister? Well, hi there!”
“Uh, hey.”
“I knew it,” Bumblebee mutters, extracting his stinger to strike. “I knew you two looked related!”
“Roulette looks like me, but she’s kinda my opposite,” Shadow Striker says with a scoff, kicking a Decepticon in the aft. “I’m the fun one, she’s the square.”
“Shut your damn intake,” Roulette replies with a quirk of the helm. “I’m loads of fun,” she declares, deadly serious.
“Oh, please. You’re about as fun as a flat tire.”
“Respect your big sister for once.”
“See? Boring!”
“Aw!” Hot Rod grins over his pauldron, blasting fire from his exhaust pipes. “I heard that! You’re the little sis, Shadow Striker! That’s adorable!”
“Not so little.” Shadow Striker flushes, scowling grumpily at Soundwave when he laughs at her expense. “Okay, that’s enough outta you, you glorified music box.”
Crouched within the chaos close by, Ratchet activates a portable forcefield within his rig, as he is an old combat medic and such a device allows him to attend to the wounded in the midst of combat. “Bite this,” he gruffly instructs a frightened civilian, inserting a rubbery bit into her grimacing intake.
She looks confused.
“That’s so you don’t bite your glossa off on reflex when I pop your leg back into its orbital socket.”
Her optics widen.
“Simple procedure, perfectly standard.” Bless him. He is very willing to help, but he never had a delicate berthside manner. “Right, then. On the count of three. One. Two.”
“Hrrrgh!”
“Three!”
Perhaps there is still hope, after all.
Jetfire seizes a chair and throws it at the door, then proceeds to beat the heavier metal with his fists, impressive blows leaving considerable dents until his knuckles bleed before he resorts to kicking the door down, aided by sweltering blasts from his thrusters to soften the unliving metal.
Screams of innocent people torment him from the live broadcast that blares upon the holoscreen.
Slipstream may have her null-rays returned to her, tuned low enough to disable and not destroy as she passes over terrestrial Decepticons whilst firing rapidly, leaving them shut down in her wake and confusing onlookers, for she is a Seeker bearing an unfamiliar red sign upon her wings. However, she cannot bear to fire upon another Seeker, thus she attempts to persuade them with her words instead. Soaring within the flurry of movement, she leaves another clump of combative grounded Decepticons disabled before she turns her attention and hones in on two Seekers in particular. “Thrust! Thundercracker!" She does not bother hailing their comm links, her voice maternal and strict, big and booming. “What do you think you’re doing!”
“Aaah!” Thundercracker jerks, his handsome blue fighter jet alt-mode quickly darting away, evidently startled. “Slip! You’re here!” He stabilises himself with a little huff of embarrassment for being so scared, just now. “Uhhh, you’re not supposed to be here?”
“Holy scrap, are you serious! You got a death wish or something!” The most agile and capable flier of the Seekers, Thrust turns in a beautiful arc to meet Slipstream above the chaos. “If Star sees you here, he’ll flip! And he’s kinda already flipped, to be honest! You’ll make him worse!”
“You two are going to help me wrangle the Seekers and end this madness! Am I understood!”
“Um. Can she do that, brother? Boss us around?”
“No, she can’t. Sorry, Slip, Commander’s orders! You wanna incur his wrath, go ahead, but me? I’m doing what I gotta do!”
“Argh! Fools! Where’s your honour, your pride?”
The Seeker brothers share a sigh.
“Ugh, here we go with the mom lecture.”
“She’s got a point, though.”
“Don’t tell her that!”
“Seriously, bro. All our lives, we’ve always done what Star tells us to, but this? This doesn’t feel right.”
“We’ve followed loads of scrap orders that didn’t feel right!”
“This feels even worse. We’re acting kinda like the bad guys right now. But I thought Decepticons were the good guys?”
“Yeah, sure we are! So maybe this is a dark stain on the Decepticon legacy. We’ll do good again! Tonight, we just gotta do what our Commander tells us to, same as always, business as usual. Don’t think too hard about it or you’ll hurt yourself, Thunder.”
“I dunno how I’ll look at Nova after tonight. I dunno how I’ll look at myself in the mirror after tonight.”
“So, what, then? We just stop shooting and hope Star doesn’t notice? Just fly around, looking busy, pretending?”
“We could try that, sure!”
“I forget how dumb you are, Thunder.”
“I mean, we could try it, Thrust. Star’s probably so busy, maybe he won’t even notice us. He’s always been pretty lax about chores and stuff, so-”
“And what happens to us if he does notice?”
“Um. Bad things.”
“Very bad things! You wanna end up like Slip over there?”
“No, not really.”
“Exactly! We can’t disobey the Commander, he’ll punish us! And it’s just not done, okay! It’s not the Seeker way! Seekers grumble about the scrappy hierarchy, but we don’t act and think for ourselves in defiance of it! That’s just weird!”
Slipstream despairs, veering off to the side, leaving the brothers to their squabble. She has no real authority here. Starscream has bested her. None of the Seekers are likely to listen, because Seekers suffer their Commander. And yet she does not see him in the battle.
Jetfire sinks to his knees, holding his bloody fists to his chest, scraping his bent heel struts over the reinforced floor as he collapses in a heap, sobbing.
“Keep them away! None shall interrupt my vengeance!”
“Errm, Commander, darling…” Empress rubs her brows. Starscream has gone quite mad and she is contemplating an exit strategy as opposed to following his berserk orders, but he is dangerous in the state he is in right now and so she tries to be careful. “What are you intending to do with him, exactly?”
“My worst.”
“Ah, yes. Quite. Perhaps don’t do that?”
Ignoring this, Starscream rises again on his thrusters, clearing the gap with ease, before he nimbly drops onto the floating platform, suspended above the dark pit, to be met by none other than Sentinel. Or whatever remains of Sentinel, anyway. There is not much to ascribe a name to.
Ariel sees this and feels a chill of horror gripping her Spark, even as her engine burns hot with adrenaline.
“Prowl is sending for more reinforcements! The Functionists are dispatching their Functionaries to aid us! Ratchet and other medics are tending to the wounded!” Orion is trying to soothe her, as much as himself. “Help is coming!”
“Help is taking too damn long! Starscream’s up there, doing Primus knows what with Sentinel! I can’t wait! I gotta go!”
Crouched within the rubble, Orion keeps his helm down to avoid getting shot dead and his wide optics upturned to fearfully watch the sky for attackers, tracking the two Seekers who are fast approaching, firing off another barrage from their null-rays at a distance and forcing the huge mech to shrink further as his pauldron is sliced open, an injury that is painful but does not disable his arm. “Aaargh!”
“Frag! You hit?!”
“Yes, but I will persevere! And so shall you! Wait until help arrives!”
“You stay here! I’m going for it, soon as those Seekers pass us again!”
“No! It is too dangerous!”
“Sentinel’s getting a proper funeral, if it’s the last thing I fragging do!” Ariel bellows from her own shelter within the remnants of a gift shop, taking the opportunity for all she is worth and charging out into the open with speed that should be impossible for a femme of her size and weight, simply throwing smaller Decepticons out of her path.
Orion calls after her, instinctively rising to follow, only to fall when another barrage of null-ray blasts rain over his shelter. He collapses on his back, panting, watching the bellies of jets surging above. Tracking their movement within the greater hive of other Seeker jets, he spots a sleek red jet that is unlike the others. He activates his comm link with a shaky gasp. “Windblade! It is not safe for you! Do not engage!”
“Just trust me, Orion!” Windblade, truthfully, does not come into the chaos with a plan. She does not possess any ranged weaponry, thus when transformed in her jet alt-mode, she is putting herself at considerable risk by inciting Seekers. “I’ve got these two!”
Orion looks to Ariel, faced with the monstrous femme that is Empress, and bellows as he sprints out of cover to her aid, dodging impacts from null-rays. He has no weapon, nor would he know how to use one, and he lacks a military background with all the soldierly programming that typically comes with it. He is a retired archivist, and before then, he worked the docks. He has never been a violent mech. He is so far out of his depth and as heroic as his sentiments may be, he knows it. What can one old, sentimental mech do, against war? Surely all he has to offer are his wise words, yet his wise words have failed him, and Starscream’s maddened words incited this chaos.
“Raaargh!” With a ferocious battlecry, Windblade resorts to physically intercepting the pair of Seekers, a truly insane feat, narrowly avoiding clipping their wings as she deliberately dives between them, then redirects her turbines and ascends again, hoping to draw attention to herself. It works.
“That’s her!” Nova Storm takes the bait, fearless and strong, one of the finest of Starscream’s elite Seekers as well as his most loyal follower, his recognition of which makes her proud to serve him. “Shoot the glitch down, Warp! It’s payback time!”
Where her boisterous big sister goes, the subtle Skywarp tends to follow, chirping an affirmative.
Thus the two Seeker femmes redirect together in a sweeping arc, perfectly harmonised, before taking a few harrowing shots at the Cityspeaker.
“Solus Prime, give me strength – aaah – what am I doing – hot, hot, hot!” Windblade keeps high, narrowly dodging null-ray blasts that singe her shell in passing. Although a skilled flier and excellent melee fighter, she has little experience against opponents in the sky. It is an entirely different beast, compared to fighting with Stormfall on the ground. And beyond that, she really does not want to hurt any of the Seekers. They are victims too, or so she keeps telling herself.
“Darling, I think you’re just a bit upset,” Empress yells out in her deep, velvety voice. “Perhaps you should–” She stiffens within her gunmetal grey sheets of unadorned metal armour and turns sharply as a cacophony of heavy, swift steps alert her to Ariel, sprinting from the chaos. “Oh, my!”
“Stop her!” Starscream shrieks. “Or I’ll have your hide hollowed out and propped up as decoration!”
“That’s very rude,” Empress mutters as she steps between Ariel and the control panel, palms splayed. “One moment, my dear.”
“Move.”
“I’m afraid I’ve been told to stop you.”
“Move!”
“Starscream, well, he’s a little fragile, just now, which makes him volatile and quite liable to–”
Whatever soothing radiation Empress emits to calm Ariel does not have much affect, because the smaller pink femme lunges for the larger gunmetal grey gladiator, dipping low and slinging out a heel strut upon a long, shapely leg to strike the crux of a broad ankle joint, causing it to buckle under the great weight.
Grunting lowly with surprise as much as pain, Empress partially collapses, forced to kneel upon one knee joint, and does not recover quickly enough to dodge or block the fist that swings to collide with her jaw with enough force to throw her onto her side, grimacing prettily.
Ariel stumbles desperately over the heaped femme to reach the control panel, anxiously pressing buttons in an attempt to summon the set of stairs leading to the central platform situated above the pit. As there are so many buttons and they are unhelpfully all quite similar, she does not know what she is doing.
“That rather hurt.” Empress rises again, dragging a thumb across a split in her soft, plump bottom derma, frowning as she smears Energon upon the scuffed pad. She licks it clean, then clenches a fist. “I couldn’t persuade you. That’s… rather special.”
“Dammit!” Ariel ends up turning the overhelm arena lights on, and off, and randomly activates visual effects meant to intensify the atmosphere, including jets of fire that plume high into the air, singing Seekers who swerve to avoid the random emissions from various angles, squawking. “Frag’s sake, which one is it!”
“None of those, I assure you.”
She grimaces as a huge, dark fist catches her wrist and squeezes hard enough to dent the pink casing a moment before she is simply yanked away from the controls and lifted into the air by her arching arm, then flung violently down again with a crack as her helm bounces off the metallic arena floor, leaving her dazed, collapsed at the pedes of her assailant.
Empress stands with a definitive lurch, her ankle joint spraying sparks as she proceeds to drag Ariel by the limp arm across the floor, toward the central pit.
“No… Sentinel… I need…”
“Hush, my dear. It seems I can’t even soothe you. I’d love to get to know you – get to know how that’s possible – but the femmes who resist my charms never last long enough for me to figure them out.”
Held by one crushed wrist and dragged by the dislocated arm, Ariel claws at the floor with her free and operational servo, seeing the world in a dizzy ache from one optic, the other perceiving reality through spidery cracks of a broken lens. She catches a fleeting, confusing glimpse of her nearing destination and empowered by a fresh wave of panic, she twists her torso, contorting as she lashes out at her attacker with both legs with her spinal seam hot on the floor.
“Oomph!” Empress stumbles, but does not trip. “Such spirit! I like you!” Her retaliation is simply to swing her mighty fist, clenched about a crumpled wrist attached to a dislocated pink arm, in turn sweeping Ariel across the tiles and upward, flinging her the rest of the distance toward the central pit like a carelessly tossed toy. “Goodbye, Councillor!”
Orion’s anguished bellow and thunderous approach are the only warnings Empress gets before he knocks her unconscious with a single blow to the back of the helm, the first punch he has thrown since he was a tortured young mech miserably working the docks. He does not even stop to contemplate her condition, throwing himself after Ariel.
“Uuuugh…” Empress drops like a stone, falling upon her knees before flopping dramatically forward, collapsed upon her belly and breast.
Ariel is clinging to the edge of the pit with one servo, her other arm dangling uselessly. Her cries echo back at her from the yawning darkness below, where Megatron now rests after sending so many others to their doom. She slips on digits slicked with sweat and lets go.
Leaning over the edge, Orion barely catches her, his larger servo snagging her from the jaws of her likely death. He wastes not a second in heaving her with all his considerable might, pulling her from the pit and onto the arena floor, where they both collapse altogether, embracing.
“I love you,” she says, in a really small, scared voice only he can hear, disoriented due to her helmwound and barely able to see with her damaged optics.
“Just as I love you,” he rumbles through his panting vents, his wounded pauldron weeping Energon, his back strut embedded with shrapnel. “Come, we must–”
Starscream cackles from above.
They look up.
Flung over the edge of the floating platform, a piece of Sentinel soars, then falls, bouncing off of Orion’s helm before finding its resting place in Ariel’s lap. At that moment of horror, an ominous rumble alerts them to Empress, rising again, having recovered quickly.
“Now I really am upset. Striking a lady from behind? Discourteous. Where have all the gentlemechs gone?”
Ariel is promptly dragged too her pedes and pulled away from the Pit. She is too disoriented to fight, and so Orion protectively keeps himself between the femmes, his hackles up as Empress saunters on up to the control console, frowning.
“I understand this situation must be stressful for the both of you, but I think that was quite unreasonable all the same.”
“We just want Sentinel’s body, you big glitch!”
“Please, let us take him home. We do not wish to fight.”
“I think you’ll soon realise I can be quite unreasonable in kind.” Empress pats the control panel, then raises a fist and simply obliterates the console, shattering the crystalline interface and buckling the softer unliving metal with ease. “See? Something like that, dears.”
Ariel roars, dizzy and stumbling, but Orion keeps her back.
“I’m going to tear you two apart.” Empress stoops to pick up a piece of Sentinel, sheared away by Starscream. “And then I suppose we Decepticons win.”
“You forget the will of Primus and those who enforce it.”
She sighs, turns sharply, and utters a subdued, “Oh, frag it all,” just before she takes a plasma round to the breastplate, eating away at her thick armour within seconds.
The Functionaries, those huge, weaponised believers employed in times of crisis by the Functionists - rare on account of being expensive and time-consuming to produce due to the sheer bodily modifications and indoctrination required to modify a believer into a frame and personality that qualify for this high and mighty calling - have finally arrived. They are decimating Decepticons, aiding the elite guard and basic security presence stationed within the arena, and allowing unmarked civilians to escape.
Hissing in pain, Empress slumps over where she stands, squaring her pauldrons and clawing at her own chassis. To save her own life, she is forced to wrench away her outer shell with shrieking metal, tossing the melting mass aside. Her raw sensory nodes scream at the exposure within a tangled network of wires, laid within the second layer of her shell, the layer that contains the fibres her muscular protoform and tender fuel lines within. She is free of the plasma that may have devoured its way into her very Spark chamber, but she is also very exposed and vulnerable from the front. “Starscream!" she bellows, a little less dulcet than usual. “A tactical retreat, if you please!”
In reply, Starscream makes a truly primal noise.
“You survived a holy strike. This is a second chance. Surrender now and we will consider your penance in custody.”
“To the Pits with you.” Empress withdraws rod from her frame that unfurls into an enormous Energon pickaxe. “I won’t surrender to Functionist filth.” She narrowly side-steps the projectile as one of the Functionaries fires another bolt of plasma that pools over the floor and sizzles. She closes the distance and swings wide, impaling the blade within a helm and cleanly slicing the cranial casing in half, severing the brain module within, thus one of the assembled Functionaries falls dead at her pedes before she slashes another across the chassis, the gladiator built large enough to meet these defenders of the faith optic-to-optic, strong enough to face even a group of them in melee combat.
“Forgive us for not arriving sooner,” the voice of Twelve-of-Twelve says, emanating from one such lumbering giant despite being caught up in combat with the gladiator, able to speak through – and for – the deployed Functionaries. Sentinel had pumped considerable resources into increasing production of these Functionaries as a means of quelling the Decepticon uprising when such was limited to protests and riots on the streets, but giving the zealots such power was a calculated risk. The investment pays off tonight, it would seem. “We were holding prayer for guidance and protection, consoling the frightful public, dispensing aid to the wounded, and-”
“Sentinel lies up there," Orion interjects, holding Ariel close, cradling her wounded helm to his broad bosom. "He is with Starscream. We cannot reach him now. Please.”
A roar of a Seeker’s thrusters overhelm is the answer to this plea.
Slipstream finds Starscream in his root-mode, stood on a hovering platform suspended above a yawning dark pit, abusing the crumpled, scorched remains of Sentinel. The sight is sickening, even against the backdrop of everything else. If he cannot be convinced, he must be stopped.
“So much for friendship!” Starscream savagely digs his sharp heel strut into melted metal, garnering a whistling exhale from distorted vents and a spasmodic jerk. “He was mine! Mine, mine, mine!” Every repeated word is punctuated by repeated stabbing kicks. “This is all your fault! He loved you! He loved me! And you murdered that love! Why can’t I ever be happy!”
Slipstream transforms and drops, landing heavily on the platform with a metallic thud, drawing the ire of her Commander.
“You!”
“By the Primes, a corpse? What has happened to you, Commander?”
“You dare question me?! No! Beg for my forgiveness! Fall at my pedes and confess your devotion now, and I may let you live!”
“Star, please, only you can stop all of this! The Seekers won’t listen to me! They only obey you! I know you hurt, I know people have hurt you, but-”
“Worship me, like the others do! I am the sun!”
“Save these lives, Star! Spare our people this evil! Call off the Seekers, withdraw the Decepticons!”
Starscream strides over to his former Captain and silences her pleas with a sharp, resounding slap.
Slipstrem stumbles aside, stunned. The import hurts more than the impact.
“Silence!”
Shrinking in pain and fear, she lowers her wings and puts a palm gingerly over her stinging cheek, flushed with surface-level Energon. He has said some truly cruel things before tonight, but this is the first time he has struck a subordinate Seeker.
“Silence.” His optics are manic, seared over, and it is almost as if he is not fully present in this moment. “Dispose of him.”
She blinks back the tears.
“The body. I want it gone.”
She turns to look, trembling.
“I have taken out a mere fraction of my frustration upon him. He has dirtied me. Sullied me. Get rid of him. That will be the first stage in your application to rejoin my Seekers and serve me as is natural and good.”
Slipstream cringes as Starscream swaggers past and savagely kicks Sentinel’s body with a dull crunch. It makes her sick.
“Drag him over the edge and throw him to the Pits, where he can suffer Megatron’s fate. Let old friends lie together again, forever.”
“You’re scaring me.”
Starscream turns to look at Slipstream, but he sees through her, veiled with madness and fury and suffering.
“I’m sorry. I love you. Please believe me.”
“Obey me! Do it! Now, now, now!”
“N-no.”
“What?!”
“No!”
“How dare you?!”
As Starscream lunges, Slipstream dodges him, sprinting across the platform with him chasing madly after her.
“Hold still! You deserve to be punished! It is my right!”
“Please! You have to make them stop! I beg of you!”
“Get back here!”
Seekers are actually very fast runners, despite common assumptions to the contrary due to their top-heavy builds and slouched postures. Long limbs, sturdy yet flexible joints, powerful internal mechanics and high fuel consumption when fully invested allow for bursts of intense activity, although they prefer more sustained periods of less vigorous exercise because hunger makes for horrible tummy aches and they are prone to defective fuel pumps.
Slipstream dodges aside when Starscream resorts to a running leap, landing in a predatory crouch in the place she occupied a moment before, frothing.
“When I get my claws on you, I will make it hurt!”
Ariel and Orion are yelling.
Sentinel’s remains waft foul, acrid smoke.
Slipstream’s combat protocols are automatic and her frame surges with another injection of performance-enhancing adrenaline protocols. She leaps over Sentinel, twists on her heel, and raises her null-rays.
“You can’t shoot me!” Starscream cackles, stepping onto Sentinel’s broken digits, ascending his buckled paundron, simply waking over him like one would tread upon uneven terrain, as opposed to a person. “You love me!”
Sentinel suddenly snags Starscream by the ankle, letting out a terrible wheeze as the Commander squawks his alarm, glaring downward.
“You brute!” Starscream easily jerks his ankle free, then lifts his long, shapely leg. “You’re supposed to be dead!” That heel strut is aimed downward like a dagger, poised above Sentinel’s scorched, maimed face.
With a burst of light and heat, Slipstream fires off both null-rays at once.
Starscream is struck with a disbelieving little gasp, then collapses atop Sentinel with a low, warbling noise of a mech involuntarily powering down, systems temporarily disabled as he initiates rest mode to recover. Before he faints, he pings his fellow Seekers - a distress signal.
Even Slipstream receives it, optics widening, upturned to watch Seekers pour down from the sky, incoming.
Sentinel coughs as what little of him is left is hastily scooped up. Once a huge, splendid mech, he is little more than mangled protoform freely bleeding in Slipstream’s arms, with sparse scraps of shell left to protect him or preserve his dignity. He has lost enough mass that his weight is significantly reduced, allowing her to lift him into the air, poised on her thrusters.
“I’ve got him! He’s alive!”
Orion looks so relieved, until the swelling storm cloud of incoming Seekers darkens his expression. He is already in motion by the time Slipstream bellows again, hoisting the disoriented, partially blinded Ariel in his arms and sprinting with all the vigor his muscular old body can manage, which is more than most younger mechs can claim.
“Go! Evasive maneuvers! Run!”
Seekers fire upon the Functionaries engaging Empress, fire upon Orion and Ariel, and even fire upon Slipstream as she flings herself recklessly ahead upon her thrusters whilst in root-mode with the horribly diminished Sentinel slack in her embrace. However, these Seekers are young, inexperienced, and not the best shots. They miss more than they hit, but make up for it through sheer numbers, rapid rate of fire, and combat aggression.
Functionaries collapse when inevitably hit, systems compromised, and Empress cleaves her way free. “Get the Commander!”
Two young Seekers obediently drop onto the platform, scooping up Starscream between them. They recognise the use of null-rays and revive him using an energizing patch, as well as a few sharp slaps across the face for good measure.
“Uuugh. I’m awake. I’m awake! Enough!” Starscream irritably shrugs off the concerned Nacelle and Bitstream. “That damned glitch shot me! She actually shot me! Me, her most beloved! The offence! The outrage! I have lost too much, this night! I have… lost!”
Nacelle and Bitstream glance nervously at one another.
Already past the breaking point, Starscream suddenly bursts into tears.
“Commander, please don’t cry.”
“It’s gonna be okay. We’ll be okay.”
Nacelle and Bitstream embrace their beloved, cradling the sobbing Starscream lovingly between them.
Those mournful wails reach Empress as she extracts the blade of her pickaxe from a fresh corpse, standing victorious over the carnage, panting from her steamy vents, dripping perspired coolant and spilled inner Energon. She thinks that Starscream is a loathsome little mech, and yet she feels sincerely sorry for him, bowing her helm as she fondly recalls how Megatron’s laughter could fill a room. She blinks rapidly as her optics well with an automated influx of lubricant, the reinforced cables of her throat bobbing as she swallows sorely.
A roar overhelm draws their attention to the sky.
“Windblade,” Starscream snarls, scrambling to his pedes.
Empress hardens her expression and narrows her wet optics, tracking movement.
Like a meteor freely falling, Windblade makes a dreadful return with her right turbine on fire, unable to properly control her forced descent, Nova Storm and Skywarp still in pursuit.
Cackling like a maniac, Starscream throws up a fist and shakes it. “Take her down, girls! Down, down, down!” Not satisfied with merely watching Windblade fall to her death, he transforms and rockets to meet her, followed by Nacelle and Bitstream. It is not a smart thing to do, but the Commander is hardly in his right mind. Vengeance shall be his. Even in the air, he wants to wring the life out of the Cityspeaker’s throat and taste the death on her breath as her Spark is snuffed out.
Windblade does have just enough steering to take advantage of Starscream’s madness. If she is going down, she will take one of the Seekers with her – the only one she believes comes close to deserving to die. And so she veers to meet him.
“Commander! Watch out!”
He transforms with a manic grin, reverting to root-mode and twisting his slender, agile body through the rush of moving air, slamming his fist into her cockpit and shattering the sturdy crystalline shell to wrench at her internal parts as she slams her nose cone into him, the damaged jet carrying the clinging mech down, down, down with a combined cry, hurtling toward the ground.
“Crazy glitch! She’ll kill them both!”
Enduring punches and kicks, she turns, twirling as she plummets, dipping upside-down.
He slides and dangles from the outstretched arm, but does not let go, his fist bloody and embedded in her shattered cockpit, pulling on her guts with gravity and terminal velocity. He will pull her inside out at this rate. He laughs.
She cuts her thrusters and reorients her functioning turbine, steering herself to skim the roof of the gift shop, upside-down.
He collides with the roof, and yet he refuses to let go. His stubborn vengeance, at war with her indomitable will, costs him his servo, lost within her tortured insides, torn from his wrist. The rest of him is left in the collapsed ruin of the gift shop, laid motionless in a crumpled heap among buckled shelves spilling gladiatorial merchandise upon him, his resting place within the embrace of a pile of stuffed toys shaped like famous fighters, for the kids. All he knows is pain, until he knows nothing. Thankfully, the shopkeeper is long gone.
She is unable to slow herself enough for a safe or even conventional landing, as she is still upside-down with only one turbine that still functions, the other aflame. She skids across the arena floor in a shower of sparks, streaking Energon and red paint transfer in her wake. She slides on, and on, and on, until she finally settles upon her shattered cockpit, his fist still clenched inside her. She is not fully conscious, adrenaline protocols interfering with her body’s attempt at forcing a recovery mode upon impact. She can sort of hear pedes fast approaching.
“Windblade!” Chromia has finally found her. “No, no, no!”
“Guys, help me roll her over,” Hot Rod exclaims.
Bumblebee can only make sounds of anguish and panic as friends do their best to be gentle, hoisting the jet altogether and turning her onto her belly to expose Windblade’s gruesomely opened cockpit, dented shell oozing with inner Energon where bits of protoform are exposed, and utterly ruined paint.
“Ratchet, we need you!” Grimlock projects over the other voices. “Hurry!”
Windblade is dimly aware of servos touching her, but she is too lethargic to transform and she registers an obstruction in her cockpit that would be rather bad for her health if she were to attempt a transformation. It is much less taxing to just lie here, in her jet alt-mode, barely awake.
“Bestie… I’m right here… I’ve got you…” Bumblebee sniffles when he feels a thrumming beneath his resting cheek, pressed to her shell, and it reaches him with a sort of metallic cooing sound that is usually reserved for their cuddles. “And the guys, they’re right here, too… all of us… I know you’ll be okay.”
Some distance away, Empress stands over the remains of the gift shop, aware of the approaching Functionaries, police officers, and elite guard as more opposition arrives with the intent to quell the Decepticons for good. She must make the executive decision, now.
“Commander?!” Nova Storm lets off a string of unladylike curses as she rips the remains of the structure apart, digging through the wreckage in a panic. “Star! Answer me, please! Oh, Primus! Frag me! Frag, frag, frag…”
Skywarp is the one to uncover their Commander, panting mutely.
Starscream is hugging a stuffed Megatron to his battered breast, as if peacefully asleep. It slips out of his arms when he is jostled.
“Commander...” Nova Storm tenderly scoops Starscream’s unconscious body into her burly embrace and carefully pulls him out of the rubble, carrying him close. “I'm gonna get you outta here, my love. Just hold on for me, okay.”
Skywarp rather thoughtfully picks up the Megatron toy and follows her sister.
“Halt! You are all under arrest!”
“I’ll keep them busy whilst you escape,” Empress tells Nova Storm and Skywarp. “Gather your Seekers and retreat. This battle is over. I’ll gather our remaining ground forces and fight my way free, then reconvene with you later.”
“But you can’t! There are too many, a-and you’re wounded!”
“Don’t you worry about me, my dear. You know what I can do. You’re my biggest fan, aren’t you, Nova, dear?”
“I am.”
“Trust me, alright?”
“I do.”
“Then do as I say, darling.” Empress stoops to deposit a motherly kiss upon Nova Storm’s sweaty forehelm, echoing the gesture for Skywarp as well. “Keep yourselves safe. I’ll see you again, soon.”
“I love you.”
Empress does not answer that, turning with her pickax raised to point crudely at Prowl. “Come and get me, officer.”
Ravage wakes from a lovely nap and has a nice big stretch, then goes to his bowl to eat some Energon kibble, only to notice that his bowl is empty. Of course, the cybercat meows demandingly for service, but there is no chorus of male voices adoringly cooing in reply nor a flurry of activity to appease his appetite as is customary. A quick wander about the habitation suit confirms that his mechs have not yet returned from wherever it is they went. His ear flicks and his feline optics settle upon one of his toys. Fine, he shall just have to occupy himself with play until the feeders arrive. He pounces upon the squeaky toy with unbridled savagery, flopping onto his side and kicking furiously with his rear paws as if to disembowel. He is a terror indeed.
Flamewar wants to run to Slipstream, to leap into her arms and hug her back just as tight, but Windblade is already in that privileged position.
“I’m so sorry. I wasn’t there.” Slipstream brushes her thumb ever so lightly across Windblade’s cheek. “I should’ve been there.”
“You saved Sentinel. Don’t you dare beat yourself up. This is Starscream’s fault,” Bumblebee intones bitterly.
“He got away, Bee. He’ll never let this go. He’ll try to hurt her again.”
“He won’t succeed. We’ll get him next time. Then he’ll face justice.”
“She really is beautiful,” Flamewar murmurs to no one. “Like a Prime.”
Shadow Striker lays a palm upon her helm, caressing her.
“Boss bot, I wanna drink.”
“Me, too. First round’s on me.”
“Thanks. Can we cuddle after?”
Roulette pretends not to hear that.
Just then Bumblebee looks up and catches Shadow Striker’s optic, nodding at her in gratitude.
“Yeah,” she mutters, nodding back from a polite distance away, well aware that her Deceptibrand is scaring people – the very people she risked her aft to save, tonight. “Sure. A cuddle wouldn’t hurt.”
Having overseen the safe return of the diminished Decepticon army, Empress is giving a reassuring speech to the tired, battered masses, radiating waves of calm to assuage any tempers. To the mercy of everyone, she opts to keep it short – Megatron is dead, Starscream is in recovery, and although the Decepticons have incurred considerable losses, so have the enemy forces, which means that this war is far from over and the battle is barely won.
“Wow, the boss lady sure is tough,” Ransack intones with a split lower derma and bloody enstrils from being punched in the face, sagging where he sits. “Way tougher than that Starscream guy. Whadda loser. Shame ’bout Megatron, though, ’cause he was kinda neat for an old guy.”
“I don’t like Starscream.” Crumplezone picks scraps of metal out of his jaw, belonging to some unfortunate elite guard mech. “He’s rude.”
“Ugh, he’s so rude! I hate rude people.”
“Thank you, my friend.” Orion opens his arms, an invitation Slipstream accepts with a shy smile, thus gently drawing her into the most fatherly hug she has ever known.
She melts into it with a shudder, nuzzling his breastplate.
“Thank you so very much.” Resting his chin atop her helm, rubbing her back plates beneath his broad servos, he gazes across the crowded medical ward. “You did well, today.”
“I didn’t do as much as I wanted to.”
“You have done more for me than I can ever express.”
So little is left of Sentinel, yet he clings to life, the stubborn old bastard that he is. The Functionists say they will pray for him, whether for his healing or that he may pass gently away, they do not say.
In the sterilised berth beside, Ariel sleeps through the poking and prodding tools that assess and begin the complex process of mending the damage done to her helm and optics. She had insisted on being laid out next to her estranged friend shortly before Ratchet sedated her, and she had held onto the remains of Sentinel’s servo until losing consciousness.
A little further on, Windblade is surrounded by concerned friends permitted entry whilst trying to keep out of the way of medics and attending nurses, overseen by Ratchet as the primary authority here. She is attached to an Energon feed from a suspended drip, replenishing some of the fuel jets typically burn through rather quickly due to the taxing feat of flight. Being chased by relentless Seekers was taxing indeed.
Just thinking about what Nova Storm and Skywarp intended to do, what they were almost successful in doing to Windblade, makes Slipstream burst into tears that Orion muffles with his firm, warm, reassuring bulk and low, fatherly murmurs of comfort.
“You’re being real quiet, sis.”
“I’m tired.”
“Too tired to make me feel stupid and wrong.”
“I’m very tired.”
Shadow Striker scoffs into her cup. “Yeah. Normally, you’d be lecturing me to death about how joining the Decepticons was a bad idea to begin with, the wrong thing to do from the start, blah-blah-blah.”
“I’m just glad you’re okay.” Visor withdrawn to bare sad optics, Roulette simply leans over to rest her helm on her sister’s pauldron. “I love you.”
The old mercenary smiles a rare smile, turning to kiss the bounty hunter’s brow. “I love you too.”
“This is such a moment,” Thunderblast murmurs to Demolishor and Flamewar, who both nod agreeably.
Soundwave is with Hot Rod, who is with Windblade along with all their other loving friends, and thus is unavailable for comment.
Notes:
*Hot Shot liking jam is a reference to the meme (yes, the 'JaAm' meme).
Chapter 52
Notes:
This chapter is a lot more chill, because I needed to recover from the previous two chapters. But don't worry, things are gonna get worse. So much worse!
Also, I wanted to express my sincere gratitude for the readership and feedback thus far, even if I can't express to you how much it matters to me without sounding grossly sentimental. Please know that any suggestions are welcome and I am grateful to receive any shows of support or constructive criticism however you wish to express yourself, if you feel comfortable sharing your thoughts. You're under no such obligation, of course, as it's merely an invitation.
Chapter Text
“Give it to us straight, doc. Don’t preserve our feelings.”
“You know I’m not the type for that.”
“Good. I trust you to be truthful, no scrap given.” Sat upright upon the gurney, Ariel cannot use her recently repaired optics just yet, and thus she is blind, although she hardly seems to notice her condition, as if it is a minor inconvenience. She is far more stressed about Sentinel’s condition, and the strain she feels for him is audible in her vocaliser as she mutters, “What’s his prognosis?”
Orion winces at the indelicate directness of the question, squeezing her servo. “Doctor Ratchet cannot be expected to–”
“Please. Gimme your best educated guess, doc. I won’t blame you either way. I just need something.”
Ratchet does not answer immediately, frowning between his datapad and Sentinel’s remains, attached to wires and tubes that keep him numb and alive. “Well, for a fact, he’s stubborn.”
“Heh. He sure is.”
“Indeed. That is our Sentinel.”
“It’s astonishing. His will to survive is… unique. Most people in his state wouldn’t survive for more than an hour or two, simply due to Energon loss. And yet he’s been stable overnight and into this morning. He’s stable enough that I can attempt the surgeries he needs to function whole again. I’m sourcing parts and monitoring his vitals in the meantime.”
“That’s great news. I don’t expect you to work miracles.”
“Mm. I’d say his prognosis is grim, but remarkable, all things considered. I’m vaguely optimistic. Though there’s a great deal in his disfavour, I must confess that his tenacity gives me some hope.” Ratchet sighs quietly. “However, as you say, I’m no miracle worker. A lot of variables are in play. I make no promises, except that I promise to do my utmost to care for him.”
Ariel swallows thickly, squeezing Orion’s digits. “Thank you.”
“No need to thank me. It’s my calling to heal.”
Permitted entry to the medical ward prior to visitation hours out of pity rather than practicality, Slipstream sits alone with Windblade, listening to these words, meditating upon her lover’s condition. To heal, means to help. What nobler calling is there? Not to soldier, but to serve soldiers, civilians, friends. A nurse first, a Seeker second. A second chance to be useful and to do good.
On the message board outside the medical bay, there is a notice calling for volunteers.
Skywarp returns with a hot takeaway cup and a little foil bag filled with a wonderfully fragrant breakfast. She chirps, gently prodding Empress to get her attention.
“Ah, thank you, darling.”
The Seeker is rewarded with a motherly kiss on the helm, wings halfway lowered as she snuggles up to the bigger gladiator for warmth, because it is early in the morning and there is a terrible chill in the air.
Empress sips her hot drink, saving her breakfast for later. Her smouldering attention is fixed on the activity bustling about the arena pit, which she opts to supervise as a security detail to stop anyone undesirable from interfering with the retrieval mission, the undertaking of which Shockwave remotely supervises.
Skywarp chirps softly, coaxing a huge servo to caress her in comfort.
“Hush, dear. Shockwave is certain he picked up a lingering Spark signature. All we can do now, is hope.”
Megatron is being dredged from the pit in pieces, an ordeal performed by Shockwave’s worker drones with Seekers offering assistance.
Nova Storm stands aside, cradling a gunmetal grey arm severed from the joint by a terrible fall, reminding her of the times she dropped her poseable gladiator figurines and had to put the limbs back in place again. She looks so lost.
“In this world, there are many unsung heroes. The medical field is nothing like the scrap you’ve seen on holoscreens, so if you’re here thinking you’ll be treated like a hero, forget it. You’re just here to do your best, no heroics required.” Ratchet paces as he speaks, addressing the yawning, fidgeting group. “I’ll run you ragged. The patients will test your patience. You may be called upon to assist in surgical procedures, although the surgeries themselves will be performed by someone suitably qualified – probably me. This is strictly a voluntary position, so feel free to walk away when it breaks you, but understand that there’s no payment involved even if you stay.”
Immediately, a few people turn and walk out.
“Wow. That was quick.” The old medic huffs, then carries on briskly. “Expect to be on your pedes for hours on end and never expect any thanks for it. You will get in contact with someone else’s bodily fluids, trust me, and you cannot freak out in public about it. This is not the place for you if you’re squeamish. Now, then.” He abruptly stops pacing, arms folded behind his lower back as he turns to peer at every face plate, his bright optics sweeping the assembled, young and old, who offer their aid. “Who’s ready for a crash course in nursing?” He grins.
Slipstream stands to attention, back straight, helm lifted, and does her best to pretend she is not one of the squeamish ones.
Anything for Windblade.
Visiting hours are almost upon them.
“She’s so precious.”
“Yeah.”
“But I do worry about her.”
“Yeah.”
Shadow Striker keeps a tidy, impersonal habitation suite, always prepared to rush off on a prolonged assignment, as mercenaries are rarely ever home. She generally only uses her place as a pit stop between missions or a convenient spot to frag glitches she bothers to bring back home with her. Now, she allows her team the benefit of some creature comforts - Demolishor is thoroughly enjoying the couch and some snacks, leaving the ladies to the crowded berth, Thunderblast in a cuddly and chatty mood, Flamewar contentedly squished in the middle, and Shadow Striker imagining a threesome that is unlikely to happen now.
“The band is breaking up, and she can’t go back to being on her own.”
Flamewar drools in her sleep in the middle of the berth, collapsed snugly into the warm, sheltered nook between the bigger bodies on either side, overhanging fangs sharp against the softness of her bottom derma. Her handsomeness is raw, unrefined. She twitches when a slender digit brushes lovingly over an old scar that shimmers in a raised lump across her cheek.
Thunderblast takes up rather a lot of space, as she is quite demanding like that. She is smiling, her regal helm at rest upon a synthetic pillow, bosom catching the light that spills in through a viewing port, one long leg overthrown to heavily wrap about a dark hip in a possessive display. She traces that scar back and forth, back and forth, until the twitching stops.
Shadow Striker takes up the other side of the crowded berth, swapping between taking puffs off a cy-gar that is reaching the end of its functionality and sipping from a mug that is going cold and running close to empty. It is first thing in the morning and a little bottle of painkilling nanobot capsules is already open on the berthside cabinet. She scowls softly, relaxed and at ease, but thoughtful.
“You know, I think I’ll keep her.”
“For your consortium.”
“Not just for that. She’s mine.”
“Well, she’s mine, too. My responsibility.”
The boat gives the bike a playful little poke on the olfactory sensor, gazing across the intimate scene at the mercenary reclined opposite.
“I’m gonna give her work to do and make sure she’s got a safe place to crash when she inevitably does crash. Your consortium’s a long way away. ’Til then, I’ll look after her. You just focus on taking care of yourself.”
“I always do. But you don’t think I’m responsible enough to have her right away.”
The bike does not snore obnoxiously when she is cuddled. She purrs, her engine never quite powering down, a throaty rumbling that is erotic and soothing all at once. Femmes in particular love powerful motorbikes.
“No, I don’t.”
“I can’t even be offended.” Thunderblast dips her helm to lovingly kiss Flamewar’s chipped, scuffed brow, then carefully leans over her to kiss the glossy shell of Shadow Striker’s pauldron, close to the tyre. “You’re right. Get her off Cybertron, take her someplace nice, and keep each other safe.”
“I intend to. Will you go back to the Decepticons, then?”
“In a couple days, maybe. I figure I’mma let things cool off a little first, then try my luck with Empress, especially while Starscream’s out of commission.”
“You’re taking a risk. Even if we are parting ways, you’re one of my little band of traitors now, you always will be, no matter where you go with that Deceptibrand on your tits. Damn, I’m gonna miss those tits.”
“I’m sure I can make the big boss lady see me differently. I shall simply weaponise my tits.”
The mercenary turns to the boat, the bike nestled between their reclining forms.
“What’s with that look? You know I’m right. I’ll have her eating out of my lap in no time. Someday soon, I’ll be the one calling the shots and she’ll be my pet. When that day comes, I want you to come back to me and join my consortium. Take Flamewar with you and bring her to me. I have cute little kibble outfits in mind, like kinky uniforms for all my consorts.”
“Well, alright, then. You’re terrifying and you can be a huge pain in my aft, but you know something? I’m fragging fond of you. Crazy glitch. I’d be glad for the retirement plan. Serving your every intimate need doesn’t sound unbearable at all.”
Thunderblast does not mind it when a large servo stinking of cy-gar toxins cups her smooth cheek and caresses her ever so tenderly despite the calluses.
“Seriously, though. Be careful. Alright? Don’t bite off more than you can chew.”
“I take calculated risks, sweetie. Do I seem reckless, to you? I know how much I can stuff down my throat.”
“You’re incredible. Slag.”
“You’re alright, yourself.”
Shadow Striker takes her servo back, only to pry her depleted cy-gar from between her dentas after a final deep drag and smoky puff into the recycled air, dropping the used cy-gar into the lukewarm dregs of her mug with a sizzle. She then rolls her large, curvaceous self over, the berth creaking and shifting under her considerable weight, and reaches again to pull those golden optics in for a kiss between, pressed softly upon the forehelm. Here, she lingers, inhaling perfumed oils and fragrant solvent and residual fuel.
Flamewar snorts in her sleep when she is scooped up and held between two other femmes who care about each other, and her.
“Oh, you beautiful fool.”
Starscream is unresponsive, even as a thumb brushes over his cheek.
“I hope you realise the full extent of the disapproving lecture I intend to give you when you wake.” Knock Out’s scowl is beautiful, bittersweet. “If you’d died back there, I would’ve missed you. I would’ve mourned you.”
Breakdown is quiet, as usual, lingering huge and handsome on the periphery, always there to lend his strength to whatever task needs doing, his skill with a buffer for whenever his husband is in need of it.
“I’m so mad at you,” the medic murmurs, stooping to rest his helm against the Commander’s own. “I’ll fix you. Make you whole and beautiful again. I promise. And then, I’ll tear you a new waste port for making me worry myself sick, you arrogant, ridiculous, wonderful–”
The loving husband and competent assistant goes to prepare the buffer and polish.
Windblade’s large, lavish habitation suite is able to hold all the friends at once. In her absence, Chromia wilts, and so the friends have gathered together to keep her company and distract each other from their shared anxieties. Most of the friends are sleeping in. Orion gave them the firm yet gentle instruction last night to seek rest even into the next morning, not to rush in returning to their work. There is likely to be a lull in Decepticon activity due to sheer injury and death, thus there is some time to recuperate and repair.
“If she had just listened to me and returned with me to Caminus, our home…” Chromia’s optics are dimmed, moody, and she keeps her voice down so as not to wake anyone else. “I would have spared her this.” Her large servo grips her mug hard enough to distend her reinforced knuckles. “Yet she loves you, loves Cybertron, so fiercely that even I cannot convince her.”
Bumblebee bows his helm with some shame. “I’m sorry. She fell in love with me and I’m part of what keeps her anchored here, in this place she loves so much. I never meant to hurt you, though. I never thought anything like this would happen, could happen.”
“Do not apologise, Bee. This blame is assigned to myself, alone.”
“Hey. No. Nuh-uh.”
The bike smiles ruefully as the scout shuffles closely against her, stood together on the balcony to partake in the crisp, bright morning whilst their friends slumber within the luxurious habitation suite that feels less like a home, without the Cityspeaker here.
“Don’t do that. Don’t blame yourself. Okay.”
“Alright, then. I’ll try not to.”
“Good. ’Cause you’re wonderful and she’s so in love with you.”
“Sometimes, I truly believe I’m not enough.”
Bumblebee recoils with a look of pure hurt. “You’re more than enough. How can you ever doubt that?”
Chromia winces, instantly guilty. She sets her mug on the little round table and then lays her big, strong servos upon him, easily lifting him. For a moment, they are optic-level with each other, until she pulls him in and kisses his forehelm.
The scout does not protest, because he does not mind being scooped up and held against the bike’s bosom, returning the hug just as passionately with his pedes dangling due to their difference in height.
“You’re so very kind, Bee.”
“I love you, dude.”
“I love you, too.”
He is held out a short distance and very carefully sat upon the railing, his back to the open air and a considerable drop below his perch, but he feels safe with her, up here on the balcony overlooking a lovely neighbourhood. The sun rises like a halo behind his helm.
She steps into him, nestling between his open thighs to rest her cheek against his chest, arms enveloping to hold him steady against herself, seeking some sense of comfort whilst offering him security in return, an exchange of trust.
“Windblade’s gonna heal. She’s a fighter, stronger than anyone. She’ll be back home soon.”
“Yes.” Chromia is rarely this emotive with anyone else – anyone, other than Windblade. “I just miss her and I can’t help but worry.”
“Breakfast first, okay? Then we’ll all go and visit her. The medbay should be open to visitors, by then.” Bumblebee rubs those broad pauldrons, sighing quietly. “Just let the guys sleep a little longer. They need it, after last night.”
The bold red insignia Wheeljack spray-painted on Slipstream seems to be working as intended, rendering her a lot less scary as a Seeker, drawing attention away from the baleful purple Deceptibrand upon her bosom. The patients she attends to under Ratchet’s instruction and supervision are generally wary of her, understandably so, but they do not reject her help nor do they insult her. A few are actually receptive enough to attempt conversation, asking her typically ignorant terrestrial questions about fliers, which she patiently and politely answers whilst working. When she is not otherwise busy, however, she returns to Windblade’s side, frequently checking on her vitals and ensuring she is comfortable.
The Cityspeaker’s open wounds have been cleansed and patched over, allowing the shell to heal beneath. The patchwork of clashing metal is a grim testament to how resilient she is, how close she came to dying. She is heavily drugged, but she will wake up soon, as her condition is stable enough that she may be permitted brief interludes of awareness. She is refuelled constantly by the drip feed of fortified Energon.
“I love you.” The Seeker runs a sterile cloth stinking of chemicals over her soulmate’s brow, carefully wiping off the perspired coolant. “I can’t wait to hear you say it back to me.”
Windblade’s expression is soft, but serious. She is a majestic creature, even unconscious.
Slipstream checks the position of the synthetic pillow, ensuring proper neck support, and leaves with a little kiss to the cheek and a murmured, “I’ll be right back, okay?”
“She’s a lucky girl,” Ariel remarks fondly, evidently having noticed even whilst temporarily blind, optics undergoing a slow reboot in preparation for the final assessment and tuning. “I can feel you going back and forth, back and forth, checking in on your girl whenever you can.” Sensory spires wiggle to illustrate.
“Oh, that’s very kind, but I’m far too much trouble to be worth all the love and devotion she’s shown me. I’m the lucky one, not her.”
“After all the good you did last night, I think you can afford to forgive yourself and trust her - she sees something special in you, and since you saved Sentinel, I’m inclined to believe her, myself.”
“Thank you. I really needed to hear that.”
Jetfire wakes in a cold sweat, crumpled over a puddle of his own vomit, so severe was his stress that he made himself sick and eventually fainted from wasted fuel and overheating his central processor. He is not a young mech any more. Every part of him aches. His knuckles are crusted with dried Energon and his heel struts are horribly dented, yet the reinforced doors withstood his melee assault. If only he had his missiles, or even his null-rays might have blasted a big enough gap if tuned to full strength. He drags himself over to the snacks and beverages laid out for him hours before, left to entertain him by the holoscreen that has helpfully switched itself off due to registering the lack of attention during his forced rest mode. He tears into an extra large EnerGULP and chugs it down.
Starscream knows exactly the sort of things his beloved likes to consume, a Seeker’s strict diet be damned. Every favourite treat is here. He remembers such intimate things, after all this time.
“And yet he would keep me in this cage, his darling prisoner.”
Nobody answers that.
“How’s my brain module looking, doc?”
“Well, that brute didn’t do any damage to it. So I’d say… perfectly standard.”
Ariel manages to chuckle with her helm partially disassembled, exposing the intricate machinery connecting her optics to her brain module, as well as all her other sensory networks. She is tired, sore, and anxious over Sentinel’s condition on top of everyone and everything else, but she still has a sense of humour and a strong spirit.
Slipstream is pretending not to be nauseous. The discomfort is less than ancillary to being helpful as a nurse in training. And thanks to Ratchet, some instinct deep within is awakened to finding morbid fascination in medical science, even if the grisly details are gross. “That’s kinda cool.”
“Hear that, doc? She thinks my brain module looks pretty neat.”
Setting down the charts displaying dots at various sizes to mimic target reticles, Ratchet makes a soft, dismissive sound and proceeds to slowly wave his stylus back and forth.
Ariel tracks the movement and follows with her optics. What she sees is broadcast in real time on a holoscreen, to allow for him to better assess the quality of her vision. She sees clearly after hours of delicate repairs, requiring the replacement of the lenses in her optics and some rewiring.
“Well, I think you’re just about cured. Congratulations. Any lingering discomfort will abate as you adjust to your repairs. I’ll put your cranial casing back together and let you go free.”
“Thanks, doc.”
“Just doing my job.”
Slipstream passes the datapad, upon which Ratchet briskly makes a few scribbled notes, his script illegible to anyone but himself.
“Not gonna keep me under observation? I’m really safe to go?”
“I usually would hold you here for a couple of days, as a precaution, but thanks to those damned Decepticons, we’re a little low on…” Ratchet pauses to peer about the crowded medical bay, frowning grouchily. “Everything.”
“Oh, yeah. Right.”
“So I’m afraid I can’t keep you unless I absolutely have to.”
“Can I come over every now and then, you know, just so I can visit them?”
Sentinel is heavily sedated to the point of being totally shut down and forcibly prohibited from initiating a reboot, an assortment of tubes feeding his diminished body a constant flow of fuel, antiseptic solutions and painkillers. He is a grim sight, barely recognisable. His repairs will take some time.
Windblade is significantly damaged, but seems peacefully asleep, her condition reassuringly stable. She shall recover more quickly.
“Of course. Just keep out of the way and you’re always welcome to stay a while.”
“You’re alright, doc.”
“I have my moments.” Ratchet busies himself with closing Ariel’s helm and disconnecting her from the visual feed, then offers her an Energon candy from the jar. She selects a blue one.
Slipstream sets about disinfecting the workspace and tools, working swiftly and efficiently, as she was taught.
“Hey, can I borrow her for a second?”
“If she’s willing, I’ll allow it.”
Ariel gives Slipstream a soft smile, rising from the gurney to stand over her, bigger by a fair margin. “Get in here.”
Ratchet shuffles over to attend to another patient, leaving Slipstream to shyly shuffle into Ariel’s burly pink embrace, motherly.
“I could kiss you for what you’ve done.”
“I wouldn’t mind. I mean, I like kisses.”
Ariel stoops a bit, pressing her dermas firmly against Slipstream’s flushed cheek, before squeezing her tight enough to creak. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”
Empress lays the bulk of Megatron gently down, drones bringing his disembodied limbs over to the operating table under a bright, cold light. “Here he is, as you requested. The poor darling. Barely a trace of life left in him.”
“Acknowledged. Dispensing gratitude – thank you for your assistance.”
“It’s quite alright. Though I have my reservations. I’m sorry, dear, but I doubt you can fix him.”
“I advise you against hypothesising as to what I am capable of.” Shockwave lumbers into the light, his singular optic flickering. “I will analyse Megatron’s condition to determine probability of successful reconstruction myself, then take the appropriate measures to best ensure a desirable outcome. You are permitted to leave my laboratory at your earliest convenience.”
“Oh! Alright, then. Goodness me.” Empress pulls a face. “My mistake.” She turns to leave, only to stop short with a sigh. “Oh, yes, before I go, shall I send for someone else? Knock Out insists on treating Starscream himself, but I’m sure another medic could assist you.”
“Negative. There is no need.”
“You’re abolutely sure you can handle all of… that, on your own?”
“I have my drones on standby and my assistant, Acid Storm, in attendance.”
“This lovely little Seeker, here?”
Acid Storm is eternally placid, but cringes softly when Empress lays a huge palm upon their helm, petting them patronisingly.
“Affirmative.”
“How nice. I do adore Seekers. Such darling creatures. Someday soon, I’ll have one for myself.”
Nova Storm would like that, but Acid Storm is a lot more intelligent and dignified than their brawnier sister, and thus less appreciative.
“If you need anything, call me, okay? I am temporarily taking command of the Decepticons, after all. It’s my job to ensure everything goes smoothly from now on.”
“Acknowledged. I will send a report listing required materials within the hour.”
“So efficient. As for you…”
Acid Storm actually frowns when their cheek is affectionately pinched between a huge finger and thumb.
“Do your best, darling. Okay?”
“I will, thank you.”
“Of course you will.” Empress smiles warmly, then departs on heavy, swaying strides. Her powerful steps gradually withdraw into silence.
“…I dislike her.”
“…Agreed.”
“Hey, bestie.” Bumblebee kisses Windblade’s cheek. “The whole gang’s here for you.” He does not mind that she is still unconscious, knowing that she must rest and recover from her wounds. Ratchet said it should not be long, before it is safe to revive her. “We love you so much.”
Chromia finds a limp, dainty servo and captures it with reverence, ever so gently cradling her best friend’s digits within her own larger, rougher palm. She nuzzles the pretty knuckles, helm bowed like a knight in attendance to a lady of noble bearing.
Arcee and Grimlock crowd the berth, murmuring reassuringly, expressing their support. They intend to visit every day.
“It’s great that you’re volunteering,” Hot Rod tells Slipstream lovingly, kissing her cheek as she gives him a hug. “Good for you, dude. You’ll be great at it.”
“Thank you.”
“Hey, we gotta hang out. When does your shift finish for the day? I’ll buy you a drink over at Mac’s and whip up some chow back at Windblade’s place, then we’ll have a big sleepover.”
“Oh, Rod, that sounds wonderful. I’d love to, but…”
“…But?”
“I’m not sure it’s really safe for you guys to be seen out and about with me. I have this new symbol, which helps me get along with, um, normal people, but what if a Decepticon takes offence? And the Seekers will be looking for me, even with Starscream out of commission.”
“We’re your friends, Slip. We love you. You can’t stay hidden away all the time. Cybertron is your home, too. You should feel free to go where you please. Let us protect you, like we protected each other back at the arena. We kicked so much aft, bro. Besides, the Decepticons are done without Megatron, even Shadow Striker said so, and the only Seeker crazy or cruel enough to hurt you is Starscream, but he’s not gonna be a problem for at least a little while. Please come chill with us.”
“Shadow Striker. She helped you fight back. Helped you save lives.”
“Yeah, she’s actually not so bad. Terrible taste in Cube teams, though,” Hot Rod jokes, trying to lighten the mood a little. “Get this, right – she actually thinks Polyhex has the best Cube team. Like, no way! Can you believe that? Everybody knows that the Iacon Wreckers are the best. The best of the best, even!”
Slipstream smiles crookedly. “You two do like to argue over Cube.”
“Only because she talks bad about Iacon’s objectively superior players. Right, Bee?”
“Yeah, Rod, for sure. Nobody beats Iacon. We rule.”
“Frag, yeah.”
The mechs fist-bump over Windblade’s unconscious body. She would roll her optics, if only she were aware.
“Anyway, you’ll come out with us for the night, right?” Hot Rod, being so handsome and sweet all the time, makes it very hard to turn him down when he asks so nicely. “Pretty please?”
It works, effortlessly defeating Slipstream with a sigh. “Oh, Rod. I can’t say no when you do that thing with your face.”
“Because I’m the pretty in pretty please, right?”
“Right. You’re very pretty. If you were a femme, I’d be in serious trouble.”
“Aw, Slip, thank you! Primus knew I’d be too powerful as a lady. So he made me a himbo instead! Right, babe?”
Soundwave is keeping a low profile so as not to upset any of the wary patients due to his former allegiance, but he does chuckle at that.
“I just got off a call with Soundwave.” Shadow Striker returns with a smile, on of her rare smiles. “He’s invited us out to Mac’s later. I accepted on everybody’s behalf, of course.”
“Sounds like a good time,” Demolishor rumbles, tossing crumbs from a tinfoil bag to cybergeese that float upon the Energon canal.
“Sure, I could do with a drink and a dance,” Thunderblast intones boredly, sat back on a garden bench with a purple smoothie in her servo.
“Cool.” Flamewar is watching a couple of young mechs doing stupid stunts at the edge of the canal, daring each other to impress their pretty femme friends. “Dreamboat, if one of those guys falls in, will you rescue him?”
“Pffft. Doubt it. Dumbafts deserve to die.”
“Damn. Maybe you’re right.”
“Cannonball!” yells a boastful young mech, before moving as if to take a dive into the canal, only for his friends to pull him back to safety, cursing him out for being the dumbest of the lot. They seem to lose the desire to test boundaries and climb back up the bank to hop the decorative little fence intended to keep idiots out the canal.
“Cannonball,” Flamewar repeats softly, like that word should mean something to her.
“You ready to go, Slip?”
“I’m ready, Bee.”
At the end of the working day and the conclusion of visiting hours, the friends pull Slipstream into their arms and step out with her into the evening air, their vents casting silvery plumes of hot air. Together they opt to walk over to Maccadams, chatting together, laughing together, altogether in defiance of dirty looks from Decepticons and some unmarked frames along the way.
The old oil house is a nexus for bots with their differences. It was there long before the war, and it will stand long after. Here, there shall be no fighting.
Shadow Striker is already at the bar, accompanied by Flamewar, Thunderblast, and Demolishor. They are all apprently waiting for someone, or someones.
Slipstream makes a squeaky sound of excitement upon seeing them.
“You can quit sulking now,” Shadow Striker intones with amusement. “She’s here at last.”
Flamewar promptly abandons her drink, leaping off her seat and sprinting recklessly through the mingling crowd until throwing herself into Slipstream’s ready arms.
“Flames!”
“Slippy!”
“Oh, my love, I’ve missed you!”
“I missed you more!”
The reserved and disciplined Chromia flushes as Slipstream and Flamewar kiss each other with passion, uncaring for the audience. Some of the patrons cheer, particularly the drunk mechs.
Bumblebee smiles at that, but his smile soon falls upon Shadow Striker, who somehow winks at him.
“Hey, scrub.”
“Hi, tough guy.”
“Well! Don’t just stand there, cuties. Come sit your bad selves down with us,” Thunderblast purrs, gesturing invitingly at the friends. “I wanna get to know you better.”
“Oooh! Don’t mind if I do!” Arcee trots on over, followed closely by Grimlock, who notices how Demolishor smiles rather cutely over his drink for such a big and rugged old mech.
“So, handsome.” Hot Rod hangs back with Soundwave, all fluttering shutters and wiggling hips. “Dance with me?”
“I would be honoured, beautiful.”
“Aw, yeah! I’mma geddit!”
The crowd cheers again as soon as the music changes to something with a bit of oomph, thus it is time for another choreographed dance routine to unite them once more.
“It’s gonna happen! It happened before, it’ll happen again, so long as bulks call the shots and we obey!” a Minicon proclaims to his fellow Minicons, sequestered away in their barracks. “These fragging bulks are gonna claim us!”
Sureshock keeps replaying what she saw on the holoscreen that night. What Starscream proclaimed on camera for all of Cybertron to hear.
“They’ll force us to plug into them, so they can sap our bodies for power, make themselves stronger, turn us into weapons and armour and status symbols worn around the necks of warlords, just like what happened back in the old war! But not if we beat them, first! The Decepticons won’t protect us now, so we’ll just fight for ourselves!”
Starscream said he empathised with the plight of Minicon kind, because Seekers suffer simply for being forged as Seekers, like how Minicons are apparently destined to be abused and misused. And yet when Megatron fell, Starscream simply treated his kin the way a warlord would treat his army of Seekers, and so Sureshock wonders how Starscream might dispose of the Minicons just as readily to seize power for himself – how he might dispose of her and their fledgling friendship.
“Hey,” Chromia says softly. “Do you mind?” She indicates the vacant seat alongside, two chairs propped by a little round table out on Windblade’s balcony.
“Hi,” Slipstream manages through a yawn, buried into a fist. She is exhausted and sore all over. She has been on her pedes all day, learning the basics of nursing, helping out around the medical ward. She does this so that she can emotionally and mentally distance herself from the horror of being a Seeker, slowly earning the trust of wounded patients. But more than that, working under Ratchet also allows her to be close to Windblade, attending to her care without getting in the way. “Sure, go ahead. You live here.”
“Windblade would say this is as much your home, as mine.”
“She absolutely would say that.”
Chromia takes a seat under the canopy of stars, palms upon her lap. “How are you finding nursing? Today was your first shift, yes?”
“It went better than I thought it would. Ratchet seems to like me well enough and I managed to sort of befriend a couple of patients.”
“Well done.”
“Thank you. Just gotta keep doing my best.” Slipstream rubs her optics into the heels of her palms, sighing tiredly. “I’m determined to succeed at it.”
“For Windblade.”
“Mostly, yes.”
The bike gazes at nothing, pauldrons unusually loose.
The Seeker stretches out her long legs to stretch the tight cables, pedes aching.
It is getting late, but the friends still make noise within the habitation suit, having a good time together in spite of their shared pain, and so it is peaceful out here for the more sociably anxious.
“I’m reevaluating you.”
“Huh?”
“Before that night, back at the arena, I was suspicious of you. I considered you trouble. A threat. But now, I have to reconsider my opinion of you. I’m seeing you differently. Especially when I see you wiping the sweat from her brow, nursing her wounds. Maybe I was wrong about to. I judged you too harshly.”
“No. You were right about me, before. I was a threat. You saw the danger in me, when I was so deep in denial, because I have hurt her, like you said I would.” Slipstream drags a palm up and down her aching neck, grimacing. “I’m sorry. I promise I never meant her harm.”
Chromia nods slightly. “I accept that.”
“Sorry isn’t enough, though. Actions speak louder than words. I haven’t done enough to deserve her.”
“Then do better. That night at the arena changed my perception of you, like I said. Nursing is a step in the right direction, moving forward. Your actions speak louder than your words. Someday, I think you could be worthy of her love.”
“I hope so. Primus, Chromia. I made her cry, and you were there to comfort her, not I. Of course, I’ll always be grateful to you for that, but I want to occupy the same space as you do. I want to share her with you.”
The bike exhales slowly, steadily.
“I don’t deserve…” The Seeker shakes her helm, scoffing. “Her. But I want to work on myself so I can come close to your level, because you do deserve her. She is so very in love with you.” Slipstream smiles, then stiffens when Chromia actually reaches out and touches her.
“I’m not so sure you’re a threat any more,” the bike confesses quietly, squeezing the Seeker’s wrist very gently, not quite joining their servos. “And I’m not opposed to sharing her, with you. She’s been hopeful for it, all this time, and I was reluctant before, but now, I…”
Exhaling shakily, Slipstream surprises herself by slumping over to rest her helm on Chromia’s pauldron, sort of cuddling up to her.
“Windblade would be delighted.”
“Does this mean we could be friends?”
“She’d love that, too.”
“And we love her. So…”
“…So, I suppose we should try.”
“For Windblade.”
“For Windblade.”
For a while, nothing more is said.
“Thank you,” the Seeker murmurs, eventually.
“It’s alright,” whispers the bike.
Jetfire looks up as the dented door lethargically slides open. He is stalled to find Seekers stood in the way.
“We’ve got bad news,” Thrust says, glancing warily about at the trashed interior of the room. “We wanted to tell you hours ago, but we’ve been, uh, busy with stuff.”
“If you mean to tell me what I already know – me that Star sent you out there to murder innocents, and you obeyed him – then do not bother to say another word.”
“He’s hurt.”
Windblade clearly is a femme of some means. Even the wash rack is fancy. More dials and buttons to perfectly customise the shower experience than Shadow Striker could ever hope to figure out.
There is a knock on the door.
“Occupied,” the old mercenary grunts, washing her servos in the sink. “I’ll be out in a second.”
“I need you.”
“Slipstream?”
“Help,” the Seeker says from the other side, muffled. She would not be doing this if she could handle herself, or if someone else could make her feel safe. But none of her other loved ones can do for her what she needs, right now.
Concerned, Shadow Striker does not even dry her servos, releasing the lock from within the wash rack. “What’s wrong?”
“You’re leaving Cybertron, aren’t you.”
She sucks in air sharply.
“You’re gonna go.” Slipstream looks tearful. “And you’re taking Flames with you.”
“C’mon, good girl, let’s not do this here and now, yeah?”
“Dreamboat and treads are going their own different ways. But where you go, Flames will follow. Only I’m being left behind. Starscream hates me, his Seekers reject me, Windblade’s hurt and now I’m losing my team. I’m losing you.”
“You really wanna have this talk after I just took a leak.”
The Seeker pushes inside, wrapping her arms around the mercenary.
“Primus, let me at least close the damn door, so we’ve got privacy.” Shadow Striker grapples with Slipstream, giving her a hug whilst reaching past her bulk to clumsily seal the door again, automatically locking. “Guess the others are gonna have to hold it in. Now, then. Let’s just breathe, okay? That’ll sort you out. Count with me. One–”
“You don’t have to go. You could stay with the Council, with me.”
“Ugh. Okay, never mind the counting. Listen. It’s cute that you want me around. Not gonna happen, not with the way things are.” The mercenary rubs the Seeker’s back. “At least lemme explain myself, yeah?”
Slipstream is tearful, wings folded miserably at her back, helm hung heavily on her bent neck as she gazes down at the tiled floor, pressed up against Shadow Striker.
“I’m not gonna bend over for Functionists. I won’t work with cops, and I can’t go into hunting bounties since that’d have me in cahoots with law enforcement, which my sister can tolerate, but I just can’t. Besides, it’s not safe for me, here – the Decepticons are done and I betrayed them, so that puts a target on my back so long as I’m on Cybertron. I’m a badaft, not a dumbaft. Even if I stay and nobody comes to kill me, what sort of future do I have left? I can’t adapt to civvy life, or do civvy work, since I’m too fragged-up and scary for any of that, and who’d hire me anyway, with this Deceptibrand on my tits? Nobody, that’s who.”
“That’s why you’re here. You’re saying goodbye, without making it so obvious this time because you think that’ll make this easier on me, because this time, you might never come back. But I figured you out.”
The mercenary winces, chin propped on the Seeker’s pauldron. “What gave me away?”
“I can see the hurt in my little Flames’ optics whenever she looks at me, but she hasn’t said anything because she can’t find the strength to. You’ve been smiling tonight, but you’re smiling too much, trying too hard.”
“I just wanted to make sure you’re doing okay. I was gonna tell you,” Shadow Striker murmurs in her gruffly tender undertone, thumbing at Slipstream’s chin, cradling the strong angle of her jaw in a steady servo. “Say goodbye properly, you know. But frag me for trying to give you and me and the other guys a nice night together. I think we all deserve to part on good terms, don’t we?”
The Seeker chokes on a sob.
The mercenary manages another of her rare smiles. Indeed, there have been far too many of these smiles, tonight. Her facial rigging is not naturally adapted to soft expressions, tending to render itself perpetually scrunched up in a scowl. For her to smile so often in the span of these hours can only be suspicious.
Slipstream tries to smile back, broken and bittersweet, but she keeps her optics downcast now. “Thank you for doing this for me. I know it’s mostly for my benefit, not so much yours.”
“Look at me.”
She lifts her ruby optics, soft and sad.
“Good girl.”
She trembles, trying to be big and brave. But this, on top of everything else, is simply so much, too much.
“I dunno when I’ll get to see you again, but hey, I could come back. I screwed up here on Cybertron, real bad this time, made a lotta potential enemies, fragged my local career prospects, otherwise you know I’d stay.” Shadow Striker shakes her helm slowly. “Stuff has changed, though. Staying is a risk, too risky even for me. But you got out. My good girl, this is a whole new life for you. You got your friends, your girlfriend. Scream won’t be able to control you any more and without Megatron around to make all the smart decisions, it’s just a matter of time before the Decepticons are just a bad memory and your Deceptibrand is the reminder.”
The Seeker feels very dismal, at that. Why does she feel so bad? “…Shadow Striker…”
“Yeah.” The mercenary withdraws, stepping back with a shaky exhale. “That’s me. Primus, I’m getting soft. Scary scrap.”
Slipstream swallows thickly. She wants to say she loves her, but the last time she said that to her, it turned out so terrible as to almost destroy them. So, she does not tell her, not this time.
Shadow Striker knows, even if she cannot tolerate it, cannot openly reciprocate it. And so she turns away with a wince, scope swivelling aside, optic blinking rapidly. “Stay safe for me. Look after yourself. Be a good girl while I’m gone. Maybe someday, when the heat’s died down, I’ll figure out how to come back. Maybe when I finally retire, when I’m too worn down with fighting for profit to fight for anything, any more. Might settle for being a tired old whore in Thunderblast’s consortium, since she ought to be ruling Cybertron by then.”
“Promise me you’ll take care of Flames.”
“Sure I will. Of course, she could stay here, with you. I know you’ll take care of her. You could make room for her.”
“She tries so hard to take so little room.”
“Besides, Windblade likes to share, right?”
“Right,” the Seeker says, then sinks to her knees before the mercenary with a rather unflattering creak of knee joints under stress.
“Whoa. What’re you doing down there?”
“Committing you to my core memory files, so I can replay these moments when you’re gone.”
“You don’t gotta do that.”
“No, but I want to, if you want to.”
“You sure?”
Smiling ruefully at Shadow Striker’s modesty panels, Slipstream leans forward to rest her forehelm against the other femme, exhaling a sigh over her most sensitive equipment even whilst sealed. “Please.”
The mercenary lays a palm upon the Seeker’s bowed helm, caressing her. “I’m not exactly hard right now.”
“I’ll get you there, if you let me.”
“Don’t do me any favours, now.”
As the modesty panels retract to bare flaccid spike and lukewarm valve, Slipstream nuzzles into the interface array, inhaling the musk, writing it deep into her permanent memory banks, unalterable without doing damage to the rest of her personality.
Shadow Striker shudders as she listens to the shaky venting from the femme kneeling below. There is something intensely erotic about it, and it has surprisingly little to do with the obvious fact that a handsome femme has her face plate pressed deep into her exposed interface array. The retracted spike remains generally lethargic in its chute, only the tip exposed, and the valve does not pulse with automatic self-lubrication, folds bared to the air, the stuttering outward breaths.
Huffing on the scent, the Seeker also registers the warmth, the wet upon her nuzzling face and finds comfort in these sensations. She takes a slow, steady swipe with her glossa, tasting that curious gritty, oily tang within the generally unroused mesh that she associates with terrestrials. She likes it, personally. It is rugged and quite literally down to the metallic earth beneath their pedes.
The mercenary processes the glossa upon her and finds that she is content with just this impotence. She caresses that helm, bent before her femmehood in worship. “Good girl,” comes out low and rumbling.
Slipstream takes her sensory data readouts from spike and valve and all the other mesh within the array, then finally withdraws her face to probe with her large, blunt digits, callused and careful. She circles the peeking tip of the holstered spike, pinches folds within the valve, taps the glowing anterior node, slides deep inside to measure against the knuckle whilst swirling around within the plush channel to gauge the stretch, drags through the cleft until shallowly dipping into the rim of the aft port which is tight and puckered.
“You know,” Shadow Striker begins conversationally after some silence, “I’ve never had a femme go down on me quite like this, before. It’s so… scientific.”
“You’re not turned on, so I’m obviously not doing it right. Sorry. I can–”
“Relax. I’m enjoying myself, in a weird way. It’s different, but different isn’t always bad.”
“I’m going to be without you for a while.” The Seeker finally looks up, her helm cradled under a large servo, caressing her. She has a faintly moist sheen over her plump, dark dermas, over her big, strong digits. “It’s nice that you’re letting me have this. It’s kind. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Chuckling, the mercenary sends a command to extract her spike, sliding flaccid from its protective, discrete chamber to hang heavily until gently captured and cradled in curious digits, peeling at the sharp deflated ridges to ponder the more flexible spaces of smoother mesh between, sensory nodes aglow with a menacing red of stagnant inner Energon that keeps the spike alive and prevents atrophy from fuel deprivation even when unexcited. “I’ll remember this exchange fondly, for sure.”
Slipstream grunts when Shadow Striker pulls back to slip from this grasp, and grunts again when she swings her hips to slap the kneeling femme across the face with this flaccid spike, a moist meaty sound of impact to punctuate.
“Hahaha.”
Chapter 53
Notes:
Another quieter chapter. I have horrible things planned, but I like to take my time getting to the horrors.
Potential trigger warnings: references to suicidal ideation and the existential dread of being alive, minor injury during sex (not pertaining to genital injury).
Chapter Text
“You’ve got Wimbles,” Flamewar had said some days before today, on that morning of their parting ways. She had said it without even a hint of jealousy, yet with very tangible despair. “Boss bot’s gonna go out there on her own, so… I guess I gotta follow her. Be the friend she’s got on the road.”
Slipstream had understood and communicated empathetically enough that she understood. She had to let go. So, she let go, but only after satiating herself on a few final kisses and hugs and murmured words.
Where would they go? Demolishor had no direction, but being ancient and rundown, he figured he would retire, seek out a mech or two’s companionship, and relax until the retrofitted bodily parts finally stop functioning. Thunderblast had proclaimed that she would find another way to conquer Cybertron, eventually, possibly dallying with the Decepticon leadership in a daring bid for control and at some personal risk as a recognised traitor. Shadow Striker had taken Flamewar with her wherever they went, possibly to Velocitron, the Speed Planet, for a bit of reckless driving because terrestrial racers find that sort of thing fun for some reason.
That was days ago. Today, life goes on, even for the suicidally inclined. Life does not care, it simply is.
As a consequence, Slipstream is still here. She hates it here, but she has her friends, her chosen family, and she loves them. And so she persists, trying to be useful and making herself available to those who would accept her. Nursing is hard work with long hours, difficult patients who do not always mean to be difficult, and the nature of volunteering obviously goes unpaid. But the wealth of experience and the ability to distance herself from being a Seeker somewhat heals her.
Beyond all that, Windblade is tended to. After exhaustively long days of being medically induced into a comatose state to refuel and facilitate the body’s automated mending process of self-repair protocols, with Ratchet’s skilled surgeries and Slipstream’s patient and attentive nursing accelerating the process of healing, Windblade is finally deemed sufficiently stable enough to revive.
All the friends are called together. All are present, eager and anxious.
“Stand back.” Ratchet thus clears space around the berth, then administers the stimulant flux.
With a shaky groan and a shudder of what resembles an energy surge, Windblade’s big blue optics flutter online, lenses swelling bright, the seeing cores within cool crystalline.
Everybody gasps.
She blinks. “I’m alive?”
“By my estimation, yes. Congratulations.”
Failing to realise all the other faces, she gazes bemusedly up at him, taking some moments to recognise the older mech leaning over her with his downcast gaze softened by concern. “Hello, Doctor.”
“Good morning. How are you feeling?”
“Not great.”
“Mm. Are you in immense pain?”
“No. Just kinda hurts, like, everywhere. I can cope.”
“Then the painkillers are doing their job.”
“I do feel kinda… whoa.” She sounds rough due to her vocaliser being disused, and her glossa is sluggish due to the painkilling agents flush within her system. “Am I drunk right now, or high?”
“You’re under the influence of potent medication. That’s a bit more professional-sounding.”
“I feel floaty. I’m levitating. Whoa.”
The old medic actually smiles a little, laying a grounding palm upon the Cityspeaker’s pauldron.
“But I’m alive,” she croaks quietly, smiling drunkenly up at him. “Even if that seems kinda whack. How’d I manage that?”
“Whack, indeed. You defied the odds, surviving all that. You have an astonishing constitution. Your self-repair protocols are overactive and relentless in their pursuit of damage. In some ways, my intervention is just here to help your body do what it’s already doing.”
“Damn, I’m kinda badaft, huh.”
“Mm. I served in the war. Even compared to military frames, yours is… exceptionally durable. But as your physician, this isn’t a compliment. Don’t you dare do anything quite that reckless ever again, hear me?” Straight-faced, he gently pats her arm. “Am I understood?”
“Sorry, Doctor. I can be really fearless, and that might make me reckless. No promises.”
“Well, I tried. But you heroic types are always so stubborn. Ugh. Too damn old for this.” Shaking his helm with a sigh, he steps back. “She’s all yours.”
“Bestie?”
She groggily turns her helm to locate the familiar voice. When those big blue optics, lenses overblown and glassy, finally locate Bumblebee, her facial features light up with foggy delight. “Bee!”
“Hey.”
“Hi! Gimme a kiss.”
He buzzes happily as his dermas fall softly upon her forehelm.
“I love you so much. You’re just the best, Bee.”
“I love you, too. And not just me, bestie. We’re all here for you.”
Windblade drags her gaze across time and space, finally recognising her other friends, crowded together at the foot of the berth. “Ohhh. Hello, everyone!”
Chromia’s handsome, stoic countenance crumbles with tender relief as slender digits clumsily reach for her. She is quick and gentle to capture that servo and kiss it, helm bowed.
“My people are here.”
“We sure are. Hi, girl!” Chipper and reassuring, Arcee waves from the end of the berth from beside the warmly smiling Grimlock. “Glad to have you back!”
“Indeed! Welcome back, my friend! You have been sorely missed. We shall celebrate with a soirée!”
“Not sure she’s up for a party, Grim. And I suspect Doctor Ratchet would kick our afts out if we partied here.”
“You’re damn right I would. No partying in my medbay. No exceptions.”
“Hrrm. Perhaps we could stream it?”
“But that’s hardly any fun for her, is it? She’d just be watching us having fun without her, which isn’t much fun either.”
“Oh, what a conundrum.”
“I promised myself I wouldn’t cry,” Hot Rod murmurs as he approaches the berth with Ratchet’s nod of permission, only to bury his sobs into Windblade’s bosom, mindful not to hurt her. “But I’mma cry, okay?”
“Aw, Rod. I’m fine.”
“I was so worried! We all were!”
Soundwave nods once, rubbing his boyfriend’s back. “You’ve been out for days.”
“I’ve been out for days…” Intoxicated as she may be, Windblade manages to have a sobering thought. “What about Starscream? The Decepticons?”
“Starscream’s alive, we think, just out of commission. We dunno what condition he’s in, but you left him in a bad way,” Bumblebee intones with a meaningful look at Slipstream, who is watching Windblade with adoration whilst respectfully keeping back as the other friends have their fill of her first. “The Decepticons are all over the place. Some are rioting, others are returning to their old jobs, their old lives, like nothing happened, but someone’s organising the rest of them – that’s the scary part, because a chunk of the Decepticons look like they’re preparing for something, like they’ve still got fight left in them. It isn’t over, bestie.”
“Scrap. So I almost died for nothing. Or, like, almost nothing.” Saying that, Windblade manages another sobering thought. “Is Sentinel…?”
“The old fragger’s alive,” Ariel says with a sigh, absent-mindedly rubbing Windblade’s ankle joint. “He’s too strong and stubborn to die. Same as you.”
“Oh, thank Primus.”
“Yeah, even I prayed a little.”
“Unfortunately, his recovery will not be as swift as yours,” Orion intones with a sombreness to his fatherly smile. “The damage is… extensive. However, I am confident in the talented Doctor Ratchet and his attending volunteer nurses. They are doing all they can to tend to the wounded.”
“Including that hunk over there,” Ariel quips, nodding at Slipstream who flushes and waves from behind a datapad. “She’s one of those volunteers.”
Windblade foggily fixes her glassy gaze upon Slipstream. “Aw, Slip. You’re helping people. You took care of me.”
“Under Doctor Ratchet’s supervision, yes. He’s been teaching me so much. He’s a wonderful teacher.”
Ratchet smiles, his back turned as he busies himself at the nearby terminal.
“And I’ve always wanted to, um, look after you.”
“Mmyeah?”
“Not like this, of course, but… I love you, so… I wanna take care of you. Same as our other friends.”
“Slipstream has been good to you,” Chromia says, to the surprise of everyone, but especially Slipstream herself. “Even my high standards are met. You’ll be glad to know we’re on friendly terms, after all that happened.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“Yes.” Windblade’s big blue optics widen with joy as a wonky grin stretches her pretty face plate, unadorned of her usual makeup, but the Titan’s marks are permanent. “Yes, yes, yes! This makes me so happy!”
“I thought that might perk you up.”
“I always said you guys would be such good friends if you just got over yourselves and got over me. Finally! Took you two long enough.”
“It’s not quite so simple, at least, not for us,” Chromia grumbles shyly, glancing aside at Slipstream, who smiles back. “We could never get over you, but we have come to a mutual understanding. We’re united in our love for you.”
“That’s great! Ohhh, I’m so loved.”
“You’re beloved, Windblade.”
“Slip, what’re you standing all the way over there for?”
“Oh, I didn’t mean to get in the way of–”
“Nonsense. Slipstream, come here, please. She’s yours as much as mine, and ours.”
Flushed and shy, Slipstream uses the datapad as a shield as she shuffles over to Chromia, and in turn Windblade.
“Kiss me.”
Slipstream lowers her datapad and stoops to deposit a lingering kiss on the corner of Windblade’s smile.
“Why, hello, nurse,” comes out low and flirtatious, with brow wiggling and fluttering shutters to match.
“Hello, you.”
“I bet you look real good in scrubs.”
“Errm. Well, I think I do.”
“Big muscles just bulging everywhere.”
“Windblade, you’re in no condition for such excitement. Behave.”
“Oh, please. Months of stress, then I survived a near-death experience, and now all my friends are here, I even got my big girls with me, so gimme a break. I’m getting sprung.”
Chromia cringes with some embarrassment, Slipstream giggling behind her datapad.
“Do not get sprung in my medbay,” Ratchet grumbles.
“Can’t help it. All my friends, all my big girls, loving me, looking after me. That includes you, by the way,” Windblade says, attempting to point at Ariel, but due to lack of coordination, that slender digit ends up pointing vaguely past her pauldron instead. “You’re the biggest girl I got. So big.”
“Yeah, I’m pretty big.”
“The bigger, the better.”
“Windblade, that’s enough. You’re being silly because of the meds. Hush.”
“I’m fiiine. Hey, not to make you feel left out, Arcee. C’mere.”
Arcee grins as Windblade offers her a servo, accepting it very carefully. “I’m not big, but I’m still your girl, right?”
“Damn right.”
“Nice.”
Velocitron’s entire shtick is that it is the Speed Planet with an obsessive culture revolving around racing – specifically, terrestrial alt-modes racing each other upon the most elaborate and dangerous racetracks ever conceived. The fastest Velocitronians enjoy wealth and privilege, socially esteemed above the rest, and therefore the politicians are also the fastest racers.
And nobody is faster than Override. That is why she rules this planet and has done so for millions of years, a seasoned athlete of great fame despite her relative youth. Nobody can best her in a race, no matter the weather conditions or challenges built into the track layout. Her people adore her, her rivals respect and envy her. To her credit, she leads Velocitron well, conducting herself with a sort of nobility to her arrogance, as her intentions are simply to excel, no matter the odds, not to do harm nor to be selfish, and she instils this competitive attitude in others whilst making it widely known her burning hatred for cheaters and corruption. She has cultivated focus, drive, passion and honesty in her dealings as she holds herself accountable to succeed, privately fearing failure. Velocitron thrives under her leadership.
As rivals come and go, bested time and time again, one thing is glaringly clear – being the best can get boring at times. Sometimes, she finds the same pool of lesser talent resident upon her home-world lacking in thrill. The solution is to open the borders to new talent, thus she keeps the tourism industry strong by welcoming visitors, offering affordable accommodation to families and friends, free entry to enjoy the less astonishing racetracks and partake in the lower profile competitions regardless of skill, whilst also supplying cutting-edge performance enhancements intended for the serious athletes and exotic bodily modifications to cater to any aesthetic. In all things, she is always scoping out the foreign racers in the hope of finding a real challenge.
It is little surprise that Shadow Striker and Flamewar had no trouble getting in through the still operational space bridge linking Cybertron to Velocitron, even with their Deceptibrands. The security on Velocitron is somewhat lacking, as planetary resources are mostly dedicated to matters pertaining to racing. Besides, the sporty ethos of the Speed Planet has never encountered much serious violence before. Certainly, a drunk mech might be arrested for driving under the influence at high speeds, and a sore loser might throw a punch at the victor of a race, but such things are simple matters. Nothing like the Decepticon menace back on Cybertron. No, Velocitronians are far more concerned with matters of racing than the possibility of lower classes rising up and violently assuming control of government.
Still, Override has heard about Megatron’s Decepticons. She has been watching over the visiting pair these past few days, curious and impressed to some extent, even if she is clearly their superior.
The bike is impressive for her scale, nimble and quick on her two tyres, leaning dramatically into her turns and performing spontaneous tricks such as the classic wheelstand, made more distinct by a most wonderful paint-job of vibrant flames coiled upon glossy black curves that sorely need a touch-up of polish to buffer the criss-crossing scratches out.
The sports car carries the build of a heavily modified street racer, dark and sleek and surprisingly large, a true nightmare in pursuit, a fiend overtaking, cutting the air and all four tyres keeping firm traction even at blistering speeds.
The competition between them is playful. A couple, Override assumes. It is so cute. What could possibly be a better choice of place to take a girlfriend out on a date, than here, upon the winding raceways of Velocitron?
The two Decepticons cross the finish line neck-and-neck. A tie. How romantic.
“Quick break, boss bot? I wanna stretch.”
“Sure. Could do with some coolant.”
Flamewar pulls over and transforms, poised to peer over the edge of the raised track, admiring the view beyond and below – a network of twisting roads, an abundance of racetracks like this one, only possibly more dangerous.
Shadow Striker joins her at the edge, producing a flask of and unscrewing it to take a sip whilst looping a sweaty arm companionably about the shorter femme’s pauldrons.
“I still can’t get over the sheer coolness of this place. A whole fragging planet dedicated to grounders going fast. So fast, that we probably seem amateurish to the locals. They’re nuts.”
“Want some?”
The bike accepts the canteen, sipping the coolant to refresh herself. She is trying to cheer up. She has been trying for days now. She cannot seem to quite lose herself to driving. Her brain module is too loud and her Spark hurts too deeply.
The old mercenary sighs, aware of this struggle. “You’re doing great.”
“Thanks, boss bot.” Flamewar passes back the canteen.
Shadow Striker pulls her companion in for a kiss atop the helm without any shame of intimacy.
“This trip’s been nice. Real nice. The hotel room’s nice. The fuel’s nice. The racing, the racetracks, all nice.” The bike leans into the mercenary’s bigger side. “You’ve been nice.”
“Damn. Fancy that, huh.”
“I just wanna say thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Flamewar and Shadow Striker sweat profusely in the afternoon air after racing each other for hours, their engines hot within their glistening shells. They stink of exertion, the fumes of their athleticism potent even to their own enstrils. Some people find this erotic.
“Think we could maybe fool around a little, back at the room?”
The bike giggle-snorts.
“No pressure.” The mercenary smirks into her canteen. “I can wait.”
“You’ve been waiting. It’s been a while. I feel kinda bad about it.”
“Don’t. I’m not owed a fragging. It’s just a little treat.”
“I’m your little treat.”
“Damn right, you are. But we don’t have to rush. We’ve got racing for that.”
Flamewar turns to look up at Shadow Striker, who turns to smile down at her in response. The femmes enjoy a cool breeze that normally would pose a minor hazard when driving fast, but really soothes them as they take these moments to stand still and truly appreciate being alive.
“Keep walking.”
“I am walking! You’re shoving! I mean, is this really necessary? You stripped me of my weapons at the door, I come alone and in peace, like I said!”
“Primus, you’re shrill.”
“Oh, I recognise you! Is all this rough treatment some form of payback because I, um, maybe stepped on you a little bit and called you a naughty boy, back at the arena? That was you, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sooo sorry. I got a little worked up. My bad!”
“Shuddup.”
“Aw, c’mon, don’t be like that. Let bygones be bygones, am I right?”
“Be glad I’m not scrapping you myself, glitch.”
“Ow! Hey! Watch it with that thing!”
“I hope the boss lady has fun with you.”
“Me too! And I’m sure she will! But I bet she won’t appreciate you scratching my paint before she gets a good long look at my fabulous beauty and falls madly in love with me!”
“Ha.”
“Ow! Quit it! This is no way to treat a lady! Just you wait, when I speak to your manager, I’m gonna get you fired for sure!”
“Here we are, lady. Finally.”
Despite fluttering her shutters and being extremely provocative, Thunderblast is promptly shoved into the room with the butt end of a rifle, stumbling rather unflatteringly before falling to her knees, only for a palm to roughly press into the back of her neck, effectively pining her in a kneeling position. “Okay, okay! Chill!”
“Got the traitor right here, Sir.”
“Grrrrmph! Geddoff!”
“The traitor is right about one thing, darling.”
Thunderblast grows silent and still as a shadow descends upon her with the sound of leisurely, massive steps drawing closer, closer, two gunmetal grey pedes propped on vicious heel struts coming to a gradual stop just before her kneel. Her digestive tank squirms and her fuel pump skips a beat.
“That is no way to treat a lady. Release her, dear.”
“But she’s one of the traitors! She took out our guys! She stepped on me!”
“I’m well aware of that. It was foolish of her to come here, surrendering herself to my mercy. I’m not well-known for being merciful. I’m sure she realises that by now.”
“Oh, scrap,” she murmurs, shivering against the chill. She does not know whether to be afraid, or aroused. She suspects she might settle for both. “What the frag.”
“I’ll take it from here. Thank you. Dismissed.”
The Decepticon releases her and backs away a few paces, then turns, hurriedly retreating.
“Now, then. As for you, little traitor.”
She feels a bead of perspired coolant roll down her forehelm as she stares at those huge pedes.
“Look at me, please.”
She shakily sucks in air as her gaze rises, gradually dragged from the heavy pedes upwards to the reinforced ankle joints, the muscular gunmetal grey legs with thighs about as thick as her torso, the chiselled abdominal plating, the ample breastplate recently repaired, and the handsomely queenly frown on that surprisingly soft face when compared to the hardness of the rest of this immense body, but harder still are those hellish optics.
“I’m rather selective about having a lady on her knees before me. I don’t like it this way.” Empress offers a mighty servo in aid. “Let’s get you up on your pedes, mm?”
Thunderblast is astonished, dumbly accepting the servo, those blunt digits gently embracing her slender alternatives and utterly engulfing up to her pretty wrist, offering support to help her stand.
“That’s better. So, tell me. Why did you seek an audience with me, Thunderblast, considering all you’ve done to hurt the Decepticon cause, and the Decepticons within?”
“You know my name.”
“That’s not relevant to what I asked, dear. Yes, I know every name. I’m the one running things while Starscream mends, and Megatron is rebuilt.”
“Wait. He’s alive?”
“Oh, yes. Barely.”
“Then… the Decepticons…”
“The Decepticons will make a comeback. Is that why you betrayed us – you figured we were doomed to fail, so you took your chances with the other side?”
“Eew, no!”
Empress quirks a bladed optic ridge.
“I mean, um, no, that’s not quite right. I am definitely not siding with Functionists or those Council idiots. I betrayed – which is a strong word – because I assumed with Megatron was dead and Starscream had gone crazy, so when Shadow Striker opted to help her adorable little yellow boyfriend escape alive with all his adorable little friends, I followed her into battle, sort of thing. Basically, I just helped my team of baddies bust those cuties out of there. Besides, there were innocent people back there, so I did the right thing and saved lives. I’m a hero.”
“And that must imply I’m the villain. You didn’t do the clever thing in coming back to me, Thunderblast.”
“I’m steadily realising that, yeah.”
“But I admire your courage.”
“You do?”
“Mm. I must say, returning to the Decepticons as a traitor and demanding to speak with me…” Empress looks Thunderblast over, nodding appraisingly. “I could tear you to pieces, but you’re holding my servo even though I’ve released yours. Do you realise that?”
“I do,” the boat confesses, glancing at her palm, laid over the gladiator’s, those huge digits having already uncurled to set her free, yet she lingers. “Looks like you haven’t torn me to pieces.”
“I’m curious. You’ve come here with a plan, yet you’re being unwise. I sense fear in you. I sense excitement.”
“You do have that effect on me.”
“I do, and I like that. I’d like to take the time to puzzle you over.”
“So, I get to stay, in one piece.”
“For however long I find you amusing, or useful.”
Thunderblast ruminates on the implicit offer. “Are you gonna shove me in a dingy cell?”
“I probably should,” Empress rumbles in her low, motherly undertone. “You’ve been rather difficult. Your file indicates you’re also rather dangerous.”
“Even to you?”
“Especially to me.”
The boat shivers as the gladiator leans in slowly, bringing their optics mostly level.
“You crave power.”
“I’m attracted to power. Powerful mechs, powerful femmes, powerful people.”
“You joined the Decepticons with the aim of ensnaring Megatron himself, didn’t you.”
“Yup.”
“Interesting. I like that.”
“What’s your game, then?”
“My game?”
“You’re playing these guys. I can tell. Why are you here, handsome? Why did you join him? What do you want?”
“My purpose with him is… somewhat similar to yours, I suppose. He impressed me, so I wanted to see where his dream could take me. He was a way out of the arena. Don’t misunderstand me, dear, I do love to fight, but I always felt my talents were wasted.”
“Sweet. Then we’re on the same level, more or less.” Encouraged, Thunderblast gives her hips a little wiggle as she boldly steps into Empress’ personal space, palms still laid together. “Maybe you could use a girl like me, somebody who thinks like you do.”
“Oh, is that so?” The gladiator smiles now, a subtle expression, vaguely menacing in a dulcet way, eerie. “And what would I do with you?”
Victory in reach, the boat gets especially bold, dragging a digit suggestively along the thickset inner wrist, tugging a little harshly at a tender wire.
Empress flinches, optics flaring with interest.
“How imaginative are you, sweetie?”
“Goodness gracious.”
Thunderblast simpers, sealing the deal with a wink.
“Do not be so cold. I already hurt. Here, you see me, suffering. Do not worsen my pain.”
“Star, I despair for you, for more than your broken body. I despair for your broken mind.”
“Enough!” Starscream snaps, his vitals erratic on the monitor.
Knock Out cringes, about to intervene when a raised palm stops him.
“Enough.”
Jetfire keeps his optics downcast, his wrists bound by stasis cuffs tuned to a low setting, merely impeding him rather than immobilising him.
“If you refuse to console me, if you will not grant me comfort, then I will keep you confined to your quarters until I recover sufficiently so as to deal with you myself.”
“You cannot keep me here forever, Star. I will be free eventually.”
“And what then? You intend to abandon me, again? Abandon our Seekers, one more time?”
“Whatever wrong I have done against you and our Seekers…”
Knock Out glances at Breakdown, who shrugs.
“However I have damaged you, all I have destroyed in their lives…” Jetfire shakes his helm slowly. “I am sorry. I am an old, foolish mech filled with many such regrets. But what you did that night, what you had our Seekers do on your behalf, I claim no responsibility for. That was your fault, Star, and you will atone for it. Not I.”
“Begone. You broke my Spark long ago. Let it be a lesson to me, I suppose. You will never change.”
“But you have changed, Star. You are a shadow of the mech I loved, before I left.”
“True, it’s not a soirée, but it’s a celebration nonetheless!” Grimlock raises his cup above their helms. “To Windblade, Sentinel, and all of us!”
The friends cheer, their spirits lifted this evening, convened as they are within the old oil house.
Bumblebee buzzes happily from under Slipstream’s arm, snuggled against her larger self as they share a bowl of sweetened little Energon cubes, designed to be chewed until bursting flavourfully from within the intake rather than being sipped as is traditional.
Chromia smiles at Ariel, who is describing the sort of mischief Orion allegedly got into millions of years past, painting the picture of a bright young mech with a fun-loving Spark and a mind for mischief, far removed from the socially shy and privately paternal old mech he has become, flushed and chuckling throughout the retelling.
Arcee asks Soundwave to open his cassette compartment, allowing Ravage to peek out at the ensemble with malignant feline optics narrowed, hissing to her delight whilst Hot Rod proclaims what a wonderful little kitty they have.
Grimlock asks Wheeljack about his latest inventions, only to stare bemusedly as surely impossible technological feats bordering on magic are casually relayed.
If only Windblade were here.
There is a knock.
“I’m in the tub.”
“I know.”
Shadow Striker perks with intrigue, laid back in the bath, soaking her muscular protoform in hot oil fragrant with crushed minerals, simmering up to her chin. “Enter,” she intones, eager to see where this is going.
Flamewar releases the door and steps into the wash rack, smiling lopsidedly.
“You need something?”
“Let’s not be coy, boss bot.”
“Get in, then.”
The bike carefully climbs into the tub, joining the mercenary. With her added mass, the oil overflows, seeping into the grating below to be cleansed and recycled as a cost-saving measure with the excuse that it is good for the environment.
“C’mere.” Shadow Striker opens her arms, allowing Flamewar to recline against her, spread over her bosom and belly, their brows coming to rest together. Those big, strong arms enclose again, gently capturing curves. “Isn’t this nice, mm?”
“It’s real nice.”
“Gimme a kiss. Go on.”
Humming softly, Flamewar tilts herself gently into a kiss as instructed, looping her arms around Shadow Striker’s neck, her arms wrapped snugly about the smaller femme’s lower back strut.
“Mmhm.” A sound of approval. The mercenary deepens the kiss with a little more force, but she is not the one to delve in with a swipe of the glossa.
No, it is the bike who licks the bigger femme’s dermas hard enough to peel them apart to lap at the keen dentas, seeking entry deeper inside, which is granted, and so she licks beyond.
Glossa encountering glossa, writhing together like cybermaggots in an open wound, the femmes both sigh under the wet smacking sounds of this churning kiss, the sloshing of oil as bodies press more insistently together, the whirring of cooling fans automatically engaged.
Shadow Striker reaches below to grab Flamewar’s rather generous aft, squeezing the heft of it within a large, strong servo with digits that seek the gaps to prod at muscular protoform.
The bike answers this by untangling an arm to grab the mercenary’s headlight, rubbing the entire palm over the crystalline casing, bladed claws lightly scraping, slick with hot oil.
Rumbling low and sultry, Shadow Striker drags a slow circle with a digit over the puckered waste port, requesting permission to enter there.
Flamewar nods into the kiss, then groans as a large, long digit inserts itself slow and steady, digging in up to the joint, feeling about for sensory nodes and deliberately prodding them.
Shadow Striker’s smirk can be felt. It can be tasted. She is still smirking when her quarry pries apart from her, panting and flushed.
“Spike me.”
“You sure?”
“Uh-huh.”
“You can spike me instead if mine’s too much for you, though you took me like a champ last time. Still, no shame.”
“I’mma spike you after. Spike me first.”
The mercenary cups the bike’s cheek, gazing into her optics, scope delving deep.
“Boss bot, you’re looking at me funny.”
“I care about you.”
Flamewar realises this is as close to a proclamation of love as she is likely to ever get from Shadow Striker.
“I care about you a whole lot.”
“I know. I care about you too.”
“Are you sure you’re ready? I’ll wait.”
“Yeah. Fragging you sounds real good.”
“Of course it does. I’m a baddie and I’m real good to frag. But I’m being serious. So long as you’re okay with–” The mercenary gasps as claws scrape over her smouldering modesty panels. “Ohhh!”
“Make me scream.” The bike sits back, straddling. “If it gets too much, I’ll signal you. No safeword. I don’t roll like that.”
“Damn, girl!”
“I haven’t had an overload since Slippy. It’s been ages for me. I’m pent-up and you’re so patient with me, boss bot. Thank you.”
Shadow Striker simply lifts Flamewar up, spike surging forth, and sits her back down, jabbing at her valve.
“Hnnngh!”
“You’re already open for me. That’s convenient. I didn’t even notice you popping your panels, you little slag. I was planning to grind on you a while. This works, too.”
The bike tosses her helm with a whimper as she is bounced in the mercenary’s lap, hips ensnared within a capable, assertive grip, that enormous spike determined to burrow up until hitting the forge, swollen and hardened ridges dragging against the many sensory clusters along the way as modified calipers adjust to swallow more of the sheer mass thrust by thrust.
“You’re incredible,” Shadow Striker growls through bared dentas. “You take my spike, despite your size, despite my size. Just incredible. Whatever mods you’ve got in that hot little valve of yours, I want them. Hook me up, huh.”
It occurs to Flamewar that she does not recall ever getting these interface mods, but she must have them, because this coupling is not feasible otherwise. She just woke up able to take trucks, with some discomfort. She figures that she must have been a real freak, before her brain module got scrambled. She wishes she could remember her old self as a person, and recall more than just the abandonment and the loneliness.
“Frag, you’ve taken it all, I’m all the way in. Attagirl. Mmyeah. You like that?”
“Yeah… I like that… I like it a lot, boss bot… I like you…”
Oil cascades over the edges of the metallic tub as the mercenary lifts and lowers the bike at an unrelenting pace, evidently chasing a mutual overload with some impatience on account of a dry spell. “Yeah, you nasty thing. Dirty little glitch. You’re built for this spike. Custom rig on you, in you.”
“Ah, ah, ah!”
“You close? Already? I’ve barely even touched you yet!”
Flamewar realises that a little more foreplay would have been nice as she accepts the prompt within her HUD and explodes with a yelp, lurching, spasmodic, claws scrabbling for purchase over slick oil.
“Yes! C’mon, I’m close, clench me harder!” Shadow Striker reels as the calipers attempt to choke her spike, snagging on the swollen head of it, yanking her to finish. She shoves all the way back in, but spills transfluid messily from the imperfect seam of their compressed groins, floating to the surface of the rippling oil in shimmering globules. “Hoooyeeaaah!”
The bike flops forward, sprawled over the panting mercenary who twitches and jerks in the aftershocks of her overload, until a pleasant afterglow settles upon them bath.
“You want some more?”
“Yeah.” Flamewar watches a globule of transfluid float on by, until encountering the curve of the tub, trapped.
“Gonna spike me, beautiful?”
“Oh, yeah.”
Shadow Striker is especially affectionate right now, giving in to the instinct, rather than fighting it to pretend she is above such weaknesses. She need not posture like she would with most femmes, or mechs. She is with someone special, someone safe. She nuzzles her, deposits little kisses all over her flushed, scarred face, engine purring contentedly.
With a soft giggle-snort, the bike relishes in the attention. “You’re twitching inside me. You’re still kinda hard.”
“You feel so good.” The mercenary nips her lover’s chin, cheek, audial. “I might have to spike you some more, just to satisfy my urges. Then you’re free to spike me back. Treat me like a cheap slag.”
“Sure. Sounds great.”
And so it begins again. Another round of Shadow Striker using Flamewar like a spikesleeve, bouncing her atop, plunging in and out of her, until they both overload in carnal harmony. Until suddenly the mercenary goes off-script, swooning to forbidden utterances, the bike’s reply breathy and hoarse.
“Mine, mine, mine!”
“Yours, boss bot. Yours.”
Rather than realise that this was never meant to be said out loud, Shadow Striker pulls out and pulls Flamewar close again, licking her forehelm. “I’m open. Frag me.”
The bike releases her spike accordingly, readjusting to poke and prod at the mercenary’s anterior node, then dragging her whole length against it, which is enough to draw out a blissful little overload from the bigger femme due to all the prior stimulation.
Shadow Striker’s thighs tremble as she loses control of her hips, jerking rapidly, for a brief interval, and fresh transfluid ejects from her recovering spike as it flails about with the motions, globules of it floating within the oil.
“Just wait until I stick it in you.”
“Do it already!”
Flamewar kisses her throat, then playfully bites one of her primary neck cables and holds onto it during penetration, fangs nicking minor wounds that could easily turn lethal, but will not.
Though the bike tries to pace herself, the mercenary does not, eagerly thrusting up to meet that spike like a common harlot, grunting and groaning and growling.
“Yours?”
“Mine!”
This is a mistake.
Chapter 54
Notes:
This chapter is full of bad feels. I did warn you this story would go in weird directions. But at least I try to keep you guessing what the fuck might happen to these characters next.
On a happier note, TF Galactic Trials just released. As a game, it's not my cup of tea personally, but I'm stoked that Flamewar's in it - even better, she's got her bow and her voice! As someone who loves all versions of this character (and I take bits and pieces from each iteration to make up my own fucked up version of a young and off-kilter Flamewar), you can imagine my excitement to get some new reference material now that we have an iteration of Flamewar who isn't delegated to silent, still, sporadic appearances in the comics. This story of mine has been planned from start to finish, but I'm getting fresh ideas.
Potential trigger warnings: intoxication (caused by the robot equivalent of anesthesia in one instance, the social consumption of alcohol in another) as a vessel for honesty, toxic family dynamics.
Chapter Text
“Yeah, that’s right. Get your whole face in there, nice and deep. Choke on my node.”
“Mmmph!”
Laid out in berth, muscular thighs wrapped about Flamewar’s bobbing and grinding helm to keep her pinned in place as desired, Shadow Striker takes a drag of her cy-gar and checks her messages first thing this beautiful morning in a hotel room on Velocitron. The tourist packages are actually quite reasonable and affordable here.
Life is good. Living is good. It is good to be alive. For today, at least.
“My sister got back to me. Roulette. She says she’ll come on over and join us for a day or two, run some tracks with us. So that’ll be interesting. Been ages since I got to hang out with her. One of us is always busy, or too sad to see the other, so it’s mostly zero face-to-face contact outside of a couple rounds of drinks over at Mac’s place. Probably not healthy. I wonder sometimes if it’s too late to change stuff between us, since neither of us is getting younger.”
“Mmhmph.”
“Keep on sucking. Good girl.” Maintaining composure, because it happens to be kinky right now, the old mercenary comes across another familiar contact, peruses the contents of the text sent all the way from Cybertron, and almost chokes on her cy-gar. She sits up sharply, forgetting for a moment that her valve is being devoured with the messy, vocal enthusiasm of a turbofox buried snout-deep in the rubbery guts of a fresh carcass. “That crazy glitch went for it! Ha!”
The bike peers over those firm abdominal plates, brows arched as it becomes apparent that her incredible skills at eating valve like a seasoned professional are not eliciting this astonished reaction. “Hmmmph?”
“Thunderblast hit me up, let me know the score. She’s going places, doing just fine.” Shadow Striker whistles, shaking her helm. “Our dreamboat’s seducing the new Megatron – that gigantic Empress lady, the gladiator. Didn’t get melted down for spare parts, doesn’t gotta live in a cell, or face anything close to consequences for my stunt back at the arena. I really thought I’d fragged things up for her. Apparently not. Ugh, I keep underestimating that girl. She’s wicked.”
Flamewar grins into valve mesh, snorting wetly as she giggles. Ah, classic dreamboat.
“Also, Megatron’s alive.”
“Wmmmph?!”
“Ready for a bath?”
“I could use one, yeah.”
Slipstream starts by wiping softly at Windblade’s forehelm, cheeks, chin, avoiding her optics, enstrils, or dermas.
The Cityspeaker tilts her helm into the strokes of that textile, as if to nuzzle at the Seeker's working servo.
“That’s better, mm?”
“Much. Thank you.”
“Can you lift your helm a little?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“Here, I’ll help you.”
Windblade meets Slipstream's optics as her face is lovingly cupped by one large palm, the other carefully laid upon her helm.
“There we go. You’re doing great.”
The Cityspeaker rests her heavy helm in the Seeker’s big palm and feels safe, lifted off the pillow and into a cradling cold, sighing as the textile caresses with care, wiping away stale sweat. “Why are your servos so cold, Slip?”
“I think it’s the wash that does it. Do you mind?”
“It’s soothing.”
Slipstream smiles reassuringly whilst tipping Windblame’s helm forward a bit further, still hovering closely above the synthetic pillow to avoid strain, bending the neck just enough to afford enough space to quickly wipe behind it before settling her down again with a little caress to the jaw that elicits a sleepy purr. “Very good. Well done.”
“You’re doing all the work. I’m just enjoying the attention.”
“That’s okay, too.” The Seeker wipes down the slender throat, across the delicate pauldrons, optics dimmed and soft.
“You’ve got such hunky servos, Slip.”
“Mmyeah?”
“Mmyeah. Big and strong and worn with calluses, but gentle.” The Cityspeaker smiles crookedly and offers an arm, watching the damp, chemically sterilised strip of polishing textile sweep along its length, wiping away lingering traces of perspired coolant. “You’re good to me, Slip.”
“I try,” Slipstream murmurs, her large servos so crude and cumbersome compared to the sleek, slender femme in her care. “I love you. It’s as simple as that.”
“I love you, too.” Windblade boldly catches the wrist and pulls the servo in, nuzzling against those blunt digits bent about the textile strip, kissing the reinforced knuckles. “I don’t deserve it.”
“That’s because you deserve far better.”
“No, Slip. You deserve better. I gotta think up something special I can do for you, some way of showing you my appreciation for this, for everything you’ve done for me.”
“I really don’t mind doing this, or that, or whatever it takes to help you heal. You’re the love of my life. Seeing you alive and smiling will be my eternal reward.”
There is a brief pause.
“Slip, that’s one of the most romantic things anybody has ever said to me.”
“Really?”
“Really. And that’s a big deal, ’cause I’ve had loads of people confess their undying love for me. Not to brag. But they never really meant it, they just said pleasing words, hoping to keep me.”
“I hate the lies, but I don’t blame them. You’re beautiful, intelligent, charismatic, powerful. No wonder they tried. Anyone would want you forever.”
“But nobody can keep me, I can’t surrender myself to someone. I don’t work that way. I can’t get pinned down. I’m all but married to my duty as Cityspeaker, mind and soul. I can’t give more than all I have left.”
“You are plenty, Windblade.”
“Even for you?”
“Especially for me. Your independence, your refusal to settle down, is an inspiration. You have the strength and courage to survive on your own, but you give so much of yourself so generously in service to the Titans, who need you, and you are always here for your friends. Aloof and independent you may be, but you are never alone. You make yourself available to the people you choose. Marriage is one expression of commitment. Marriage isn’t for you, and that’s perfectly alright.”
The Cityspeaker does her very best to peer into the Seeker’s soul with optics rendered glassy, lenses overblown, struggling for sobriety. “But you want a Conjunx. You wanna be someone’s Conjunx.”
“I don’t think now is the right time to have this conversation.”
“I know you mean these romantic things you say, Slip. And you say these sincere things to me, even though I already know you want to settle down, but I don’t.”
“Windblade.”
“Normally, I wouldn’t bring it up. I never say much about it because I’m scared.”
“Scared?”
“I act like nothing scares me, Slip. But that’s a lie. Maybe it’s the meds and surviving a near-death experience doing the talking, but I can’t act right now. I gotta get the honesty out. Please?”
Slipstream opens her intake to object, but Windblade beats her to it.
“Right now, you’re here, giving me a bath, and I feel all fragged-up over thoughts about you and me and us, and I kinda wanna puke, and I just can’t pretend this time that everything’s fine, so I’m saying something I can’t say to you when I’m sober. I’m sorry.”
The Seeker is stalled, frowning gently.
“Is this really okay?” The Cityspeaker maintains a deathly grip on that servo, clenched about the textile. “Will you still want me a million years from now, even though I’m not the type to make a halfway decent wife?”
Slipstream does not answer immediately, because she is getting scared, too. “I accept you as you are. You have your limits. It’s okay.”
“But is it fair?”
At this, she hesitates a little too long and only makes a soft sound instead of attempting speech, brows crumpling, wings dropping at her back.
Windblade is suddenly tearful.
“Oh, no. No, no, no. Please don’t cry.”
“You’re just… really handsome, and kind, and… you love me so much. You really, really love me. And I love you back, but… when I look at all you wish you could have with me, and I can’t give to you, I wonder if I’m holding you back.”
“Holding me back?”
“From finding someone who could give you all you want, that I can’t. You know I don’t mind it if you find someone else, someone who really is wife material, so long as you keep loving me too. What I’m afraid of, Slip, is the thought of you growing old and resentful millions of years from now, because I’ve wasted your time. Do you love me more than I love you? That thought really scares me. I would die for you, Slip, but you offer me your whole life and I just worry about it a lot.”
Silence.
“Okay, I said it. I don’t feel like I wanna puke so bad, now. I guess my body knows what I need to get out of me.”
The Seeker opens and shuts her intake a few times.
The Cityspeaker rests her chin atop that row of knuckles. “Say something, Slip. You’re allowed to get mad about it.”
“You offer me more than I would ever ask of you. You are enough, as you are.”
“Thank you. But I will be better. I promise.”
“Let’s just not talk about this right now, okay? You’re not feeling well. It’s the medication, giving you these thoughts and feelings.”
“I’m scared when I’m sober too, Slip. You love me too much, and I can never love you enough, as I am.”
Slipstream feels a stab in her Spark and sighs heavily. “Everyone loves you. You’re lovable. You’re very loving.”
“You’re giving me a fragging bath, Slip.” Windblade sniffles. “You’re like Chromia, Bee – my best friends. You love me like they do.”
“I’m honoured you think so. They’re excellent people.”
“But I’m not excellent, Slip.”
“Hush. You’re perfect.”
“Nobody’s perfect. Least of all me. But you say stuff like that and you believe it. You’re so sweet, so simple, like that.”
The Seeker is really growing tired of being stupid. Seen as stupid. Stupid, everyone says. She tightens her grip on the textile, her fist clung to within the Cityspeaker's clawing digits, snaked about the thickset wrist as if fearful of this tether being wrenched away.
“And now so much has been said, I could say a little more. I’ve been so… I dunno, fixated on dragging you to berth with me all the time, that I tend to forget.”
“Forget what?”
“You’re more than some object for me to lust over. You’re not a mere conquest, but a wonderful person and a beautiful friend. I’ve tried my damnedest to get close to you so I can have you, and I fell in love with you, but I’ve been taking you for granted. I’m an afthole.”
“No, you’re not. Stop that.”
“Why are you so nice all the time? Even to the people who don’t deserve it.”
“I’m not sure. I’ve asked myself that very same thing.”
“You’re too good for me. Just like Chromia. Just like Bee. ”
“Hush. That’s not true. Please stop saying these things. You aren’t in your right mind. You could say something you can’t take back later on. That’s what scares me right now.”
“It’s too late for that, Slip. You guys love me so much and I just can’t be good enough to deserve it. I’m sorry, but I won’t walk away from the things I’ve said. It’s so good of you to listen.”
“I don’t want to.”
“I know. You’re being so good to me. I need to be better, do better, to deserve you.”
“Windblade, I appreciate that you’re thinking and feelings things, but you’re a little woozy because of the meds right now, so that might distort things a bit. We’ll talk about this again another time, okay?”
“But I need you to know that I-”
“I don’t want to talk about this with you right now, please!”
Windblade flinches.
So does Slipstream.
“Oh. Okay. I’ll stop. I’m done.”
“Sorry.”
“No, I pushed you. You have every right to express yourself, too.”
The Seeker looks wretched and miserable and ashamed. Angry.
The Cityspeaker says something intended to soothe, but it mostly goes unheard, or ignored.
Silence, again.
Ratchet is peering into the ward, lured by the raised voice. He assesses the situation for several seconds more, then sighs quietly and walks away, satisfied that the confrontation died quickly.
“Maybe it’s good I said it. Maybe it’ll turn out to be good, that those things have been said. It’s all out in the open now. I’m a little out of it, but I’ll sober up and remember this. Right?”
“Yeah. Maybe.”
Windblade nuzzles the servo, kisses the knuckles, and protests when Slipstream gently takes back her servo, only to replace it with the other, drying those tears with brushes of the thumb that has not had contact with the soaked textile.
“Can I carry on? Is that fine with you?”
“Yeah, sure. Heh, I probably stink.”
“You don’t stink.”
“I don’t?”
“Of course you don’t, silly. You always smell lovely.” And just like that, the Seeker assumes a motherly role instead of the role of the aching lover.
“Huh.” The Cityspeaker sniffs herself. “I smell myself. Must be my natural alpha femme musk.” She is trying to be funny.
Slipstream giggles softly, shaking her helm. “Mmhm.” Not really all that amused, but pretending.
Windblade is so heavily medicated that the pain is tolerable and she only flinches a little bit as her arms are raised above her helm. “Oh, not the pits.”
“Gotta do the pits.” The Seeker takes careful swipes beneath the Cityspeaker’s arms with the sterilised textile, cleansing both armpits. “Good thing you’re not too ticklish.”
“Real good thing. What’s bad is my pits are nasty right now.”
“Not to me. I love your pits.”
“It’s because you love me. All my parts.”
Slipstream scoops an arm under Windblade’s back, halfway embracing her. “I’m just gonna sit you up a bit, so I can do your back, then I’ll do your front, okay?”
“Okay.”
“On the count of three. One, two, three.”
The Cityspeaker grimaces as she is eased off the gurney and propped up within the muscular bend in the Seeker’s supportive arm.
“Just like that, yeah. Good.”
“Oof. Real glad for those meds right now.”
“I’ll be quick. You’ll feel so much better when you’re clean. Trust me.”
“With my life, Slip.”
They end up in a sort of shallow embrace.
“You love me, my parts, like I love Chromia, her parts. Even the pits.”
“Mmhm.”
“I do really like shoving my face in her pits when she’s all sweaty after a workout.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah.” Windblade presses her forehealm against Slipstream’s broad pauldron whilst her back is carefully wiped, then her sides, the polishing textile gliding over curves and pondering the patches that seal mending wounds. “It makes her cringe because she’s ticklish and she thinks she smells gross, but I love it, so I think she smells awesome.”
“Chromia’s ticklish?”
“Yup. Don’t tell her I told you. It’s top secret.”
“Duly noted. But you love her smelly, sweaty pits as you love the rest of her. Then you know where I’m coming from.”
“Yup. Gets me frisky.”
“Nice.”
Sighing with relief, the Cityspeaker is carefully laid to rest once more.
“Do you want to wipe down your, um…” The Seeker clears her vents, trying to sound professional. “Breastplate?”
“Boobs.”
“Yes, boobs.”
“You like my boobs.”
“I love your boobs. Go on, wipe yourself off.” Slipstream sets the textile in Windblade’s palm and stands over her as she mops at her own bosom, cleaning herself. “I’ll help with your tummy after, then the legs.”
“This stuff smells funny.”
“It’s good stuff.”
“It’s good because it’s coming from you, Slip.”
The femmes continue to talk, softly and intimately, sharing smiles and lingering optic contact, mutually doing their best to act like things are better left said, even if the unsaid things are easier.
“Hey, when I’m healed up and finally out of here, I want to take you on a date. Court you for real, like a gentlefemme.”
Having progressed to wiping the Cityspeaker’s pede by the time she proposes this, the Seeker exhales shakily, wings perking halfway.
“I’d like us to try being girlfriends again. I’ll court you, romance you, the works. Not just berthroom stuff.”
“I’d love that more than anything.”
“I’ll do better by you.” Windblade grins handsomely, her mending shell refreshed, her health improving as she is tended to and steadily heals. She offers a servo. “Be better to you.”
“You just need to be yourself.” Slipstream accepts it, gently squeezing those slender digits within her own. “Thats all I want, all I hope for. You.”
“Then let me better myself, so I can finally be enough.”
“I keep telling you, you are enough for me.”
“I know you mean what you say. But until I believe it, let me strive to achieve it, Slip.”
They sink into silence from that point onward.
“Are we gonna go back to Cybertron and try our luck with the Decepticons, then? Since dreamboat’s getting chummy with the big boss glitch and stuff.”
“Empress did ask for us. So, I suppose that door remains open. If it all works out, it’d be simple enough, until someone puts a bullet in my back. I’ll have to keep an optic out.”
“Nobody could ever get the drop on you, boss bot.”
“You really think so, huh?”
“You’re the best at the business. And you’ve got me. I won’t let anybody hurt you.”
Shadow Striker slows down.
“Boss bot? That’s not how you win a race.”
“Stop for a second, yeah?”
“Oh, okay. We can both lose.” Flamewar slows, too, then draws to a gradual halt.
The mercenary transforms.
So does the bike. “What’s – oomph!”
Shadow Striker scoops Flamewar into a crushing hug and just holds her close, face buried in her neck.
“…You good?”
“…I’ve got you.”
“…Yeah. So?”
“…I have someone.”
“…Oh.”
The mercenary trembles, hot from driving fast for hours. When she nuzzles into those neck cables, she smears wetness - tears?
The bike resorts to rubbing her back strut, engine rumbling soothingly, purring.
“Someone I feel safe with. Someone I can keep. Someone I want around. Someone who wants to be around me and my intolerable aft.”
“That’s because I like you and your aft, which I find totally tolerable.”
“Flamewar, I appreciate you so much. You must be insane, to actually mean it when you say you wanna stick by my side.”
“Through thick and thin, boss bot. I am kinda crazy. I own that.”
“Thank you.”
The femmes pull apart, taking some seconds to gaze closely at one another, then come together again in a kiss that is a little too mutually romantic to be wise.
“I like it,” Ariel concludes with a burly slap to Wheeljack’s back strut, sending him stumbling a few steps. “Whoops! Sorry.”
“It is very… reassuring,” Orion concludes thoughtfully, rubbing his chin as he assesses the red symbol. “And yet also bold, assertive, and noble. The emblem of heroes. I also approve.”
“Fantastic! Glad ya like it! Figured it’s time we adapted the Deceptibrand into somethin’ we can use, since I’ve figured out how Shockwave’s Deceptibrand works, thanks to Slipstream. She, uh, tolerated all my pokin’ and proddin’ for a few days, let me take samples of his code, ’til I figured it all out. Absolutely brilliant tech, I gotta say! Just brilliant. Just what I’d expect from my ex. Oh, uh, but I realise his methods are, errm… y’know.”
“Cruel,” suggests Ariel with a scoff.
“Abhorrent,” Orion adds lowly.
“It gives off evil mad scientist vibes,” Arcee contributes from the back, the fluffy little organic alien Captain Snuffles perched on her pauldron, a treat of some sort held adorably in his little clawed paws. She is very fond of him, having taken an instant liking to organic life, as well as Ariel herself.
“Yeah, all of that, too,” Wheeljack confesses quietly, thinking about his ex-boyfriend and former partner in scientific and technological marvels with a mixture of affection, sorrow, and regret. “Though I wouldn’t call him mad. Just… misunderstood. Well, uh, anyway! Ahem. I know how to adapt his tech without it hurtin’ anyone. Since you guys approve this design, I figure why not start the rebrandin’ process right away? I’ve even made a gizmo for it. Slaps that sucker right on ya, no torture required! Neat, right?”
“Hmm. Not to be a downer, but that red’s gonna blend in with Rod and Windblade. Oh, and Cliff, too. Basically any reddish guys.”
“Oh. Shoot. I hadn’t considered that.”
“There she is.” Shadow Striker smirks as a sports car alt-mode bearing much similarity to her own – except for the less ominous colour scheme and a few minor differences in visible modifications – draws to a purring stop before transforming into her older sister, Roulette, who crosses the rest of the distance on powerful and confident strides, chin held high, optics hidden behind her visor. “The pain in my bumper has finally arrived. Hey, sis.”
“Hi!” Flamewar is balancing precariously on a guardrail, but she manages an enthusiastic wave and almost loses balance. There is a huge drop below, as the road is raised, hovering within a network of other levitating racetracks.
The mercenary is quick to reach out and grab the bike, pulling her to safety and setting her upon the road with a pat on the helm. “Alright. That’s quite enough of that, little maniac.”
“Aw. Okay.”
“Gonna gimme a Spark attack one of these days.”
“Sorry. But I would’ve figured it out.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“It’s just really nice that you care for my safety and you worry about me.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Hello, to the both of you.” The bounty hunter has a stern countenance, intimidating.
“You came!” Shadow Striker actually seems rather pleased. “Look at you, making an effort!”
“I did.” Roulette huffs. “You invited me. Look at you, making an effort.”
“Fair enough. Good to see ya.”
“Likewise.”
“You guys are so close to being identical,” Flamewar contributes, looking from sibling to sibling. “You’re both hot in, like, an older lady way. I dig it.”
“Thanks.” The bounty hunter offers the bike a stern nod, then squeezes the mercenary’s pauldron with the ghost of a smile. “Escaping the mess you made back on Cybertron and opting for a vacation to Velocitron. That’s actually not a bad idea, sis.”
“Well, she deserves a break.” Shadow Striker ruffles Flamewar’s helm. “She’s a good girl, this one, and I figured she’d have fun, running the circuits for a few days.”
“It’s been fragging awesome. And the fuel here is to die for.”
“Only the best for my little maniac.”
“You two are close.”
“Our whole team was close. I just like to think I’m boss bot’s favourite.”
Roulette makes a sort of humming sound, the direction of her gaze difficult to determine with the visor concealing her optics.
“Hey, sis, would you lift that thing and let me look at you? It’s rude.”
The bike realises with a chill that the bounty hunter has been staring down at her the moment she retracts her visor and narrows those bright optics.
“Better?”
“Much.” The mercenary fondly claps a palm across her older sister’s back strut, apparently unaware of the intimidating nature of that stare or simply unbothered by it, pulling her in for a bruising peck to the cheek and a nuzzle. “Thanks for turning up.”
“When you said you wanted to spend quality time with me, I realised that we could do with it. We don’t see each other often enough, with good reason, sadly.”
“Yeah, well, maybe you can let loose for five minutes and let yourself have a little fun for a change, eh. Maybe pretend like I’m not a constant source of grief and disappointment to you.”
Roulette finally lifts her penetrating stare from the bemused and curious Flamewar to gaze a little more softly at her sister. “For all your faults, I still love you, sis. I never, ever claimed otherwise.”
“I love you, too. You self-righteous, superior old glitch.” Shadow Striker grins, the darker and more sinister sister, and yet the more charismatic of the two even if deeply unpleasant to most people. An acquired taste. “C’mon, this’ll be fun. Let’s have a good time, together.”
The bounty hunter nods once, then bumps her fist against the mercenary’s presented knuckles. “A friendly bet?”
“Go for it.”
“I’ll win the next race, and you’ll get me dinner and drinks some place nice. Not one of your dodgy dives. Treat me for a change.”
“A date, sis? Okay, sure.”
“Dumbaft.”
The bike marvels again at the sisters’ similarities and their differences. Their builds, their expressions, even their voices are very alike, but their distinctions are striking, from the contrasting colour-shemes to their ocular modifications and their personalities.
Shadow Striker gives her older sibling a playful shove, then transforms and speeds off with a screech of tyres.
“Cheater,” Roulette mutters, huffing into the air, and yet she does not give chase just yet. Instead, she turns to peer down at Flamewar, who looks up with those burning optics and tilts her scuffed helm.
“Uh, we cool?”
“You don’t recognise me at all, do you.”
“Wait. We’ve met before?”
The bounty hunter turns to watch the mercenary surge ahead. “We need to talk. Just the two of us. She doesn’t need to know about it, understand?”
“But–” The bike’s protest falls on deaf audials when the bigger femme transforms and screeches off in pursuit of her sister. “Wuh-wait! You know me, the old me!”
Roulette says nothing, trailing after Shadow Striker, who has a considerable lead in this race.
Flamewar growls her frustration and transforms, gunning it, in last place.
“I want you girls to make out with each other while I watch,” Windblade declares all of a sudden, then sighs at herself. “Sorry. That was very stream of consciousness. I let the intrusive thought win. Ignore me.”
Chromia and Slipstream cannot help but turn to look at each other. Neither femme is opposed to it, and they mutually realise this with a flush and some awkward masculine grunting to clear the tension in the air.
“But it would be awesome.”
“You’re supposed to be doing your exercises,” Ratchet interjects with a grumpy huff. “You’ll atrophy from being still for too long. Get to it, like I showed you.”
“Oh, damn. Sorry. Right on it, Doctor.”
“And don’t be a hero and end up straining yourself. Start small and gradually you’ll notice your strength and coordination returning.”
“Would help if I wasn’t zonked on drugs the whole time.”
“Indeed, but then there’s the issue of intolerable agony to consider. A careless surgeon would simply disable your sensory network entirely, but then again, careless surgeons tend to maim or kill their patients. That gets one’s license revoked. The sensory network is far too integral to far too many delicate subsystems to simply switch off without monumental risk. As you heal, I’ll wean you off the meds, then feed you a strong detox to curb any addictive qualities.”
Windblade is doing little stretches and deliberate motions to flex her joints and the fibres of her protoform, with assistance courtesy of Chromia and Slipstream, the latter of whom will bustle off to help elsewhere on occasion before loyally returning to her lover’s side, and that of the lover’s best friend.
Ratchet types away at the terminal, murmurs something to himself, and then lopes off.
“I really like him,” Slipstream tells Chromia quietly. “He’s grumpy, but so kind underneath. He’s seen everything from the war. Just so much knowledge and wisdom, if people would only listen to him.”
“I can only imagine the things he’s been through. If it resembles that night at the arena, I can understand his sour temper.”
Shadow Striker ends up winning the race, and another race, and more races after that, but in the high of her victory she fails to realise how suspicious it is that Flamewar and Roulette are not giving it their all to compete at their full strength. Thus victorious, she drags the group to a dodgy dive just to be a jerk, but the drinks are cheap, the music is decent, and she gets drunk among flirtatious Velocitronians who compliment her framework and boast about their own athletic achievements, recognising that she is peak performance even for a foreigner and therefore good enough to dance with them, drink with them.
Left behind in the booth, Flamewar realises this is by Roulette’s design, because they are both sober and alone together.
The mercenary accepts a shot of something acidic green and tosses it back without pulling a face, delighting the gorgeous trio of Velocitronian femmes and impressing the two accompanying mechs.
“You gonna tell me how we met, now? Maybe explain what your deal is with me?”
“We’ll talk more when she’s put to berth,” the bounty hunter mutters under the throbbing beat.
The bike reads the words on those snarling dermas and narrows her optics.
“She doesn’t have to know. It’s better this way. She’s too attached, despite herself.”
“We can cut to the chase here and now. Am I in trouble?”
Roulette sits back, peering down the bridge of her olfactory sensor, making Flamewar feel small.
“Answer me, you creepy glitch. You know me. The old me, before I woke up with a helmache from the Pits and couldn’t remember much more than my name. Please, tell me who I am.”
“Why’d you do it, I wonder – to assuage your guilt, to numb the pain of loss, or to cover your tracks? You wanted a fresh start, a new life, that much I do realise.”
“How am I fragging supposed to know why I did whatever I did before? I can’t remember doing anything. I’m begging you, gimme something.”
“I feel a little sorry for you.”
Shadow Striker allows a Velocitronian femme to have a feel of her flexing bicep as they dance together within the circle of churning bodies, passing shots from a little tray and exchanging stories of victory on the racetrack when not caught up discussing the hottest performance mods on the market, all intoxicated to varying degrees, having a great time.
Flamewar’s big, burning, baffled optics follow Roulette’s digit as she traces something on a datapad, then passes it over.
“Does that do anything for you?”
“What… am I looking at?”
“Do you feel anything? Think anything? Is there any of the old you left?”
The mercenary laughs loudly at something someone says, her voice joined by others equally amused.
“I feel like…” The bike stares at the crude drawing of some sort of familiar symbol on the datapad interface, tears welling within her optics. “I lost a home. A family. A lover. A friend. And I think…” Her brain module aches as she wades through the static of her own thoughts, trying to recall something clear. “I think they were scared of me. Not all the time, but toward the end. I did something bad, something to hurt them.”
“You did a lot of bad things, Flamewar. You hurt a lot of people. Innocent lives, taken because of your greed and fanaticism.”
“Oh. So I was evil after all.”
“With your name, is it any surprise?”
“I guess not. Just disappointing. Boss bot thinks I’m an assassin that got damaged in a botched mnemosurgery. I was willing to go with that narrative, but this is worse. I’m worse.”
“She’s not wrong. You were an assassin, an agent, whatever was required. You adapted to any role you assumed. It was part of your skillset. She just doesn’t realise the whole story. She has no idea who you really are.”
“I dunno my whole story, or who I really am. But I know this sign. This is familiar to me. It means something.”
The bounty hunter drums her digits over the counter. “That symbol once adorned Cannonball’s flag.”
There is a pause. It is tense, loaded.
Flamewar looks up, brows crumpled, cheeks wet. “Cannonball,” she repeats.
“He was your captain. You were, for lack of a better term, a space pirate.”
“What!”
Roulette winces as helms turn, alerted to the loud little femme at the booth despite the music and laughter otherwise drowning them out.
“A space pirate?! Me?! With like the Energon swords and the hooks?! No way!”
“Keep it down! Frag’s sake!”
Shadow Striker peers at them from across the dance floor. She mutters something to the pretty femmes and handsome mechs, before reluctantly leaving them to dance among themselves as she weaves through the bodies and swaggers on over with drunken concern. “Hey, everything okay over here?”
“Everything’s fine," the bounty hunter replies whilst dismissing the hard-light holographic interface within the shell of her datapad and returning it to her kit. “Isn’t it, Flamewar?”
The bike realises with an awful nausea that if she wants to learn more, she needs to keep the bounty hunter in a position in which she will remain willing to talk. And clearly, she does not intend to divulge anything further to the mercenary, at least not just yet. “Uh, yeah.”
“Flames?”
“Fine! We’re fine! I mean, I’m fine. Sorry, I… I got a bit, uh, overexcitable just now.”
“You’re crying,” Shadow Striker intones, stooping to drag her palms over Flamewar’s wet cheeks, tenderly mopping them dry. “What’s the matter? What happened?”
Roulette curls a derma, unable to quite quell her disgust this time, but she hides it behind a sip of her drink and looks away.
“N-nothing! Nothing. I’m just, uh, sore from the races. Been nearly non-stop for days now.”
“Oh, please, that’s a heap of scrap. You’re fit as frag. I’m far too old to feel as spry as I do, if you’re the one suffering tyre burn. Why are you lying to me? Talk to me straight.”
“I wanna go back to the room, boss bot. Please.”
And that concludes a fun evening out.
“Oh, great.” Bumblebee stiffens, bracing himself. “Seekers incoming.”
“We’ll be fine,” Arcee intones reassuringly, mostly for Slipstream’s benefit as she trembles anxiously. “No fighting in Mac’s. Remember?”
“They know we stand strong together,” Grimlock rumbles. “That night at the arena proved us capable in battle.”
“They’ll just posture,” Soundwave concludes dismissively. “Ignore them.”
Nova Storm, flanked by Skywarp and Thundercracker, glares at Slipstream but says nothing, simply shoving past her to get to the bar. Somehow, the provoking gesture hurts all the more, because of the glaring silence.
“Hey, that’s not cool,” Hot Rod calls after them. “Jerks.”
Thundercracker does look back, apologetic.
“Sis, what the frag did you do?”
“Nothing. She’s unstable, clearly.”
Shadow Striker is very drunk, arguing not quite quietly enough with the sober Roulette, as Flamewar hides in the wash rack with the excuse of needing to empty her digestive tank when she really just wants to purge it all.
Cannonball. Cannonball. Cannonball.
“Shut the frag up. She’s special. You just don’t get her like I do. But if you’d give her a fragging chance–”
“Is she your lover?”
“That’s definitely not your business. Creep.”
“Ah, I see.”
“Oh, frag you. You’ve never approved of anyone I ever could learn to like. Frag me for maybe growing tired of all the hate, you disapproving old glitch. Half the reason I grew old and bitter and miserable is because of you. All those millions of years trying to earn your approval, but all I ever do disappoints you.”
“You chose to do the things you’ve done with your life. We both come from the same place, the same traumatic event. You made a success of yourself, as did I. Don’t blame me. Do I hold you responsible for my mistakes?”
“No, ’cause you’re perfect. You’re the good sister, the smart and respectable sister. You don’t make mistakes.”
“Mmhm.”
“Don’t you dare ‘mmhm’ me in that patronising tone you’re so good at. You sound like our mentor. I hate that fragger, too.”
“But you love me.”
“No scrap, of course I love you. You’re the only person I’m allowed to love. You won’t tolerate any friends I dare to make, when I’m dumb enough to even consider someone else a friend. It’s like you want me to be alone, suffering without you, just because I won’t bend over backward trying to make you happy anymore. I gave up on pleasing you a longaft time ago, sis.”
“I just want you to associate with good people. I want you doing good work. I want you out of the criminal element and away from the criminals. You’re my little sister. You’re the only sister I’ve got left. Taking care of you, keeping you safe, it’s always been up to me.”
“I look after myself just fine without you around telling me what to do, where to go, who to love, how to live.”
“Um, guys?”
The drunk mercenary is leaning into the sober bounty hunter’s face, but they both stop and turn to find the bike awkwardly lingering some paces off.
“I’m gonna go to berth. I don’t feel so well. No biggie, though.”
Shadow Striker softens, relaxing her posture as she staggers over to lay her palm atop Flamewar’s helm, offering a very gentle ruffle. “Lemme tuck you in. C’mon.”
“I’m sorry I ruined your night out.”
“Nah, we’re cool.”
“You’re fighting with your sister. I’m not helping that.”
“Let her be mad. She’s been mad. She’ll die mad.”
Roulette sinks into a chair with a shaky exhale and rubs her face when the other two femmes step out the room. After all she has done, she reconsiders doing what she intends to do.
Chapter 55
Notes:
This chapter is dark. If you think I'm getting a bit extreme, I'd like to gently remind you that I'm actually referencing canon, only I'm distorting the details and stitching events together in different sequences, then rendering it more disturbing with my own inventions to create cohesion within this narrative. I've included triggering content warnings below. Please read responsibly.
Possible trigger warnings: one instance of casual homophobic language, ableist talk of brain damage, sexualisation of self-harm, mention of mass slaughter and raiding of a community with the intention of trafficking and slavery, the suggestion of possible rape (but no depiction of rape, as it is only implied as a possibility in this universe, however rape is not applicable to any characters within this story and will not be described in any detail nor will it ever be depicted within the narrative).
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Shadow Striker is asleep, having passed out in a miserable drunken stupor in Flamewar’s arms.
Roulette stands over the berth, glaring down upon them. “Get up.”
“You’ll tell me everything?”
“If you leave her behind and follow me.”
The bike is not scared for herself. She can fight, she can maim and kill, she is no fragile femmebot likely to scream theatrically at the first sign of danger due to being stereotypically defenceless and in need of a hunky mech to come to her rescue in the nick of time.
“Come quietly and I’ll talk.” The bounty hunter turns and stalks off. “Let her sleep.”
The mercenary grumbles, complaining even in slumber as she is carefully eased away, attempting to cling to her partner, but she ends up hugging a synthetic pillow instead, unblinking and sleepless scope following movement. Normally, she would have some level of awareness, but the intoxication renders her sleep mode especially deep and she will forget she even saw anything within minutes.
“Where are you taking me?”
“On a drive.”
“That’s not really specific enough to answer my question.”
“Velocitron has the most gorgeous open plains,” Roulette says, releasing them from their room and quietly leading the way. “Relatively flat ground, easy enough to traverse. We’ll be alone out there.”
“I don’t feel very safe, being alone with you.”
“You want to know who you are. I happen to know you, the real you.”
“The old me, you mean. I’m still Flamewar. Just… a bit fragged up.”
“You were always fragged up.”
Flamewar sighs quietly, reluctantly following in the bigger femme’s steps.
“Don’t cry, Nova. You’re my strongest. You must set an example for the little ones.”
“Y-yes, you’re right, Commander. I’m sorry. I just… I’m going through a lot.”
“Hush, my love. You’ll persevere, and so shall I, and so shall he.”
“Of course. We’ll be fine. Megatron’s gonna be fine.”
Skywarp coos as Starscream strokes her helm, laid upon his bosom so that she might listen to his steady Sparkbeat, the throbbing of his fuel pump.
“Commander, I…” Nova Storm paws at her own tears, sat at his berthside. “I love you.”
“I know you do, my sweet. Come here. Have one more moment of weakness.”
She moves to join her sister, cuddling their Commander’s crumpled body, laid out upon the gurney.
“If only I had not lost my other servo to that blasted Cityspeaker. I only have one palm to dispense pets. Share me, my darlings.”
Knock Out thinks the Seekers are rather sweet, sometimes.
“Sit down.”
Flamewar obeys, perching upon a glittering mineral deposit.
“I’m going to tell you things Shadow Striker hasn’t told you yet, if I know my little sister at all.” Headlights bobbing bright, Roulette paces slowly before the backdrop of the twin moons, helm bung as she wanders back and forth under the stars, as it is not yet daylight. The drive out into the wilderness took a couple of hours, but nights on Velocitron are long. “I normally wouldn’t divulge these details myself, but I don’t intend to let you return to her alive, so I see little harm in the truth.”
“Wow, okay.” The bike rubs her neck, slouching rudely. “I’m listening.”
“Long ago, before your time, three Sparks emerged from the Well at once. Three sisters. Myself first, followed by our middle sister, and Shadow Striker was last.”
“Aw. She’s the littlest sister.”
“She is.” The old bounty hunter smiles fondly at that. “She’s my little one. She always will be, old and cantankerous as she is by now.”
“That’s so sweet. You love her a lot, even if you guys don’t always get on so good.”
“I love her more than life itself.”
“What was she like, back then?”
“She was trouble from the start.”
“Oh-ho!”
“Difficult. A delinquent our unfortunate mentor couldn’t control. I was the responsible one, as the eldest who emerged first, and only sometimes would she listen to me. But she wasn’t dangerous, not back then. Just troubled for whatever reason. I’m still not sure what was wrong with her. She just came out with a vendetta against the whole world. Wanted to be the best at everything but hated the responsibility that would naturally be expected of the best.”
“Maybe she just didn’t like rules. Some girls like to live rebelliously, but that’s just because some girls make their own way in the world. Screw society, know what I mean?”
“Perhaps you’re right.”
“What about your other sis?”
“Our middle sister was always more patient. She was gentle, quiet, a little shy. She studied hard, did as I asked of her with little complaint, and only ended up getting in trouble because Shadow Striker would drag the poor girl into things, which would make me angry. Generally, our middle sister tried to keep Shadow Striker and I from fighting over the smallest things. I wanted us to follow the rules, Shadow Striker always defied me, and our middle sister would calm us down and remind us that we love one another as sisters. Sometimes, we all got along wonderfully. Other times, we clashed.”
“You all kinda completed each other, huh.”
Roulette nods slowly, still pacing, arms folded behind her back as she kicks a stone in passing.
“Where’s your middle sister, now?”
“Dead.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t say that.”
Flamewar’s fuel tank clenches as the tall femme comes to an abrupt stop and turns to glare at her chillingly.
“I haven’t got to the part involving you, yet.”
Acid Storm is bent over Megatron’s body, under the process of extensive reconstruction and repair. As they labour, they sweat despite the constant cold of the laboratory. It beads upon their forehelm and drips onto his buckled, broken mass.
Shockwave’s disembodied servo, rendered a drone capable of independent functionality and obedience to his internalised commands whilst separate from the rest of him even at great distances, hovers over to gently mop his assistant’s brow with a strip of textile.
“Thank you,” the placid, busy Seeker tells the servo politely, smiling aside at it. “You’re very kind.”
The Decepticon lead scientist always feels a stirring deep inside his chassis, inside his mind, when they speak to his independent servo as if it were a person – as if speaking to him – with that perpetual calm and modesty, that handsome smile rendered soft with respect and affection.
People think he is a monster, totally devoid of ethical standards as well as emotions. He allows them to think so. People also think he is mad. This irks him, for they are too stupid to understand his mind. His assistant knows him better than that.
The scientist has done away with much of his emotional matrix, this much is true, and he did so to embrace higher logical functions with the freed processing power. So why does his assistant make him feel the things that he hasn’t felt since Wheeljack? Shockwave thought he had finally worked out those emotive kinks in his programming, because that breakup had really hurt.
Apparently not, however, for he gets a shiver when Acid Storm draws close, reaching for a tool on a tray between them, their burly pauldron brushing familiarly against his own. “Excuse me.” They have a soft-spoken manner, generally docile, and soothing.
“Carry on,” he drones in reply, pausing to admire their muscular physique which pools with shadows as they move, the acidic green of their shell which gleams under the harsh suspended lighting as they step into it again. He stares, sometimes.
They don’t mind.
“We were rural, by your standards. We lived simply. Shadow Striker wanted to escape and make it big in the city, I wanted to linger on to watch over our neighbours and attend to our ageing mentor as befitting the leader I fancied myself as, and our middle sister just wanted us to be happy wherever we went and was studying hard to build a better life to support Shadow Striker’s idiotic habits and my reluctance to seek anything out there. None of us would really get what we wanted. Marauders came to our village.”
“Space pirates.”
“Yes. Their ship cast darkness over the daylight. The vessel was massive, blocking out the sun. Marauders descended upon us and demanded our valuables. We gave them what little we had. Then they demanded our people – the strong ones, the pretty ones. That’s often how pirates accumulate crew. Slaves. The ones they can’t break into service, they sell.” Roulette stoops to level out their difference in height. “Did you know that? Let me rephrase – do you remember that?”
“N-no, I…” Flamewar is reeling, clutching her aching, buzzing helm, trying to see through the static of her own thoughts. “What… I…”
“They demanded our middle sister. She was the loveliest of the three of us. Of course, they intended to take all three of us, but one of the mechs made a grab for her. I meant to argue for our lives, but Shadow Striker punched him so hard, she broke his jaw in one swing. I’d only ever seen gladiators do that on the old holoscreen we used to crowd around. It set off the whole crew. That’s how she got the scars across her cheeks – she was shot in the face from mid-range and had to get reconstructed. Those are surgical scars that never quite went away.”
The bike chokes on her own vents, claws scraping over her helm. “Boss bot,” comes out quiet, through gnashing fangs of anguish.
“We fought back. We had to. It was a slaughter, but none of us got taken. The marauders left us to die and left with everything even remotely valuable. But we kept our people. Those of us who could still function tended to our dead and dying. I truly thought Shadow Striker would go the way of our middle sister, but she pulled through, and she died.” The bounty hunter ends up needing to sit down, and so she plants herself heavily beside the whimpering bike. “There were two sisters left. I nursed my last little sister back to health, but Shadow Striker left as soon as she could, and I watched her go. It tortured me.”
Flamewar tastes Energon. She has chewed shallowly into her own glossa in her anguish.
“When my village began to heal and rebuild, I stepped down as leader and went after her. I found her in illicit street racing competitions over at Kaon. Of course, I tried to reinsert myself into her life, but I’ve always been overbearing and she’ll always reject my good intentions. Wherever she went, I was sure to follow, chastising her. She was fleeing me. We look alike. We remind each other of our dead sister.” Roulette stares at the twin moons. “A war happened and we both served as soldiers. Our military experience got us into our respective careers – I became a licensed bounty hunter, determined to catch criminals, and she became a mercenary, determined to become invincible.”
The bike sinks her claws into her own cheeks. This is likely how she got her scars – self-mutilation. She has many of them. She thinks they look hot.
“She wanted to move on, but I just couldn’t. As she drew further away from me, I pushed her away with my intervention into her life. She never bothered to research into our sister’s killers, just pretended it never happened. But I did my research, I followed leads all across Cybertron and the colonies between bringing in bounties alive, or dead. Eventually, after a long time had passed, I found you.”
Flamewar makes a really pathetic little noise when Roulette lays a firm palm upon her pauldron.
“You weren’t there that day, you weren’t one of the marauders that decimated our village, ruined our lives, and killed our sister. You’re young. You weren’t even forged yet.”
The bike lowers her wet claws and looks up, her adorable features torn to bits with grief.
“So, why am I after you, you must be wondering.” The bounty hunter sneers coldly. “Cannonball, that’s why. Your Captain. That damned Cannonball and his wretched crew that took you in like a little lost cyberdog pup.”
“I… I d-don’t remember.”
“Of course you don’t. You went through Swindle and had your memories erased, but the cheapskate sent you to a back-alley mnemosurgeon who botched the procedure, leaving you less than a blank slate – you’re damaged.”
“Damaged.”
“Swindle is very apologetic on your behalf, by the way, but when I was through with him, I got the sense that you won’t be getting a refund. Sorry.”
Flamewar sniffles, wretched and small. She is not afraid for her life. She just hates herself, without even knowing herself, because she loves Shadow Striker.
“I don’t know all the details of how you ingratiated yourself to him, but considering how an assassin like you, with your pedigree, can adapt to places and adopt your people so easily, I can only imagine you seduced him.” Roulette drums her heavy digits over that sharp black pauldron with criss-crossing scars. “The details are fuzzy from there. You ran with Cannonball for some time, long enough for him to trust you. I just know you killed much of that crew and left. You were tailed by another bounty hunter, a good mech I’ve worked with in the past, but he was content to let you go because you went and forgot everything, so you couldn’t be fairly brought to justice for your crimes. He thought you could start anew, maybe do better this time. That’s a damn Knight for you. Chivalry dictates, or some nonsense. But mark my words, he’s watching over you, as am I.”
“You met me. The old me.”
“Of course I did. I’m a bounty hunter with a personal investment in catching you.”
“What was I like?”
“Alluring, yet savage. Quick, cunning, powerful. Strategically minded, chaotically inclined. You got taken in by fanatics and they warped you into their service. That old order is long gone, but the products of their teachings live on in you and other agents scattered to the wind.”
“I wasn’t an easy bounty, was I.”
“Not at all. I’m good at what I do, but you were better. Always five steps ahead of me, even in the same room. It’s such a shame you invested yourself in lunacy and cruelty. You would’ve made the finest bounty hunter.”
“Did we fight?”
“We did. I got you good a few times, but you only let me survive because you played with me the way a cybercat toys with a cybermouse. Until you suddenly wanted it all over. You got scared of something, or someone. And that scared me.”
“You never gave up on me, though.”
“Never, ever. I was after you for millions of years, studying your movements and figuring out your psychology, learning how you operate when alone and within a group, and you’re still so damn mysterious. It doesn’t help that you went and wiped your own mind.”
“Did we ever… talk?”
“You sat me down for high-grade three separate times. I always intended to leave with you in cuffs, but you’d figure out some way to subdue me and escape, without ever doing me the dignity of killing me. Humiliation after humiliation.”
“What did we talk about?”
“You’d ask me personal questions about myself, where I came from, where I wanted to be. You’d ask me what my deal was, why I was so personally invested in you. I’d give you little to work with and you’d resort to flirtation, which always failed. You’d say I reminded you of someone special to you. That other bounty hunter. You’d tell me how hard to get he was initially, but then again, people could only resist you for so long before you’d finally grow bored and kill them.”
“Damn. I sound horrible.”
“You were. But in a twisted, charming way. You were young enough for your attention to be flattering, you were raw and unrefined over drinks, but graceful and clever in combat, and you had those… fangs. You’d smile at me, whether you treated me like a nuisance at your worst, a bit of sport at your best, and most of the time I was a friend. You didn’t have the paint-job back then, though. It’s nice. Suits you.”
“Uh, thanks. The flames make me go faster. But you hated me back then, right?”
“I almost liked you. It made me despise you all the more passionately.”
“Ah, okay, I think I get that. So, this other bounty hunter. He was special to me. Special how?”
“As a Knight, he’s always been predisposed toward doing the good thing, not just the right thing. I understand. I try to live my life with dignity, it’s why I do what I do, catching bad guys. He takes it to another level. You wouldn’t expect it, based on what an afthole the mech is, even compared to me. I like him. And so did you.”
“As in…”
“I’ve only wanted you to suffer. He found you fascinating as I did, but without the hatred. You’d taunt me with tall tales about luring him into your berth and I never believed it, but I wouldn’t put it past you.”
“Are you gonna gimme a name?”
“No. For his protection, I’ll let you forget him. He’s keeping watch over you though, as I said. This Decepticon business was a real dampener in his hopes for you. Now you’re free, he’s hopeful again. Except he knows I’m here, and he knows I’ve found you.”
“Is he here, too – on Velocitron?”
“Well.” The bounty hunter chuckles. “What do you think?”
“Oh, frag me, I’m being followed by not one, but two bounty hunters out to get my aft.” The bike rubs her knees, cringing. “Oof. How come I don’t have these wicked instincts or whatever? I should’ve known I was being tailed. Stupid.”
“You’re a shell of your former self. Don’t fear him. Fear me.”
“You’re fragging scary. But not in the way you hope.”
“How so?”
“I don’t fear for my life. I’m only scared of losing my reasons to live.”
“And what are your reasons?”
“Your sister, and a girl I got back on Cybertron. She said she’d marry me someday, once the war ends. Seems like the Decepticons are looking to kick off again sometime soon, though. So much for that.”
“The Seeker?”
“Uh… yeah. Listen, don’t drag her into this, alright? You hurt her and I’ll rip out your–”
A palm is raised, silencing that threat. “I won’t harm Slipstream. I have no quarrel with her. Besides, my sister likes her, too.”
“Your sister likes me, but you’re still out to kill me.”
“I’m trying not to think about that part.”
“Are you gonna tell all this to boss bot?”
“After you’re dead, I’ll tell her.”
“Is that why you’re out here? Is that why you accepted her invite to come hang with us?”
“I needed to get you isolated. You might not remember yourself, but you follow some old patterns of your past life. You grew attached to your people – those Decepticons. They like you. They love you. Conveniently, Megatron fell and your group disbanded, except of course you’ve sunk your claws into my sister. She arranged it for me, she just doesn’t know it yet.”
“I’m sorry. I mean it. I’m so sorry all that happened to you, to your family.”
“I don’t want your apology. I want your life.”
“Before you try and take it, I gotta ask the obvious.”
“Fine.”
“So, you only accepted her invite to come hang out with her, to get to me. You acted like you wanna spend time with her, just so you could get me alone, torture me with the truth of who I am, and kill me.” The bike clenches her claws into fists, cutting into her own palms. The Energon seeps through her tightly curled digits, armoured knuckles distended, creaking. “Am I right about that?”
“…Yes.”
“…No wonder she’s got issues with you.”
“I don’t blame her. I love her. But I have tried, and she has failed. Looking at her reminds me of our dead sister. We all look so alike,” the bounty hunter murmurs, swallowing thickly. “I never claimed to be perfect. I could’ve done better by my little sisters from the start.”
“She was so stoked to see you.” Flamewar bares fangs, tearful. “She’s gonna be real upset if she wakes up and finds out you killed me, or I killed you. She’s gonna hate you when she realises you tricked her.”
“She’ll forgive me after I divulge the truth of who you are. But she won’t listen to me, she won’t believe me, not while you’re alive, being all… cute.”
“Don’t call me cute.”
“That’s always been your appeal, Flamewar. You’re attractive, charismatic, and intelligent. You sneak up on someone when you’re going for a quick kill, or you endear yourself to someone to extract whatever value they have and then kill them slowly. You also like to blow things up. You like to blow people up. Your flexibility makes you good at what you do. What you did”
“Why are you doing this to me?”
“Revenge, obviously. I can’t go after Cannonball. He’s dead. His crew are dead.”
“That’s so unfair. I can’t remember. I wasn’t even there. Just because I ran with Cannonball’s crew doesn’t mean–”
“It means everything.”
“I know you’ve suffered, but killing me won’t stop the pain.”
Roulette says nothing, her steely glare hard and impenetrable.
Flamewar dismounts the rock. She rubs her arms, smearing Energon, and sobs once.
“I won’t be swayed by a pretty femme’s tears. I’m a professional.”
“I don’t care if you kill me.”
“You don’t?”
“But I know boss bot will care. I know she’ll miss me, the me I am, the me she’s got to know. The old me I’ve forgotten. The pirate doesn’t set sail any more.”
“What if you were to somehow regain your memories? What if your brain module were mended? Would you return to being the monster you once were?”
“So long as I’m loved, and I’m capable of love, I don’t see how I could return to being a monster.”
“Many monsters have loved ones. And you’ve done monstrous things under Megatron.”
“Then I’m hopeless, huh.”
“I think so, yes.”
The bike bites her bottom derma and blinks rapidly, trying to clear her optics.
“I’m the best shot in the business.” A whirring sound announces the charging of a pistol that had been snuck through the space bridge, which the bounty hunter aims at the back of the shorter femme’s helm. “Even better than my sister. I’ll make it quick.”
“But that wouldn’t be nearly as satisfying as watching me suffer.”
“Would you prefer that? Would your pain absolve you of your guilt? Do you have that capacity, Flamewar – can you feel sorry for what you did, the things you don’t remember?”
“I am sorry.”
“I don’t care.”
Flamewar turns slowly, palms raised, and steps toward the barrel of the gun. “Okay.”
“Not gonna try to run? Defend yourself, disarm me?”
“Why bother? If I leave you alive, you’ll just be more determined to track me down and come after me again. I’d have to kill you first.”
“You aren’t making a move to try.”
“I don’t want to deprive boss bot of another big sister.”
Roulette scowls, a truly ugly, mean look that resembles Shadow Striker so strongly, but it gradually softens. “You… actually love her.”
“I do, yeah.”
“I know you can manipulate others to love you. I just never assumed you could reciprocate.”
“I’m a monster. I accept that. I promise you one thing, Roulette – I don’t mean her any harm.”
The bounty hunter surges upward, striding some steps to jab her pistol roughly into the bike’s forehelm with a screech of scraping metal, transferring paint, pushing back her helm. “You swear that on your life, you bastard.”
“I swear it, on my life. She’s my boss bot. I came here to keep her company since the band broke up and she gets lonely on her own, she just won’t admit it, but I can see it in her optic and even that spooky scope thingy. It’s how she looks at me when we’re together, doing whatever we do.”
“You little fragger. You’re doing it right now, twisting the circumstances, manipulating me into mercy.”
“I’m just being honest, best as I can be without much memory to go on.”
Roulette’s stern, stoic countenance is broken, tears welling within her burning optics, jaw trembling the way Shadow Striker’s does when she is sufficiently upset to actually show something soft.
Flamewar nudges her forehelm against the barrel of the gun, quietly accepting of her fate. “I’m not fighting this. Take the shot and finish me. I don’t think it’s fair, but if I’m really so evil, if I always have been even with the amnesia giving me a second chance, then I guess I don’t deserve to exist.”
“Frag you. Frag you!”
“Maybe the reason I got my memories wiped and my brain module scrambled was because that assassin, that pirate, actually felt bad about being a monster. Maybe I thought the bad could be deleted and leave behind someone halfway decent. I dunno. I just woke up.”
The bounty hunter digs her pistol into the bike’s forehelm, forcing her to kneel, palms up, surrendering.
“If you told me I was there, at that village, and you said I shot Shadow Striker in the face so she had to get it fixed, and I killed your little sister and slaughtered your neighbours so I ruined your lives, I’d take that gun from you and blow my own motherboard to bits myself. I wouldn’t wanna live, knowing that. But you told me I’m too young. I wasn’t there. Killing me won’t get your little sister back.”
“Killing you… would feel… good. Good!”
“It would. I’m evil, I’ve been evil. Maybe I’m wired that way, maybe I was taught that way. A monster. I ran with Cannonball’s crew, so I must’ve done terrible things with him, and even he wasn’t safe from me. I killed my crew. Of course I did, since I was an assassin for some shady employers before I became a pirate. And after that, I went and erased it all, and I’ll probably never remember their faces and I’ll probably never know why I wanted it to be this way. But my death means one less monster in the world, and in a way, that’s justice. Right? You could turn in my bounty and get yourself some therapy. That scrap costs a lot. I never could afford it.”
“Stop making me feel… sorry for you!”
“If it’s working, then that just means you’re a good guy and you don’t really want to kill me, even if I won’t stop you, and I won’t mind when I’m dead.”
“Shut. Up. Shut up!”
Flamewar is struck across the cheek with the butt of the pistol, sending a spray of Energon across the mineral dirt.
“You stop talking. You say nothing. I want you quiet.” Roulette savagely kicks the downed femme, punting her a fair distance due to being built small and light. “I didn’t study you for all this time, following your trail, setting this up, for nothing!”
The bike rolls over onto her back and stares at the twin moons, bloody face smeared with metallic mud.
The bounty hunter steps before the moons, looming above, glaring below, aiming for the spot between the optics, slamming a pede upon the stomach to pin prey in place.
Flamewar coughs wetly, spitting on herself, claws digging grooves into the mineral dirt.
“When she looks at you, I see it, too. And it makes me sick. She deserves to know about you, but telling her would devastate her. She’d never want to open up again. I could lose her for good, this time. Primus knows there were close calls before.” The bounty hunter gnashes her bared dentas, digit hovering over the trigger mechanism, aim steady despite how the rest of her trembles. “But she loves you, and she said it herself – she finds it so hard to love anyone, even me, the one person she can say it to. She doesn’t love herself, but she struggles to love me, and I struggle to love her, and there’s something bitterly beautiful in two sisters loving each other after everything we’ve done wrong. And you make that struggle seem surmountable, because I can see she loves you, I can sense she feels safer and more comfortable being with you than with her own big sister. That’s what’s unfair, Flamewar. You, out of everyone, got taken away from Cybertron. She took you. Not me. No, I just got… an invitation.”
The bike wheezes as the pressure on her belly increases. She usually likes being stepped on. Not this time, though.
“If you die, a part of her dies all over again. I never made it easy on her. I know she hurts and she knows I chase people away just trying to protect her. She fled from our village. She’s fled from me. I’m lucky she even wants me here, but that’s just because of you. You’ve got her in a good mood. You’ve got her thinking things could get better.” Roulette rolls her optics, laughing coldly, shaking her helm. “No bounty is enough to pay for the sheer therapy she’d need, with you dead at my pedes. Oh, you little bastard. I hate you. I hate, hate, hate you.”
Flamewar gasps as the pressure becomes almost too much, her frame creaking inwards, before the pressure suddenly abates.
“You promise me something.” The bounty hunter holsters her weapon, designed to meld in her framework, virtually invisible, resistant to sensory detection due to being made of the same material as the rest of her shell. “Your life literally depends on it.” A part of her, much like the bike’s bow.
Flamewar sits up slowly, wincing as the watches Roulette turn and stride away.
“Love her. Look after her like I can’t, because she won’t let me. Be around, be available, and go on pretending like you’re as safe as she feels you are. Fool her and never let her figure you out. I’ll keep your secrets if you keep my sister happy.”
“I can do that.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise you, Roulette, to love her and keep her until she’s sick of me and sends me away. Through thick and thin, I’m her girl, she’s my boss bot.”
“Fine. You get to live, for now.”
“You’ll come for me later, then?”
“Only if you let her down.” The bounty hunter is still walking away. “Break her Spark and I’ll break yours.”
The bike watches her go.
“Well? Get up and follow me.”
“Where are you taking me, now? Back to the room?”
“I want wheel-nuts. Places are always open, here on Velocitron.”
“Okay, but I’m a mess, so…”
“Go back to the room, clean up, and climb into her berth so she can hold you like she wants to.” Roulette transforms, engine idling in her vehicular alt-mode. “I’ll get you guys breakfast. You can have it later. But you’ll get lost out here, so I’ll take you partway. Follow me.”
“Cool. Thanks.” Flamewar transforms and follows.
For a while, silence.
“I can see why the old me liked you. You’re actually alright. I think I still like you.”
“Bite my aft.”
“Sorry.”
“You vexing little thing, how dare you?” Empress advances slowly across the office, her body huge and heavy, optics bright and dermas tightly drawn. “You dare speak to me in that tone!” Her voice is thunderous, reverberating through the floor.
“Yes, mommy does dare it.” Thunderblast catches those vibrations and does her very best to keep her chin high and her expression temptingly superior as she realises she may have pushed things a little too far a little too soon. “And if you don’t like it, you big, bad girl, then–”
“You’ll spank me?”
“Well, I’ll consider it!”
The gladiator draws extremely close, stooping to level herself with the boat.
Thunderblast shivers and bites her derma as Empress exhales hot air from expansive vents, scented with a hint of high-grade.
“I like it.”
The boat sets to chewing her derma excitedly as the gladiator smiles in some sick parody of motherliness.
“Which should suit you fine, as I’d kill you if I didn’t like it.”
Shadow Striker revives with a groan.
“Hey, boss bot. Feeling rough?”
“Uuugh. Why’d I drink so much, damn.”
Flamewar is right here, cuddled close, lovingly stroking the bigger femme’s aching helm, kissing her cheek. “Your sis left you a detox and some Energon by the berth.”
“Mm. That was good of her.”
“Want me to pass it over?”
“Yeah, thanks. I don’t think I can move much.”
The bike sits up and reaches for the berthside cabinet.
The mercenary manages to sort of prop herself upright and accepts the provisions with a low groan. “Where is my delightful sister, anyway?”
“She’s gone out to get us some chow. She’ll be back whenever.”
“Always looking out for me.”
“She loves you. Even I can say so, and I barely know her. Well, uh…” Flamewar sighs quietly, imagining how she used to sit with Roulette, drinking high-grade, chatting her up like they were friends when really they were not. They knew each other, once. “I think she’s neat.”
“You do, huh.”
“Yeah. Maybe you could be a little nicer to her. She means well.”
“Didn’t she make you cry last night?”
“Nah, that was a misunderstanding.”
Shadow Striker narrows her optic suspiciously.
“We’re cool.”
“If she’s pushing you around–”
“No way, boss bot. Besides, I can handle myself just fine.”
“Your face is cut up.”
“Ohhh.” The bike lifts a clawed servo. “I must’ve scratched myself in my sleep.” Never mind the other aches and pains. “I even rolled off the berth and fell on my tummy. That sucked. Good news is you slept through the whole thing.”
The mercenary is not used to being lied to, especially not by her special person, and so she softens. “You good?”
“Sore. But fine. I’ve been through worse.”
“You, uh… I can’t ask this without making it sound gay, but do you want me to, like… kiss it better, or…?”
Flamewar is actually a bit stunned, but she recovers with a wonky grin, fanged, and nods shyly. “Uh-huh.”
“Alright, then. C’mon.” Shadow Striker downs her morning Energon and tosses back the detox, then sets the provisions aside and scoops up the smaller femme with a masculine grunt. “Come and get it.”
The bike’s optics flutter shut as the mercenary tenderly – with a hangover and all – deposits little lingering kisses over the cuts in her cheeks, one by one, attentive of every cut those claws left behind, cupping that adorable little face in both big palms and cradling warmly betwixt.
“…Better?”
“…So much better, boss bot. Just the best.”
Shadow Striker smiles one of her rare smiles, subdued by the hangover. “Good. It’s the least I can do for you.”
“It’s plenty,” Flamewar chirps cutely, pretending like last night didn’t happen. “I like it when you do nice things for me. Makes us feel less conventionally dysfunctional, and more like we’re dysfunctional in a sweet way.”
“Get up so’s I can kiss your tummy.”
“Seriously?”
“Quick, before my sister magically walks through the door and sees me acting a fool for you. She’ll think I’ve got soft.”
“Oh, no. Can’t have that.”
And as if summoned, Roulette emerges with breakfast as if she only left an hour ago, whereas she has been gone since last night, considering the space bridge to simply leave, only to drive aimlessly about until morning. And so she returns to find them doing… something. “What’s happening here?”
The bike flushes, poised intimately over the mercenary whose face is buried in her belly, making rather loud smooching sounds that come to an abrupt stop.
“Dammit.”
The bounty hunter sighs. “I have food.”
“Thanks, sis.”
“Thank you.”
“It’s fine. I’ll leave it on the table.” She backs out the berthroom and closes the door after herself.
“Wow. That was supremely awkward.”
“I can’t tell the others. They’ll think I’m gonna turn on them like Slip. I’ve tried writing it all down, but it just reads back to me, in my own voice. I have to talk to somebody else, someone safe, someone I feel comfortable talking about how I’m thinking and feeling, so…” Thundercracker is a good mech, with a big Spark. People assume he is stupid, even among other Seekers, but this fails to account for his artistic talents and creative spirit. In a sense, he is actually quite wise, being more sensitive than his kin. “I’m hoping to talk to you.”
Jetfire is prisoner here, but he is also a father figure, as far as Seekers can have father figures. They are forged from thawed Sparks into chosen bodies to be mass-produced and assigned their alt-mode, thus they lack mentors. He had tried to be their mentor. He failed them.
“I know this is kinda weird of me to ask, since you’re locked in here and I’m not. I wish I could set you free. I geddit if you say no.”
“Forgive the lack of seats. Star is punishing me with inconvenience. Sit next to me, my little artist, and talk to your Spark’s content. I shall listen.”
The Seeker perks, shuffling to sit beside his elder upon the floor, their backs pressed to the wall.
“What is on your mind, my cyberdove?”
“I don’t think I believe in what we’re doing. I kinda never did. Like, the Decepticons wanna do good stuff, but it’s the greater good sorta thing, so we end up doing bad things to achieve this good. Doesn’t doing bad, for the sake of good, dilute the good?”
“You ask me this out of fear.”
“Yeah. I’m scared.”
Notes:
Thank you for reading. Thank you also for your engagement, should you wish to tell me your general thoughts, ask questions, offer constructive criticism, or just drop me a Kudos/Bookmark to show you were here, or perhaps consider Subscribing to indicate ongoing interest. It's especially rewarding for me to see you, whether you're a guest or signed-into an account (I especially like to chat with readers, it's so much fun to foster community in the comments, so I'll happily respond to you). I really appreciate all the support this story has received thus far, please trust me when I say that I take every reader's word and supportive gesture to heart. It's going to continue for a long while yet, so I hope you're looking forward to much more of my angsty gay robots gone to war saga. Take care of yourselves.
Chapter 56
Notes:
I hope you've enjoyed Halloween, assuming you celebrate it, and I hope you'll enjoy this chapter as I shift gears into the next phase of the narrative. Thanks for being here!
Chapter Text
As the days roll on, Windblade grows stronger, more coordinated, and the painkilling agents injected into her systems are reduced, granting her greater clarity and alertness as she steadily sobers. Keeping up with her daily exercises, soon she is able to sit upright in berth unassisted, as well as reaching short distances and manipulating objects with less clumsiness. Her recovery is optimistic, even astonishing, but her temperament grows typically frustrated from being restricted from doing much more. As she vies to get her old independence back, she is coddled somewhat by her protective and overly indulgent friends, the medical ward becoming something of a prison cell, her physical existence confined within this sterile berth that in turn tortures her mind.
“Don’t strain yourself, sweetie.”
“I’m fine, Arcee. I can do this. It’s a small thing that just feels big right now, but I’ll show you, I can do this.”
“Remember what the doctor said! Someone is supposed to help you with that.”
“I know, I know. Please let me do it myself. I have to.”
“No, you don’t, bestie. You’re being difficult. Let us help you, we’re your friends, that’s what we wanna do.”
“Listen, you guys, I love you, but back off for a second. Alright.”
“Bestie.”
“I gotta prove to myself I’m getting better quick enough, Bee. I need to heal fast, heal strong, so I can get out there and stop the Decepticons. The sooner this stupid war ends, the sooner we can all get back to our lives. I’ve got so much living left to do and I don’t wanna waste it on war when I could be living lovingly with my friends.”
Bumblebee softens at that thought, then winces as Windblade proceeds to lean even further forward, straining herself until she trembles and sweats with her slender arms outstretched, digits reaching, attempting to touch the tips of her pedes with her legs fully extended upon the berth. Normally, this would be an easy thing for her to do as she is fit and flexible, but in her condition such an easy feat becomes a monumental task for her. He feels so bad about it. “Oh, bestie.”
“…Fragger… I almost…”
“Windblade, what are you doing!” Slipstream snaps in her maternal way, hurrying over to the berth. “Doctor Ratchet told you not to do that unassisted!”
“Goddit!” Victorious, Windblade beams up at her worried friends, able to finally touch her digits to her pedes with her legs laid out straight before her. “I goddit, guys, did you see – oh? Ohhh.”
“Windblade?”
“I’m fine. Um. I just… I feel woozy now.”
“Lie down and rest, you beautiful fool! That was too much and you know it! Primus!”
Arcee sighs, shaking her helm, and Bumblebee bites his derma as Slipstream gently but firmly pushes Windblade onto her back, before proceeding to mop the sweat from her forehelm.
“Honestly. I turn my back for five minutes and when I come back, you’re overexerting yourself.”
“But I did it, Slip. You saw me.”
“I saw you hurt yourself.”
“I’m getting better, and this proves it.”
“I can already see you’re improving, my love, but that’s something that has to be done gently.”
“We don’t have time for doing things gently. Decepticons don’t do things gently. Starscream–”
“Hush. Decepticons and all the rest aren’t your concern right now. As for you two!”
“Don’t look at us!” Arcee raises her palms when Slipstream gives her and Bumblebee an accusatory glare each. “We tried to stop her! You know how she gets when someone tells her not to do something, but she’s already set her mind to doing it! She’s impossible to dissuade!”
“Yeah, my bestie is outta anyone’s control but her own, Slip. Sorry. We should’ve tried harder, but that would’ve just set her off and made her more determined, and I guess there’s no excuse for it.”
“Blame me, not them.” Windblade pants, smiling tiredly up at Slipstream, who huffs in a handsomely matronly fashion. “But now I’ve proved it to myself. At this rate, I bet I’ll be walking in, like, three days, tops.”
“Only with Doctor Ratchet’s blessing. Until he clears you, you stay right here, where I can take care of you.”
Bumblebee smiles as Slipstream stoops to kiss Windblade’s sweaty forehelm.
“Need me a femme like that,” Arcee mutters.
“You’ve got Grim. He’ll nurse you to health, give you little forehelm kisses.”
“Yeah, my big guy’s the best, but I’m not a leggy mech with a fat rack, so his nursing only goes so far where I’m concerned.”
“True.”
“You’re so lucky Doctor Ratchet is busy with Councillors Orion and Ariel, or he’d lay into you himself.” Slipstream bustles about Windblade, ensuring her drip is still firmly implanted and she is comfortable where she reclines. “He’s much more ferocious than I am.”
“And he’s not as pretty as you are, Slip.”
“Flirtation will get you far, my love, but not far enough. I’m cross with you.”
“Kiss me until you can’t be mad at me any more.”
“That’s your solution to all our disagreements.”
“Hey, if the same old formula keeps working…”
“Need me a femme like that,” Arcee reiterates with feeling as Slipstream presses her dark, plump dermas sweetly to Windblade’s smile, kissing her soundly until the vitals on the monitor spike.
Elsewhere within the ward, Ratchet stands attentively over Sentinel, Orion and Ariel sat closeby, poised together before a connected terminal.
“It’s not the most elegant solution, but we can’t resort to Windblade’s telepathy in her condition,” Ratchet grumbles softly, discretely. “And I highly doubt Sentinel would survive Wheeljack’s cortical psychic patch, so this will have to do.”
Ariel frowns at the keypad and monitor, hooked up to Sentinel’s exposed brain module through connecting nodes. “He’s just like a terminal now.”
“Do not say that,” Orion chastises tenderly, rubbing her pauldrons and nuzzling her helm to comfort her. “Sentinel is still himself.”
“Correct. He’s just operating on minimal power.”
“It just feels…” Digits hover over the keys, hesitant, trembling. “Impersonal. Like we’re objectifying him.”
“Mm. In my experience, the families and friends of my patients usually don’t respond well to the interface, since it hardly compensates for a conversation. I understand. However, if you can come to accept it, I assure you, it will work. I sent him a ping myself. He’s responsive. You’ll both be able to communicate whilst stasis is induced, I made sure of it. This is the best I can do, as of now. He has more healing ahead of him.”
Digits curl in on themselves, then uncurl, flexing anxiously above the keys. The pause is deeply uncomfortable for all involved.
“The mind never fully powers down, you know. It just becomes difficult to access. It’s one of the many reasons why brain module surgery is so intricate, complex, and mnemosurgery is such a rare specialisation – I’ve seen patients weep under those needles, even whilst in stasis. The stimulus can still reach them, with the right tools.” Ratchet is trying to fill space with words.
“Doctor Ratchet,” Orion intones very gently and respectfully, “that is interesting to know, however it is perhaps unhelpful at this time.”
“Oh, right. Of course. You don’t need to know about that. Ahem.”
“Let us try it, Ariel. Say something to him.”
Ariel sighs as she types, her large digits ponderous upon the holographic keypad, which is built for smaller servos. She sits back to await a response.
Orion rests his chin atop her pauldron, optics scrolling text as it appears on-screen, and smiles with relief. “See, Ariel? He knows we are here for him. He answers us.”
“Primus, I’m gonna cry.”
“As shall I. That is alright.”
“Thanks, Doc. You’re solid.”
“Yes, Doctor, thank you. This is good of you.”
“You’re welcome.” Ratchet leaves them alone together, to talk. “Just doing my job.” He feels a little better, now.
“Soon, Doctor?”
“Soon, though recreating a replacement servo is no simple matter. The internal mechanisms are intricate and precise, and replicating the sensory nodes is a complex, delicate process that takes the talents of a true medical genius. Such as…?”
“Of course, that medical genius would be attributed to you, my darling Doctor.”
“Ohhh, you’re too kind, sweet thing, you always know just what to say to tickle my gears.”
A little high on painkillers, Starscream dramatically flops what remains of his severed wrist, the servo having been wrenched away and lost in Windblade’s guts back at the arena – he really hopes he did significant damage and caused her immense pain, because that would make his sacrifice worth it. “And I needn’t bother with accolades as to your many other virtues – modesty, humility, blah-blah-blah.”
Knock Out flutters his shutters as he works with the servo that is still intact, taking careful measurements with his scanner to ensure that the replacement will be a replica of scale and proportions. “The handsomeness is especially important, I should think.”
“Consult your darling husband if you wish to know more about that particular virtue. Why, I suspect I have said too much already. He might get jealous of us.”
“Wise mech. But my darling husband knows I would never stray.”
“Hey, I’m a lucky guy, what can I say?” Breakdown intones with good humour from his place at the counter, preparing a tray of concentrated Energon and assorted chemical supplements intended to nourish their patient, who insists on having something he can touch and taste over the solution of a drip-feed. “The medical genius married me for some reason. I just thank Primus and enjoy the ride.”
“Your beautiful body surely was a motivator. Ah, but there I go again, being a terrible flirt. You two are in wedlock and I seek to honour your union. Errm, on that matter… Is it an open marriage, perhaps?”
Knock Out slaps Starscream over the pauldron with a giggle, Breakdown offering a smile as he approaches with a laden tray that seems comically small in his huge palms.
“Thank you for your report, Nova, dear. Keep up the excellent work.”
“Of course. For you, I’d do just about anything, Empress. I always do my best.”
“Aw, hear that? She’s so sweet.”
Nova Storm turns sharply, assuming she is being mocked, only to gasp, flushed.
“Girl’s got a crush on you.”
“Thunderblast, darling, you’ve returned.”
“I have.” Optics cannot help but follow the boat’s swinging hips as she saunters on over, giving the Seeker a wink and a silky brush under the chin with a slender digit in passing, optics widening upon her shapely aft. “Missed me? Of course you have.”
“Holy scrap.”
“Seekers have such a mean reputation. It’s frankly undeserved. Well, except perhaps for one.”
“Agreed, my dear. And what do you have to report, upon your return?”
“Only that mommy wants a massage.”
The gladiator chuckles, sat upon a chair that sags under her weight, far from the throne her queenly countenance deserves. She has an assortment of datapads scattered about, all demanding her attention. “That shall be arranged.”
“Good. I’m all tense. Got an ache.”
“Allow me to remedy that, as soon as my datawork is done.”
“Can’t that silly datawork wait? Mommy wants attention, now.”
Empress’ smile suggests she finds this amusing, her hellish optics twinkling with desire.
“Mommy?” Nova Storm echoes dumbly.
“That’s me, sweetie.” Thunderblast simply pushes all the datapads aside and perches prettily upon the desk, long legs swinging over the edge as she pulls her pauldrons back and pushes out her breastplate, pursing her soft, glossy dermas invitingly. “You’re Nova Storm, right?”
“Uh… I am?”
“The big, strong one. Always ready for a fight. A real tough guy, huh.”
“That’s… totally me. Heh. I can flex, show you my, like, muscles and stuff, if you want?”
“Cute. Don’t bother, I can see them from here. Big girl, you are. I like that.”
Nova Storm’s jaw briefly drops as those thighs catch the light, polished and plump, before she snaps her jaw shut with an audible gulp and shyly rubs her burly forearm. “Thanks. I work out a lot.”
“As for you, handsome.”
“Me?”
“Mommy needs that massage. You’ve done enough work to excuse a little break to shower me in the adoration I deserve.”
“You make a compelling argument. I’m so glad you’ve settled in and decided you can boss me about.”
“Are you going to defy me, sweetie?”
The gladiator’s smile deepens, sharpens, as the boat walks the tips her digits over the back of the massive servo laid flat upon the desk, wandering along the thickset wrist and up the burly forearm, until digging into the elbow joint hard enough to make the mighty femme gasp out of pleasure and pain alike.
“Because mommy will have to spank you for being disobedient, you impudent girl.”
“Mm. I’m counting on it, my dear.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hold up.” The Seeker gawks, jealousy clawing its way into her throat. “Are you guys–?”
“Yup.”
“Oh. But I thought–”
“Relax, sweetie! I don’t know if she’s got you on the side, and I don’t mind it if she does, but I am the boss around here and I come first. In more ways than one. You’ll have to pardon her manners, though.”
Empress rumbles as delicate knuckles rap lightly upon her repaired breastplate, within her heavily armoured cleavage.
“I’m still in the process of training her to act right, so she obeys me like a good girl.”
Nova Storm’s flush deepens. “That’s so hot,” comes out very quietly.
“You can skedaddle now, sweetie.” Thunderblast folds one glorious leg over the other, lethal heel struts dangling from the edge of the desk she perches upon. “Mommy wants to play, but I’m not so sure I want to play with you just yet.”
The Seeker is a proud, powerful person, yet she struggles with her own arousal at watching two gorgeous femmes giving each other dark, heady berthroom optics, and then flushes with offence. “Hey, lady! You don’t tell me what to do, she does! I might be a Seeker, but I’m not just some lackey to her, because she likes me! Maybe even loves me! I dunno for sure since she hasn’t said it and I don’t wanna presume, but I have hope!”
The boat quirks an optic ridge. “Guess I pinched a nerve cluster.”
The gladiator grimaces softly. “Nova, dear, Thunderblast is teasing you. Don’t rise to her bait. She’s apparently just like this.”
“You seem to like me as I am, you big hunk of hot metal.”
“I believe I might, my dear, but you must be nice to my Seekers. I am very fond of them, the darling creatures.”
“You make them sound like they’re your pets or something.”
“My pretty birds, yes.”
Nova Storm puffs out with pride, as if that is not actually demeaning. “I’m your prettiest bird, right, Empress?”
“Of course you are, Nova, dear.” Empress adopts a warm, motherly, manipulative undertone in her big, deep, velvety voice. “I’m very fond of you. And to tell you the truth – though I ask that you don’t divulge this to your brothers and sisters, in case it incenses them – you’re one of my very favourites out of all my little Decepticons.”
“I am?!”
“You are!”
Thunderblast almost rolls her optics, but busies herself admiring her digits instead. “Uh-huh.”
“Jealousy is not only unnecessary, but also unbecoming of you. I won’t tolerate a tantrum over my attention being directed elsewhere on occasion.”
The boat gasps when she is pinched on the hip between huge digits, glaring up at the gladiator, who flutters her shutters in return.
“Understood?
“Forgive me, Empress, I didn’t think of it like that. You’re right. I’ll be better, do better.” The Seeker bows her helm in humility, ever so gently chastised.
“I know you will. Now, run along and check in with Skywarp, won’t you, dear? She’s been very naughty today. She pranked five separate people before lunch. That’s a record, I think.”
“Ugh, that girl! I’ll sort her out, Empress, leave her to me!” Nova Storm salutes, then hurries off in a determined march. “Honestly, Warp. It’s only funny if I’m there, helping you prank the guys. Brat.”
Thunderblast watches her go, then returns to glaring cutely up at Empress.
“You were riling her up. Be nice. She’s simple, but sweet, and she’s loyal to me.”
“That hurt.”
“My apologies, I meant to be gentle.”
“You’re, like, a billion times bigger than me. Try harder.”
“I will, though you exaggerate my scale somewhat.”
“Bigaft glitch.” The boat huffs, tossing her helm prettily. “I’m displeased with you.”
“Don’t be upset. Are you going to spank me for it, mommy?” The gladiator leans in, palms splayed flat upon the desk which creaks under her shifting weight, and rests her chin atop a pretty pauldron, nuzzling their cheeks together. “Would inflicting pain upon me on purpose, mend the hurt I unintentionally bestowed upon you?”
“Hmm. Yeah. I think so.”
“Very good. I believe I have no more appointments just now, so I’m available to–”
“You’re available when I want you. No sooner, no later. I snap my digits and I expect to be serviced.” To punctuate, Thunderblast snaps. “You got that?”
Empress rumbles deeply, lowly, more of a purr than a growl, rubbing their cheeks together more insistently. “I’m normally so proud. I never liked masters.” The rumbling intensifies as a dainty digit reaches for her helm and gives her a really nice scratch behind the audial. “Why do I enjoy you? It’s so soon, and yet I feel I could learn to oblige your whims, and enjoy the loss of self-control.”
“I’m a baddie and I have my ways of working magic on big, strong, handsome ladies like you. What, you think you’re so tough, you think you can resist my charms? Well, just wait until I top you. See what happens then.”
This makes the spike swell within its compartment, twitching against the modesty panel whilst the sealed valve throbs. The gladiator pushes back her chair, hastily making room, and scoops the boat into her lap. “Do you enjoy being mean?” A little kiss to the forehelm, maternal.
“Only sometimes. I can be nice.” Thunderblast grasps hold of a huge servo and draws it to her dermas, kissing the knuckles with the pose of a gentlefemme. “But if this is about Nova Storm, that Seeker got into it with my Seeker, and that bothers me.”
“Ah, the former Captain, one of Shadow Striker’s. I like Slipstream very much,” Empress intones softly, sighing. “Very, very much. Such an awkward, adorable little creature. It’s a shame she went for the other side. I had wanted her for myself.”
“Sorry, sweetie, but my sugar glider has her lady friend and it looks like they’re happy together. That’s all that matters to me. Ahhh, so romantic!” The boat swoons upon the seat of the gladiator’s ample grey and black lap, lounging luxuriously within the crook of a burly arm, slender digits wandering the architecture of that queenly smile.
“Must be quite the lady friend.”
“I’ve had a glance. She’s a stunner. True, she was pretty beat-up at the time, but still, what a beautiful femme.”
“This is the flier that our dear Commander detests so much, mmyes? The one my Nova shot down, with Skywarp? Such a shame.”
“Hey, now. I’ve got no problem with Slipstream’s squeeze, and I’m gonna tell you right now, I don’t want you jeopardising her happiness. The poor girl could do with a happy ending. Let her be.”
“I cannot help it, my dear. An enemy of the Decepticon banner is an enemy of mine. I am, for all intents and purposes, the new Megatron, now.”
“Yeah, I guess. But you’re a lot prettier.”
“Thank you.”
“And you could take the Decepticons in a different direction. Say, how about we take over the world without all the killing from back at the arena?”
“Your file tells me you’re not opposed to killing if it gets what you want.”
“That’s true, but…”
“…But?”
“Things are complicated. I’m gonna level with you here. Listen up.” Thunderblast lounges upon Empress’ lap, looking up at the ceiling with a sort of soft wistfulness. “I don’t want Slipstream, Shadow Striker, Flamewar or Demolishor to get killed because they turned on you. They’re solid. I like them. You promised me they’ll be safe here, if they come back, and I’m holding you to that.”
“I recall my promise. I’m a femme of my word. They’re skilled individuals and they work well as a group, thus I deem them more useful to me alive than dead. Besides which, I’d just hate to upset you.” More kisses, wandering into the crook of a slender neck.
“Good girl. And Windblade’s off limits too, since she’s Slipstream’s future Conjunx, if those girls have any common sense. I’d really prefer that their adorable little friends don’t get killed either.”
“Mm. That’s a bit more difficult, my dear.”
“I’m being perfectly reasonable here.”
The gladiator sighs again, then gasps as a palm suddenly smacks her upon the breast with a very satisfying sound of impact. “Ouch, you little fiend!”
“That’s for the pinch.” The boat winks.
Roulette blows air noisily into Shadow Striker’s neck whilst they grapple closely together, playfully wrestling to determine the victor after their race ended in a tie. The old mercenary bellows her grievances and the old bounty hunter muffles her giggles in hot, flushed neck cables, the large and imposing femmes shoving back and forth against each other, heels scraping sparks. It is an impressive display, playfully intended, a far cry from their bitter arguments. These past few days spent together on Velocitron have been good for them, their relationship.
Flamewar smiles, content to observe from the stands, accompanied by other spectators who seem to find the impromptu wrestling match between the Decepticon sisters just as entertaining to watch as the race itself had been.
“Placed your bets?” a gritty, brusquely masculine voice inquires as a large mech takes his seat beside the bike, a respectful distance between them.
Her smile vanishes. She is in no mood for humouring random guys trying it on with her, not today, and her type rarely invites idle conversation.
“Me? I’m betting on the one with the mean grille.” He motions about his breastplate for emphasis, crude to a fault. “Heh, know what I mean?”
Sighing, she tiredly turns to properly look at him, squinting up at the much bigger mech.
He is old, at least by her standards, but ruggedly handsome, strong, virile. His bulky blue shell is heavily reinforced yet streamlined like a flier’s, marred by dents and criss-crossing scars he hasn’t bothered with getting buffed out, much like hers. Only his wings are perfectly maintained, as keen precision engineering requires no faults.
“You’re a flier.”
“Uh, yeah. You got a problem with fliers?”
“No. Just a rarity on Cybertron.”
“Not so rare out there. You’ll find plenty of us among the colonies, space stations and asteroid mining rigs. We generally try to get away from the weird anti-flier scrap Cybertron is peddling.”
“Is that right?”
“Damn right. Envy, that’s all it fragging amounts to.” The flier tilts his helm to regard the bike in turn. His helm is distinctly shaped, distinguished. He is not a Seeker, at least not of any model she would recognise, and he is as big as those new coneheads. Offering her a rugged smirk, an expression at once arrogant and goading, he rumbles gruffly, “But you’re a two-wheeler. Your type’s not exactly common either, pretty much anywhere outside of Velocitron.” His optics are soft and sad. “Gets lonely, eh.”
She hums lowly, assessing him keenly.
“What? You running a scan on me or something?”
“You’re built for combat, not cargo.”
“I’m built for whatever a lady likes. Don’t stress out.”
“You don’t look like a Knight. You don’t talk or act like a Knight.” She taps a claw to her scarred, scuffed cheek. “But I bet you’re the other bounty hunter that’s been tailing me all this time. You seem that type.”
“The code of a Knight is a lot to summarise and frankly misunderstood by society at large, but the basic gist is that we Knights protect the innocent and battle against forces of evil, even if our personalities sometimes clash with the gallant ideal people assume of us, milady. As a bounty hunter, I catch bad guys, but as a Knight, I save lives. I realise I’m an odd fit for Knight Sergeant, but the order took me in when I lost everyone and everything else, when I was angry and aimless. Primus, it’s thanks to the Knights that I got back into the game bigger and better than before. I was headed for self-destruction on my own.”
“Oh, okay. But there have gotta be mean perks to being a Knight, right?”
“Damn right. They gave me resources, training, and a fresh perspective on my life. Being a Knight Sergeant never detracts from my life as a bounty hunter, it just makes me one of the very best of both worlds.” He pauses for a rumbly chuckle. “Relax. I’m not here to collect a bounty on you, Flamewar, and this isn’t strictly official Knight business either. This is personal, to me.”
“What do you want?”
“I just wanna talk. Catch up. Check in. That’d be nice.”
“Why here?” She slowly curls her digits into fists, laid upon her lap with a huff. “Why now?”
“Because of Roulette being here with you, right now, wanting to kill you for an old grudge she’ll never let go. I can’t let that happen.”
“I must be kinda special to you, if you wanna be my guardian angel.”
“You and me got history, Flamewar. You’ve forgotten, but I can’t forget. Same as Roulette.”
“Good news, then. She said she won’t kill me, so long as I keep a promise to love and look after her sis. I’mma do that, trust.”
“You’re still very much in danger. She’s a vengeful professional, obsessive over old marks, like I am.”
“Yeah, dinners together are super awkward, lemme tell ya.”
The flier laughs, rich and deep.
The bike turns to watch him again. “You’re really sure I won’t wind up killing her, huh. You’re just worried about my life, not hers.”
“I’m sure you’d do nothing to upset your, uh… boss bot, was it?”
“Leave her outta this, old mech.”
“Old mech! Excuse you!”
“You’re mad old.”
“Frag off! I’m as spry as I ever was, and don’t you fragging go forgetting that! Cheeky little glitch, damn.”
“I’m surrounded by old people and they’re all invested in me. I attract a type.”
“Ah, Flamewar. I’m glad you remain just as charmingly rude as I recall. Never saw much use in manners, myself.”
“Since we’re getting chummy here, why don’tcha gimme your name, or even an alias? Just something I can call you. If you keep being mysterious, I’mma think up a scrappy nickname for ya.”
“No alias.” The flier offers a huge, heavy servo to the bike. “Just Devcon.”
“Cool.” Flamewar accepts Devcon’s servo, his digits utterly engulfing her claws. “’Sup.”
At the conclusion of another long day, Slipstream opts not to spend tonight alone, returning with the friends to Windblade’s roomy and luxurious habitation suite that feels less like a home without her in it, partaking in conversation and laughter until the friends start filtering out, returning to their own lives. Eventually, only Chromia remains, the one to tend to Windblade’s estate in her absence, and Slipstream suspects the strong, stoic femme is lonely.
“You’re welcome to take Windblade’s berth.”
“Oh, no, that’s kind of you to offer, but I’ll leave that to you. I’m happy in the guest room.”
Chromia inclines her helm graciously. “Alright, then. You’re off tomorrow, yes?”
“Yes, but I’ll go in and see her anyway.”
“Of course you will.”
“And I’ll probably end up helping out until Ratchet shoos me away.” Slipstream smiles fondly at the thought. “He’s great, really. He never takes a day off, not even with the extra help. At his age, I wonder how he doesn’t burn himself out. Sheer grit, I think.”
“A dedicated mech, that one.”
“He truly does care. He’s inspiring. Windblade is in such good servos.”
“Of that, I have no doubt.”
The Seeker sighs, sat beside the bike upon the couch.
Chromia reaches for her drink, half finished.
Slipstream’s own cup is empty.
They settle into silence and it is comfortable.
Eventually, the bike turns to look at the Seeker, who returns that look with a soft smile.
“Windblade is getting impatient in her recovery. I’m not sure I can restrain her for much longer.”
“Wilful and stubborn to a fault. That’s our girl.”
“Yeah, that’s her, alright.”
“I trust you to be patient, as well as diligent.”
“Absolutely. She’s my whole world. I just revolve around her, like her moon.”
“She’s the centre of my solar system. She’s my sun. All else spins around her in an endless circle, less than, secondary to.”
Slipstream’s brows arch. “Wow, okay. That’s a lot.”
Chromia rubs her neck, flushed. “Too much, she’d say, when she has a moment of modesty to really think about it. She does enjoy my adoration most of the time, though.”
“I don’t blame her. Your adoration must be lovely. It looks lovely, from my perspective, looking in on you two.”
“Are you ever jealous of us?”
“No, I’m happy so long as she’s happy. Sharing her is as natural to me as loving her. It’s all part of the same thing.”
“And when she says things about sharing, between us…” The bike shyly dwindles off, reconsidering saying anything more.
The Seeker bites her derma. “Would.”
“Huh?”
“Would, I said.”
“Would?”
“Yeah. As in, I would.”
“With me, and her?”
“Sure.”
Chromia promptly downs the rest of her drink, clears her vents, and stands rigidly to attention.
“Sorry, was that too much?”
“No. I don’t mind.”
Slipstream remains seated, pondering the Camien pattern on the synthetic carpet.
“If she ever has her way with the both of us at once – and she usually does get what she wants, in the end – I hope that you know I’ve grown to like you and respect you enough to consider it, as I’d consider another of her friends.”
“Awesome. Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind the next time she vies for a threesome.”
“You’ve grown more confident, Slipstream.”
“You’re easing up around me, Chromia.”
The femmes linger in silence for several seconds more, digesting all that has been said tonight.
“Would,” the bike murmurs, then briskly strides off, face flushed.
The Seeker grins. “Nice.”
Chapter 57
Notes:
IMPORTANT NOTICE REGARDING SPAM/BOT SOLICITATION COMMENTS: I appreciate real human art produced by real human artists and I think fanart in particular is awesome. That said, however, I received multiple spam comments advertising some artist(s) I've never heard of who gave me their contact details after using my comments as an advertising board trying to convince me to pay them to turn this story (which they clearly didn't read) into a comic for a price (which they assured me was reasonable). Solicitation is a breach of the Terms of Service of this site. I'm happy for artists to be paid, I believe artists deserve to make good money for producing good art, but I don't humour this shit in my comments and neither should you. Legitimate business opportunities with legitimate artists have a time and a place, and this isn't how to go about doing business within the community.
Another composite character steps onstage, bearing the scars of my scrutiny and surgical alterations. Your feedback is welcomed. Please enjoy.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“I smell burning.”
“It’s under control.”
Slipstream stands in the doorway, groggy from recently emerging from recharge, and watches Chromia bustle about hurriedly in an effort not to set Windblade’s lovely habitation suite on fire.
“Solus Prime, how does this happen…”
“Um. Would you like some help?”
“No, it’s your day off. Enjoy it. Rest.”
“It looks like you might need my help.”
“Sleep in.” The bike says it like a command, and not a friendly suggestion, smothering the flames with a damp synthetic dish towel with a sizzling hiss. “It’s your day off. Get back to berth. I’ll call when it’s–” She cringes as she peels back the ruined textile and peers at the metallic mess beneath. “Ready.” A sigh. “Or rather, ruined. Dammit. I’m no good at this sort of thing.”
“Hey, now.” The Seeker approaches contrary to instructions and rubs her large servo soothingly up and down the other femme’s firm back strut. “Don’t beat yourself up.”
“Windblade often teases me about my culinary skills, or rather lack thereof. She would giggle at me, right now.”
“Only after making sure you’re not hurt. Are you hurt?”
“I singed my thumb a little, but besides that, just my pride.”
“Give it here.”
Gently bewildered and distinctly shy, Chromia lays her strong, callused servo in Slipstream’s own, allowing the larger femme to inspect the minor singe.
“Hmm. We should get a cold compress on that to keep the swelling down as your self-repair protocols mend the wound. Inflammation is not fun. Here, let me.”
“You’re the nurse, though I’m sure I don’t need nursing. I can manage.”
“Sure you can, but I can help. You offered to make me breakfast, and I’m happy to take care of you, fed or unfed. One kindness for another, yeah? That’s how friends should be.”
The bike smiles softly at that, allowing the Seeker to tend to a painful but ultimately minor injury.
“As for breakfast.”
“This mess is beyond salvaging.”
“That’s okay. We could order in, or I’d be glad to whip something up, but would it help your wounded pride if the two of us work on breakfast together?”
“That’d probably make me feel better, yes.”
The ruined breakfast is unfortunately discarded, the mess cleaned up, and together they start again.
“I can manage casseroles,” Chromia says conversationally whilst retrieving fresh unliving metal from storage. “But I leave the culinary delicacies to Windblade, or one of the other friends.”
Slipstream slices through the choicest gears with a laser knife, the chopping board shielded by a special alloy resistant to Energon-infused blades of such low charge, typical of consumer-model blades which are far weaker than the weaponised Energon used in swords and such. “I like casseroles.” Mind the digits, of course.
“You are too kind.”
“What matters is that a meal is made with love.”
“Windblade tells me the same thing, whilst pulling faces at me.”
“Hahaha.”
Windblade wishes she were here, to witness her loves getting along so nicely.
“All the love in the world. That’s all a meal needs to be perfect. Love. And not too many lead sulfide crystals.”
“Too spicy for you?”
“Too spicy for me.”
“Windblade likes it spicy.”
“I’ve noticed, yeah. Rather, my digestive tank has noticed. Whew. But the tummy aches are worth it, when she feeds me love like that. Her love burns me, inside.”
The bike and Seeker are both large femmes, but their luxurious workspace has plenty of room, thus they deliberately brush up against each other in a subtle sort of friendliness and camaraderie. The Cityspeaker would delight in this, were she here to see them close and in collaboration.
“Also, thank you. It’s sweet that you had the thought to make breakfast for the both of us.”
“Do not thank me. I ruined it, my good intentions aside.”
“What did I just say about making a meal with love? Good intentions are everything.” Slipstream pops a sliver of raw unliving metal into her intake and chews, nodding approvingly. “Mmhm.”
Chromia considers these words. “Well, that’s gracious of you to say so.” Then looks up when a sliver is held out to her in offering. She somehow fails to consider how she leans in and neatly eats out of the other femme’s servo, dentas catching cold unliving metal, dermas brushing warm digits.
Oh, if only Windblade were here to see it. She would flip her scrap completely.
The Seeker smiles and it reaches her optics.
The bike chews, humming her approval.
The Cityspeaker misses this. Misses them.
In this joint effort, Slipstream and Chromia manage to put together a meal that suits them both, leaving it to heat up and soften in Windblade’s furnace.
“Well, this team effort was not a disaster.”
“Nope. We worked well together.”
“Agreed. Let’s keep cooking cooperative between the both of us, from now on.”
“Except for casseroles?”
“Except for casseroles.”
“I see. Continue to keep me updated. Anything good… or bad, I must know about it.”
“Affirmative.”
“Whatever you need to fix him, you shall have it.” Starscream sighs, trying to keep his chin high as he addresses Shockwave’s image on the holoscreen. “Resources are no concern of mine.”
“Acknowledged.”
“If Empress says otherwise, kindly remind her that I am in charge, and she is merely my stand-in, in my current condition. However, I mend quickly, and soon she shall step down, while I step up. Actually, no, let me remind her myself, I owe her a call later today. Anyway, on a lighter note, tell me, how fares Acid Storm? Are they well?”
“I will allow them to answer for theirself.” Shockwave steps aside.
The eternally patient, placid Acid Storm steps into frame, smiling mildly at Starscream. “Commander.”
“Ah, Acid, my darling. Hello. How goes your reassignment?”
“I’m doing well. All my performance reviews have been positive. I attend to my duties without much difficulty and I meet the requirements of my post.”
“Good, very good. That hasn’t changed, then. And how are you feeling about it? Are you happy?”
“Yes, Sir. Never a dull moment. I’ve been endlessly learning. I’m doing things I could never dream of doing. This opportunity has changed my life for the better and I’m so thankful for it.”
“Wonderful.”
“Thank you, Commander, for facilitating the transfer.”
“You’re most welcome. Of all my Seekers, you are the most deserving of opportunities for career growth. I’m ever so proud of you. We all are. Continue to make us proud.”
Knock Out pretends not to listen in, smirking over at Breakdown as they bustle about.
Acid Storm salutes. “Yes, Sir.”
Starscream nods his approval. He is not the type to ever salute anyone, and besides that, his partially reconstructed servo is still settling in, a skeletal ghastly thing attached to his wrist that needs fine-tuning to properly adapt to his fine motor subsystems, compensating for the loss of protoform matter before the shell is allowed to encapsulate and seal away.
“Commander, if I may ask, how are you faring?”
“Oh, I’m doing just fine, dear. I shall soon be up and about, back to my old self again. Of course, I’m scheming. Our Decepticon dream is not dead. By the time Megatron wakes, he will awaken to a bold new Cybertron united under our banner. In the meantime, we shall do what we must, for the mission.”
“Yes, Sir. Oh, uh, please can you tell the other Seekers that I love and miss them? I’m too busy to get back to their messages or call them, so they don’t often hear from me.”
“I’ll be sure to remind them of the obvious.”
Seated before the keypad, Ariel types away at the terminal connected to Sentinel, sending him messages that he is able to respond to even in stasis. It gives her newfound appreciation for the marvels of the brain module, how he can be so deeply asleep he almost appears dead to the world, especially in his dwindled condition, yet his mind remains in some way reachable with the right tools.
“Hey,” Slipstream says quietly, so as not to startle.
Chromia nods respectfully to the older femme.
“Hi, girls.” The Councillor pauses her typing to smile at the both of them, winking with maternal mischief. “Windblade’s in a bit of a mood, just to warn ya.”
“Oh, I expect she is.” The bike sighs, giving the Seeker a sidelong look. “The limitations imposed on her have been driving her wild. She does not easily tolerate any hampering to her independence.”
“She tried to get out of berth this morning.” Ariel sighs, rubbing at the tattoo imprinted upon her burly arm, depicting the sensual silhouette of a shapely femme laid out languidly upon the pink bicep edged in gold accentuation. “On her own.”
“What!” Slipstream and Chromia chorus together, anxious and upset.
“Yeah, and she almost made it, but I got a hold of her and tried talking her out of it, not that she listened to me. It took Ratchet threatening to induce stasis before she gave up, with much sulking. She’s mad at me, but I don’t take it personally. Poor girl. Just be delicate, yeah? I’m telling you before the Doc does, and he might not put it so nicely.”
“Duly noted. Thank you, Ariel.”
“No problem.”
“And how is Sentinel?”
“Well, he’s talking to me, so he’s not trying to be distant. He seems glad for the company. He’s as frustrated as Windblade is, but he keeps gloating about beating Megatron, liken that’ll somehow impress me. It doesn’t.” Ariel’s expression darkens. “The Decepticons have Megs’ body. I try not to think about it too much.”
Chromia sighs, rubbing the bigger femme’s tattooed arm, whilst Slipstream leans in for a hug about Ariel’s neck.
“Aw, girls. I’m fine, really. We’re all going through it right now.”
“If you need anything, please just say so.”
“Yes, do tell us.”
“I’ll be sure to do that. Now, go and see your girl, before she tries some other stunt. Bee’s with her right now but he definitely can’t contain her on his own. We’re expecting more friends in a bit.”
The Seeker eases off the Councillor’s broad pink pauldrons, nodding to the bike before proceeding toward the Cityspeaker’s ward.
“Bee, I’m going crazy stuck in this room that smells like chemicals. I can’t even leave this berth. I need to get mobile again, or I’ll gnaw my own servos off.”
“You have to be patient, bestie. Your body’s healing fast, but you’re not quite ready yet.”
“Stop being reasonable.”
“Heh, sorry about that.”
Slipstream allows Chromia to enter first.
Bumblebee looks up, relieved. “Ladies!” He cringes softly. “Uh-oh.”
Windblade perks, delighted, only to wince.
Chromia and Slipstream are both frowning.
“Did Ariel tell on me, or was it Doctor Ratchet?”
“She told us you overexerted yourself, again.”
“Wait, wait, wait.” The Cityspeaker holds up her palms peaceably. “Please don’t lecture me about it. Please.”
The Seeker wags a digit, the bike folds her arms, both about to dispense reprimands.
“Don’t!”
The sunny little mech looks to the floor, whistling.
“I just wanted to stand up for a minute. Alright! My legs are cramping up. My mind is clawing its way out my body. My tummy is in turmoil with all this fortified fuel. Being here is boring, and humbling, and it smells funny. I kinda liked the smell when I was high all the time and yeah the attention was nice at first, but I’m practically sober nowadays and I’m gonna flip scrap if I don’t get out soon and somebody gives me another patronising speech about pacing myself while I heal from my own dumbaft heroics. Okay? Okay!”
Slipstream softens, Chromia relenting with a sigh.
Bumblebee taps his digits together, whistle fading.
“Okay.” Windblade attempts to meditate, focusing on the flow of air within her vents, the throb of her fuel pump gradually slowing, the pulses of her Spark alleviating. “Okay…”
“Windblade, we love you. We’re sorry that this is difficult for you. We want to make this easier. We only mean to take care of you, not cause you this grief.”
“Please be more forgiving of our treatment of you. Be more forgiving of your own condition.”
“No matter what, we got you, bestie.”
The Cityspeaker maintains her meditative posture until she visibly calms and relaxes herself. She opens her big blue optics and smiles apologetically, apparently quite embarrassed. “I’m sorry, guys. You’re the best friends a girl could ever hope for. I’m being a bolt-head because my pride is all bruised and there’s all that Decepticon stuff happening and I can sense how everybody around me is stressed over it all. I want to fix things for you, for everyone. Like I’m personally the hero of this story. How arrogant, huh? Wow.”
The Seeker swoops in for a gentle hug.
The bike kisses the forehelm and cheeks, nuzzling smile to smile.
“That looks awesome. Can I get some?” the sole mech asks with his charming cheerful earnestness, before a servo seizes him and pulls him into the femmes’ combined affection with a giggle.
Ratchet peers into the ward, assesses the situation briefly before he ultimately decides to leave them to it, sighing.
“Um, Doc?” Ariel hovers awkwardly at the terminal, now.
“Yes? What’s the matter? Has it lost connection?”
“No, he’s… I think you need to read this, Doc.”
“Holy scrap, I’m so shiny.” Flamewar does a little turn before the holomirror, dragging gleaming claws down her fiery bosom, the colours renewed and scars reduced. “I really let myself go for so long. Guess that’s what being homeless half the time does to a girl, huh.”
Roulette’s expression is at once soft with appreciation for beauty in this feminine form, and torn with the grief of an old grudge set aside in favour of a tenuous truce to make her little sister happy.
“You look good. Real good. Fine as frag, you are.” Shadow Striker appraises her friend and lover with a satisfied smirk, scope whirring and darting over every detail, optic flushed with fondness. “Of course, I like the scruffy aesthetic, but this is nice, too. Real nice.”
The bike takes some time to lean in and look more closely at her own face, carefully poking at familiar features with her talons, stunned by the renewal. The jagged darkness around her searing optics is so deeply stained in the synthetic facial membrane that it cannot be buffed out. There are pockmarked imperfections in her facial rigging and helm’s architecture indicating a violent past and tendency to neglect herself that would require a more invasive procedure to mend. She is still seductively raw, viciously adorable. However, the cosmetic treatment does render her more classically beautiful. “I’m pretty,” comes out quiet, a pleasantly surprised little rasp.
“You’re gorgeous, Flames.”
“You always were.”
Shadow Striker gives Roulette a sidelong look, but holds back on enquiring further. Now is not the time.
Flamewar eases back from her reflection and trots over to the bigger femmes, smiling almost shyly up at them. “Thanks, guys. This is epic.”
“You’re welcome, Flames. Anything for you.”
“Aw, boss bot, you’re gonna provoke me into giving you a hug in public.”
“Bah! Let the fraggers look. C’mere.”
The bike throws herself at the mercenary who towers over her, wrapping about her buxom chassis, nuzzling between her headlights as big, strong arms snugly envelop.
The bounty hunter watches them embrace with a slow, steady exhale, feeling far too many emotions and thinking far too many thoughts.
“Dammit, I’m getting soft. It’s fine. Whatever.” Shadow Striker briefly glares aside at any onlookers, then smiles down at Flamewar, stooping to kiss her atop the freshly polished helm. “You’re worth it. I just wanna make you feel good, so’s I can show my appreciation for how good you make me feel.”
Roulette figures that this hug almost confirms it – letting the little bastard live truly is the right thing to do, for her sister’s sake.
“Councillor Sentinel’s offered to sponsor the procedure through his own estate. He’s even promised to renovate my medbay top to bottom in exchange, just to coax me to agree with this notion. He says it’ll be just like upgrading those zealots into Functionaries, but as a typical layperson with an ego, he fails to realise that I’d be rebuilding him from scratch. This is far more extensive than bodily modifications and upgrades to his various subsystems. No, this would be…”
“A rebirth.”
Ariel looks at Orion, who exhales shakily.
“At first, I wanted to dismiss the whole thing as a delusion thought up by a mech in stasis. However… I think it’s doable, in theory. Similar procedures were carried out back in the war, rarely and at great risk, typically reserved for renown war heroes who fell in battle – recycling such distinguished soldiers was sometimes more cost-effective than replacing them with inferiors.” Ratchet frowns more than usual, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Mm. I do need those provisions, and if the procedure were successful, it’d get him fully operational with marked improvements. This would be a good morale boost to the struggle. I just need to do my research and consider the logistics of it all before I commit to anything. His condition is so fragile.”
“I have faith that you will succeed. You may freely access my archival records.”
“Are you… certain?”
“Indubitably so.” Alpha Trion seems totally unsurprised by this development, laying his paternal palm comfortingly upon Ariel’s pauldron, Orion’s back strut, smiling comfortingly down at Sentinel’s remains. “I have medical records stretching as far back as the first conception of our people. All of it, I offer to you.”
Ratchet looks astonished, and then delighted. “Thank you! So many questions, and finally, I’ll have answers!”
“You may need help navigating the archives. Orion, my beloved, assist Doctor Ratchet in his research.”
“Yes, Alpha Trion, I will do my utmost to be of assistance.”
“I know you will, my love.”
“But who’s gonna supervise the nurses and look after the patients while you’re locked up doing homework?” asks Ariel.
Ratchet’s smile deepens.
“I think bringing in a celebrated war hero is a little overkill, but it’s the sort of thing Megatron might like. I’ll give you credit for a halfway decent idea, if you can execute this meeting without scaring the femme off.”
“So generous of you. I’ll try not to be as ferocious as I usually am-aah!”
“Are you quite alright?” Starscream narrows his optics, more suspicious than concerned. “You keep flinching, like you’re in pain, and you’re making sore sounds.”
“Mm. Just a belly ache, dear.” Empress’ voice warbles and she squirms in her chair, her queenly countenance twitching with strain yet again. “Some bad Energon, perhaps.” She pushes a servo under her desk and fumbles for Thunderblast’s helm, huge digits pinching a sensory spire to elicit a pleased hum from between gargantuan thighs.
“Ah. Well, it’s quite distracting. Can you focus on my words?”
“Mmhm. Mmm-hmm.”
“Riiight. Meet with this war hero and seduce her into working with us, like Megatron would want. But don’t you dare let a small success get to your helm. You needn’t grow too confident and overstep yourself, Empress. Remember, I’m the one in charge, despite my… condition.”
“Oh, Commander Starscream, dear, I wouldn’t dream of – ahhh – challenging your authority – ohhh – no-no-no, never. Nnnph!”
“That’s enough. I’ll leave you to your belly ache. I’ll expect another report same time tomorrow.”
“Understood, Commander. Ow! Little fragger.”
Starscream quirks a brow.
Empress flushes a bit and smiles thinly. “Pardon me. I was addressing my belly ache.”
“Hmm.” He disconnects the call without another word, leaving the Deceptibrand placeholder image upon the monitor projected in a hard-light hologram upon the desk.
“As for you, little minx. I looked very silly just now, as you’d hoped I would during that pointless business call. Are you proud of yourself?”
Thunderblast giggles, muffled and wet, lapping a trail all over Empress’ modesty panels which remain sealed, bulged and hot and throbbing with arousal, the exposed patches of protoform within those thickset inner thighs bruised by littered bites requesting an opening. She leans into the digits playing with her sensory spire, massaging and squeezing it as if it were a spike.
“You are a wretched little thing, mommy dearest. I’m so glad I’ve spared your life.”
“Uh-huh. When you gonna let me have the goods?”
“Perhaps once we’ve got to know each other better.”
The boat peers up at the gladiator from the depths of her open lap, golden optics curious and cunning.
“I’m not a harlot, though the rumours say otherwise. I take my time with a lady I like sufficiently.”
“Okay, so you like me sufficiently to take the time to get to know me as, what, a person?”
“Yes.”
“Seriously?”
“A question for a question, my darling – when were you last courted?”
“Huh.” Thunderblast climbs out from under the desk, taking her seat comfortably in Empress’ lap, arms looped about her thickset neck. “I’m not sure, actually.”
“A rare occurrence, I assume?”
“Hey, look at me. Nobody wants a relationship with this bad glitch. People wanna know me so far as they can use me or I can use them, nothing more than that.”
“I’d like to know you significantly more intimately than something transactional, my dear, is that quite alright with you?”
The boat tilts her helm, assessing the gladiator closely.
“This isn’t a trick, I assure you.”
“I’m guessing you’re not gonna put out until we’ve had a couple dates and stuff.”
“Well, you’re not wrong, though a gentlefemme would put it rather more nicely than that.”
“Courtship, you said.”
Empress’ facial rigging softens. “You’ve been used.”
“I’ve been a user too,” Thunderblast answers readily. “Don’t pity me. I know what I got to offer and I know what I want from people who want me back.”
“And what do you want from me – power and privilege? Is that it, all of it?”
“What else are you offering me?”
“A partnership.”
“And is that all you want from me, big girl? Is a partner all you want?”
“Ruling the world alone would be dull. I’d like to do this, together. And I’d like your reassurances that you won’t murder me when I give you the world as a token of my growing affection for you.”
“This would be an actual, like, relationship sorta thing.”
“If you come to like me, and I find myself liking you, when all is said and done, yes. That’s the ultimate aim of true courtship.”
The boat purses her plump lips.
The gladiator deposits a sweet little kiss upon them, tasting her own musk of arousal.
“You’re not as easy to control as most femmes.”
“Likewise, my dear.”
Flamewar giggles, squirming under Shadow Striker’s ticklish touches, callused palms ever so carefully caressing every streamlined curve, every sharp angle, large digits tracing coils of fire and transformation seams.
Roulette always goes for a drive when she is aware of their lovemaking, typically returning after a couple of hours with provisions including take-out and booze.
“I’m not tryna amuse you, here. I just don’t wanna ruin the wax so soon.”
“I know, boss bot. You can be a little rougher with me than that, though.”
“Primus, look at those thighs, those tits. Ugh. I might scratch something.”
“I wanna get fragged, dude.”
“I’m gonna frag you. Trust.”
“Get on top of me, boss bot.”
“Fine, but signal me, yeah?”
“Aw, frag, yeah.” The bike makes a shaky groaning sound as the much bigger, heavier mercenary finally applies herself atop, straddling her torso. “That’s what I’m talking about. Big glitch all up on me, squashing my scrap.”
“I’m serious. Signal or say something if I’m hurting you.”
“Sure, sure. Pop your panels.”
Shadow Striker releases her valve and spike all at once, oozing and swollen. She pins a palm to the berth and leans over Flamewar whilst rocking slowly back and forth, straddling haunches tilted at such an angle to allow plump valve to scrap over breastplate, smearing lubricant whilst the huge spike vies for a kiss from smirking fangs.
“Daaamn. Fat glitch. Mm. Gonna break me in half. Ahhh.”
“Yeah? You like that? You want me to crush you, slag?”
The bike nuzzles the head of the spike, grasping the shaft in her talons to hold it steady like a mic, lapping at the slick slit. “Uh-huh.”
“Better keep your wits about you, beautiful.” Grinding valve-first heavily upon the smaller femme’s ample metallic cleavage, the mercenary runs her free servo over her own headlights, stooped forward on a propped arm to even out the distribution of her own weight, gazing lustily down. Her large, dark shape blocks out the rest of the room. “Fat glitch like me, fragging your tits like this, I might just lose control and leave a dent when I bust a fat ’load all over you like I paid for it. Whore.”
“Hnnngh.” Flamewar pumps the highly modified spike in her grip whilst shamelessly reaching for herself, plucking at her sealed modesty panels to tease her own sensory network prior to release. “Can I have a nibble, boss bot?”
“Gently, okay.” Most would balk at the prospect, but as that fanged maw parts wetly and ensnares the bulging, glistening tip of Shadow Striker’s spike, she feels not a flicker of fear even as sharp blades pinch the engorged mesh blooming with glowing erotic nodes. “Ohhh, yeah.” After all, she has let those claws near her most intimate parts, and so she has not denied the fangs their share. “So good.” Her hips continue to roll slow circles, grinding her valve’s plump, soaked mesh down, down, down upon the dips and swells of her lover’s fiery breastplate. Even here, there are sharper parts, grazing her erect anterior node. “Good girl. Gimme a little love tap, eh?”
Love, the bike hears, and stops masturbating her sealed panels for a moment to slap the mercenary sharply over one of her straddling thighs, armour reverberating impact harmlessly. Love.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Another one, harder. Make me sting with it.”
Going for a less armoured spot, aiming now for a softer and plumper place, Flamewar smacks Shadow Striker hard across the aft with a most wondrous sound of impact, eliciting a low moan from one, a shaky gasp from another.
“Good girl, you do me so good, you do me so right.” Grinding heavily downward and rocking constant circles upon straddling hips, the mercenary feels a bead of perspired coolant run down her bent spinal seam and into the cleft of her stinging aft. “Gimme a workout. Make me sweat some more. Oh, more, more, more… Flamewar.”
Gnawing softly on the thrusting spike like it’s an Energon goodie to be savoured slowly, the bike huffs though her flared enstrils and goes right back to touching herself, releasing her entire interface array to swap between her twitching spike and throbbing valve, claws slick. She simultaneously strokes the mercenary’s imposing shaft with increased haste, chasing the pulse of thrumming biolights.
“Gahhh! I wanna pump you full of my spunk, gush all over those fraggin’ tits of yours. Yeah, mmmyeah! I wanna leave my scent on you, in you, so the whole planet knows who you answer to, you cheap little tramp. You want that, too?”
“Mmmhmmph!”
“Don’t talk with your intake full, slag, that’s rude.”
Groaning over thrusting spike, Flamewar nods enthusiastically, gazing up at Shadow Striker with lenses swollen and swallowing the searing heat of those sunny optics.
“Good girl. I knew you’d agree.” Bouncing upon her hips, the mercenary turns to peer over her pauldron, looking back at the other femme’s occupied interface array, smirk deepening, cheeks flushed. “You getting yourself off to this, huh?”
More eager nodding as the bike clumsily alternates between pumps of her own spike and plucks of her anterior node, smearing pre-overload down her working claws, braced palm, inner wrist. She does not let go of the spike jammed in her intake, thrusting over her worming glossa, scraped between her gaping fangs, sealed tightly by her stretched dermas wrapped about the shaft.
“Mmm… Smell that? You’re ripe already, after all that driving. I had to have you right away, I wasn’t gonna damn well wait for you to shower first. Nothing better than the tang of an engine running hot. We’ll have to purge the berth real thoroughly by the time I’m done with you. Gonna make a mess.”
“Hrrrmph!”
“Whoops.” Shadow Striker just hit Flamewar’s gag reflex, intake plugged with spike. “You puke on me and I’ll bend you over my knee and beat that aft ’til all that fresh wax rubs off. Watch yourself, now.”
Choking and sputtering, the bike begins to weep as she throws her helm forward and deliberately impales herself upon the mercenary’s massive erection, then withdraws again just short of purging, only to repeat with choked hiccups and hoarse moans.
Optic shutters fluttering, Shadow Striker bites her derma hard and hastens her hips so that her spike takes lunging thrusts in and out of that eager intake, sitting herself more heavily down upon Flamewar’s breastplate to grind valve to bosom harshly with the aid of slick lubricant pooling down into the gaps betwixt knotted abdominal plates. “Ah, ah, ah…!” Masculine dirty talk gives way to feminine yelps of mounting pleasure. “Flames, yes, ahhh, Primus save me, ohhh!”
The bike very nearly does end up purging her digestive tank when a big servo grabs her by the helm and yanks her in, holding her in place, crotch pressed to her dermas, spike bursting ropes of transfluid down the back of her lurching throat. Optics swimming in tears, she chokes, muffled, and squeals as her own jerking spike spits overload in an arc that spatters stickily upon her belly, strands bridging the gap between.
Allowing one overload to flow to the rest of the interface array and thus provoke further release of tension and endorphin protocols in neighbouring nodes already flushed with sufficient stimulation, the mercenary bellows as her valve flexes to expel a deluge of lubricant over the fiery breasts sandwiched between her clenched and trembling thighs, provoking her to hump the cleavage shallowly just to prolong the ecstasy. After all, valves overload harder than spikes, as the sensory network is far more densely clustered within the mesh.
Panting frantically, drowning in transfluid and blinded by tears, Flamewar chases her own second overload by digging her claws hastily into her valve, a mere three probing strokes sufficient to set her off again, thrusting up at the air, heel struts scraping for leverage upon the berth that creaks below. She gurgles a scream, then collapses, slackening.
Eventually, Shadow Striker slows and stops, sagging atop, panting and dripping with bodily fluids. “By the Thirteen. Uuugh.” She chuckles breathily. “You’ll be the death of me yet, Flames. Whew.”
There is no response.
“Flames?” Amused and concerned at once, the mercenary peers down at the bike. “You good?”
Eventually, Flamewar manages a weak suckling about the spike still embedded in her face, optics crossed and brows buckled, bubbles of hot transfluid bursting from her drooling enstrils.
“You’re a real sight to see, right now.” Shadow Striker softens and sighs, carefully pulling out, only to be met with a petulant whine and claws sinking into her aft to stop her retreat, pulling her back in. “Easy. You’ve got me off, good girl. You don’t gotta work so hard.”
The bike huffs wetly, sucking on the spike, throat cables bobbing as she sets about swallowing.
The mercenary pulls a rather comical face, met with the sensations of getting an ongoing blowjob after overloading. “Haaahhh!”
Flamewar giggle snorts, and in turn sneezes a globule of transfluid onto Shadow Striker’s lower belly. She follows up with a very deep, tight suction of her entire intake, glossa lashing.
“Holy scrap, you little fiend, you’ll suck my soul out! Easy!” The mercenary squirms, mewling, covering her face as if embarrassed to be seen acting like a harlot, cupping her headlight and shakily rubbing at the crystalline casing with a trembling thumb. “Oooh, you fragger! You hungry for more? Huh?”
The bike sucks and sucks and sucks, swallowing every ooze of transfluid she can draw out of the twitching spike that remains partially erect in the onslaught of writhing glossa and hollowed cheeks, propped fat and tortured between pinprick fangs. Just to be mean, she pushes a claw into the puckered waste port.
Shadow Striker makes the most adorable squeaking sound, jerking in place at the welcome intrusion, expression twisted with agonised ecstasy. “Glitch! I’ll getcha back for that!”
Flamewar smiles around the spike in her intake, optics squeezed shut to let the tears freely fall. Love.
“You should have won that battle,” Alpha Strike rumbles deeply, optics narrowed with criticism and disapproval. “Your loss is humiliating. You stained the arena with the bloodshed of your failure.”
Thunderblast cringes softly. She is at once impressed and disconcerted. Her charms are utterly unnoticed and she can only obsessively inspect the tips of her digits to keep her cool, when she is not nervously glancing at Empress, gauging her reactions.
The gladiator does not look intimidated, however she does bow her helm humbly before the recognised might of the old general. “Yes, you’re right. Although, in my defence and in defence of all my little Decepticons, it was Commander Starscream who started that ill-advised, errm, ‘skirmish’ back at the arena. It wasn’t my call, certainly not Megatron’s.”
“Mm. You had weapons, yet you still lost.”
“Well, it all happened so suddenly, and though many of us quite easily snuck weapons past the underpaid and overworked guards, we were hardly prepared to engage with the Functionist’s liberally dispatched Functionaries, of which there are more than our intelligence had estimated.”
“Mm. Your intelligence is unintelligent.”
The boat cannot help but giggle at that, then quickly shuts up.
“That is not a joke.” The general turns her helm ever so slightly. “I do not joke.”
“Whoops. Sorry.”
“Forgiven.”
“The debacle back at the arena is exactly why we need you.” Empress sighs heavily, pouring herself another measure of high-grade, before filling Thunderblast’s cup. “I’m terribly embarrassed. The Decepticons are rebuilding morale, recouping our losses on account of all the deaths, you see, and Commander Starscream is mending quickly, which means he’ll retake power from me as Megatron’s recognised second-in-command and thus lead us into more vengeful combat. We need a strong, experienced military tactician on our side, to ensure our victory by turning the tide against the growing Functionist threat and finally crushing the Council once and for all, before the flighty fool leads us into ruin.”
“Mm. You need my counsel, this is clear to me. I will give you good advice, for free, this time. Listen closely.”
“Please, do. I’m all audials.”
“If this so-called Commander Starscream cannot control himself, he should not lead. It is simple. Soldiers cannot respect a flighty fool who fights for himself alone. It does not inspire hope, only dread.”
“The Seekers seem quite dedicated to him.”
“No. Seekers are indebted to him.”
“Ah. A different kind of devotion.”
“Yes. Exactly.”
“Your wisdom is invaluable, General Alpha Strike. I agree completely, buuut…”
“Megatron, your leader, loves the flighty fool.”
“So I’m afraid we’re rather stuck with Commander Starscream just now.”
“Mm. Unfortunate, for you.”
“Oh, don’t I know it. More high-grade?”
“Yes, thank you.” Alpha Strike ponders the rising level within her cup for several silent seconds, then says in her succinct way, “I will help you.”
“You don’t need more convincing?”
“No.”
“I haven’t even talked about the generous package I’m offering you as payment.”
“I despise Functionists. The Council are hypocrites and weaklings. Megatron will survive. His enemies will die.”
“…Well, then.” The boat exhales shakily.
“Brilliant. That makes this so much easier for me.” Indeed, the gladiator had been sending pleasant sensations in her peculiar way the entire meeting, hoping to persuade the general through the art of seduction and other subtle manipulative tactics most femmes are easily susceptible to, and yet these tactics were in vain. “Welcome to the Decepticons, General Alpha Strike. May you lead us to a swift and decisive victory in the battles ahead.”
“I intend to. I have never lost a battle.”
“Then I have complete faith in you.”
Alpha Strike and Empress shake servos, maintaining lingering optic contact to indicate mutual respect.
Thunderblast is worried about Slipstream, made an enemy due to her desertion to the opposing side of this war, and worries about Demolishor in his retirement, Shadow Striker and Flamewar in their elopement, and after all of that, Thunderblast worries a little about herself. Is she really a big enough boss glitch? Is she baddie enough? Has she made a dumbaft mistake?
What follows is some planning, some drinking, and eventually some relaxed conversation as the meeting gradually devolves into a more sociable occasion.
“Oh, you know Demolishor?”
“Yes, he is a good mech, a good soldier. I would have him as one of mine. I will need good soldiers like him.”
“Well, you might be in luck. Thunderblast, here, happens to be on very good terms with him. They served together. ”
Alpha Strike sits back in her creaking chair, peering down at Thunderblast with a flicker of newfound interest. “Mm. What was your function?”
“A bit of everything and anything, I guess. I was the only aquatic on our little squad, so I ran smuggled goods to supply the cause, on top of all the boring stuff Shadow Striker made me do. As for all of us, we blew things up including the Grand Imperium, we tortured bad people and made art out of what was left of Megatron’s enemies because we knew the Functionists wouldn’t want it in the news so it wouldn’t be public but it’d still send the right people the message not to frag with us Decepticons, blah-blah-blah… Um, yeah. Things like that. Basically, we did the dirty work on the down-low, so the Decepticons and Megatron himself wouldn’t look bad. We were like a hit squad.”
“Mm. Flexible. You have many talents.”
“Yup. I’m real talented. Very flexible.”
Empress smirks into her cup, evidently having inappropriate thoughts just then.
“Demolishor served on this squad, yes?”
“Yes. We’re coaxing him to come back. Thunderblast, here, is quite confident. If he returns to us, I’ll happily transfer him to you.”
“This makes me glad. I will receive him with gratitude.”
“Wonderful. More high-grade?”
And so it goes, until the general is sufficiently relaxed that she relays a few old war stories with the much younger gladiator, who retells past victories in the arena, and the huge femmes share in laughter whilst the boat quietly sits there, looking pretty whilst feeling a bit stressed out and bored all at once.
“Well, it’s been lovely, but I’m sure you’d rather settle in before I take your entire evening.”
“Yes, thank you.”
“I’ll have one of our Seekers show you to your quarters. Everything’s prepared. I’ll be with you first thing tomorrow morning to personally escort you about the base myself, show you to the amenities and introduce you to the charming little Decepticons under my purview and yours, too.”
“Mm. A guided tour. Good.”
Just then, there is a knock.
“Ah! That should be our Seeker. Enter, darling!”
The door slides aside, revealing none other than Skywarp, who tilts her helm and makes a soft chirping sound, wings twitching at her back.
“Skywarp, my dear, you’re… not the Seeker I was expecting. Where is Thrust?”
A silent shrug.
“That naughty boy,” Empress mutters, rubbing her brows. “Always shirking off work. Ugh. Anyway…”
Alpha Strike pushes back her chair and rises, even bigger than Empress herself, slowly turning to peer down at Skywarp.
Thunderblast smirks as Skywarp gawks. “You and me both, girlfriend.”
“Skywarp, this is none other than General Alpha Strike. She’s incredibly important, so I expect you to be on your very best behaviour. No pranks. No mischief.” Empress wags a motherly digit. “Understood, dear? You be good now. Do it for me.”
It takes several seconds of silent gawking, but Skywarp eventually recovers enough to smile cutely. She crosses her digits behind her back whilst nodding, optics upcast to inspect Alpha Strike with the typical Seeker curiosity.
“Seeker,” Alpha Strike rumbles, utterly dwarfing the flier. “Skywarp, yes? Mm. A pretty name.”
“Oh, she doesn’t speak.” Empress rubs her brows, heaving a great sigh. “Very mysterious, our Skywarp.”
“That is fine. Femmes talk and talk and talk, talk too much.”
Skywarp chirps more lowly now, nodding her helm in tired agreement. Her big sister and favourite sibling Nova Storm sometimes cannot shut up.
“I bid you both farewell, for now,” Alpha Strike intones, offering a slight bow. “I must sleep off the high-grade. Come, let us walk quickly, Skywarp.” The huge general ends up bumping her pauldron on the way out, staggering a bit, then rights herself with a chuckle.
With a backwards grin and a fleeting wave, Skywarp follows the enormous, tipsy femme at a trot just to keep up with those long strides.
“Remind me to conjure up a sufficiently creative punishment for Thrust,” Empress intones before downing the rest of her cup. “Primus, that was stressful.”
“Biggest glitch I ever saw. Damn.” Thunderblast whistles. “You sure about her?”
“She’s a legend among military types, as I understand it. An old war hero, like that unfortunate Jetfire fellow.”
“Sugar glider’s old boss. And, uh… father figure, I think.”
“Starscream’s got the poor thing locked up all the time, like a bird in a cage, bereft of song. So cruel. Nova Storm told me all about it, since she and the other Seekers bring Jetfire his rations and try to socialise with him.”
“What’s Starscream’s endgame with Jetfire, anyway?”
“I don’t know. The rules are all botched by now, so I think it’s rather too little too late to play.”
Notes:
Alpha Strike seems quite similar to Strika, though I understand that trademark issues required the name change. I've elected to write a version of Alpha Strike with tweaks inspired by iterations of Strika (particularly her depiction in Animated, minus the accent), granting intellect and tactical abilities to go with the brawn of a celebrated war general with a direct, curt, no-nonsense manner, although some of that silly Cyberverse vibe carries over on occasion and thus Alpha Strike likes a bit of boisterous banter when in the right company - speaking of company, of course she's getting her own romantic subplot, because I'm just like that.
As always, thanks for reading!
Chapter 58
Notes:
Potential trigger warnings: holding another emotionally responsible for one's own fragility, toxic relationship dynamics both familial and romantic, consensual but unenthusiastic sex/attempt at sex (informed AND enthusiastic consent is key in every sexual encounter, which should be common knowledge but tragically isn't).
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Whilst Ratchet eagerly digs deep into the abundance of medical knowledge kept securely catalogued and preserved within the sacred archives – his enthusiasm being easily forgiven, as access to the archives is usually only granted at a surface level as per the rules of the conservative and paranoid old Senate, because citizens knowing too much is a dangerous thing for a government – he leaves none other than the cautious and strict veteran Red Alert in charge of his medical bay.
Windblade has never been an easy patient. However, her stubborn need for independence and heroic tendency to test her healing body’s limits so that she can rejoin the fight against the Decepticon threat is promptly and efficiently dealt with. She is extremely well-behaved over the days that follow, to the amusement and sympathy of her friends, the indomitable Cityspeaker rendered a chastised protoform, evidently unwilling to incur the ongoing disapproval of the scary new senior medic in charge.
Red Alert is not one to trifle with. In some ways, she makes the grumpy and abrasive old Ratchet look like a stuffed toy one might cuddle with for comfort. And yet she is charismatic enough and so incredibly skilful at everything she does that her leadership is inspiring to all, thus this changeover in authority occurs smoothly as she fills his role as resident hardaft with a Spark of gold very naturally. Moreover, her ability to produce hard-light holographic tools from her modified forearm, the relic of an amputation from a past war injury, proves invaluable even as Sentinel is true to his word and personally sponsors an influx of supplies and gadgetry to restock and improve the medical bay facilities at his own expense as a sign of goodwill, a bit pre-emptive on his part, clearly expecting to get his way in the end.
Slipstream enjoys her voluntary work as a nurse, digesting all the many lessons and partaking in tutelage opportunities even at the odd hours of nights and mornings, to the point that Red Alert herself notices and dispenses one of her rare compliments one morning that they find themselves stood side by side together, without other volunteers about to overhear them.
“I’ve supervised you these past few days, Seeker, and I hope you’ll consider furthering your education. With your permission, I would put in a good word on your behalf with the Protihex Medical Mechanics University whilst Ratchet is away. Though, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s already sent them a letter of recommendation listing various candidates, yourself included, and forgot to ask first.”
Succinct, sincere. It tells Slipstream everything she needs to hear – that she is good enough to be appraised and personally recommended by the likes of Red Alert and Ratchet, and that means so much. It means everything.
“Are you… crying?”
“No. Yes. A little. Excuse m-me.”
Red Alert looks a bit puzzled, but Slipstream composes herself quickly enough not to be a bother.
“Ahem. Thank you. You’re too kind.”
“It’s quite alright. I wasn’t aware that universities were a sore topic. My apologies.”
“Oh, no, I’m just not used to getting recommended for anything so… lofty. Seekers don’t get any higher education.”
The old medic softens in that subtle way of hers, tilting her regal helm a little to the left in thought like she tends to do.
The Seeker does not anticipate the gentle palm upon her burly pauldron that eventually settles and squeezes softly.
“You could be the first of many Seekers attending universities. Societal change might permit, set by your example.”
“You mean, if I were to somehow get into a university, other Seekers might follow.” Slipstream lays her sterilised palms upon the edge of the counter and sags forward, pauldrons bowed, neck bent. “I’d love that. My people deserve better.”
Red Alert smiles in her rare way.
“Careers and prospects outside of military service, you know, to live their lives as more than mass-produced cannon fodder, endlessly manufactured all alike and disposed of all the same. We should be permitted to exist like anyone else, having families and adding value to society. Seeker medics, for example. Seeker mothers.”
“Then shall I go ahead and send that letter myself?”
The Seeker clears her vents shyly under those intense optics. “Yes, please.”
“Very good. I’ll contact the university before today’s end.” The medic offers that burly pauldron another fond squeeze, followed by a maternal little pat. “I wish you luck. If fortune smiles on you, I’d be happy to help fill in your application.”
“Oh, thank you. Thank you!”
“Don’t get too excited just yet. But keep your chin up and have hope. If the first letter fails, I’ll give it another month or so and send another. Just do your best and I’ll remain optimistic.”
“I will.” Slipstream is evidently about to burst into happy tears. “You’re so good to offer.”
“Yes, well, I’m fantastic. I graduated top of my class, beating Ratchet himself. That being said, why don’t you go and supervise Windblade’s exercises,” Red Alert suggests gently, sensing a crushing hug might happen otherwise, mindful of getting too comfortable with sweet and hunky younger nurses under her purview. “Take a few moments to compose yourself first, then go to her. She’ll give you an outlet for all this energy.”
And so Windblade is delighted when her girlfriend strides into the ward and gives her the big hug that had been intended for Red Alert, prior to her redirection of Slipstream’s affection. “Slip, sweet Spark, hi.”
“Hey, beautiful. Mmm.” The Seeker buries her smile into the Cityspeaker’s neck. “I love you so much.”
“I love you too.”
“How’re your exercises going?” Slipstream asks warmly as she finally withdraws, only to turn and give Chromia the next hug, as they have taken to sharing Windblade’s habitation suite as much as they share Windblade herself, and cohabitation lends familiarity as this friendship blossoms.
“It’s going,” the Cityspeaker jokes, flexing her arms and legs as best she can within the berth, sat upright unassisted and able to finally touch the tips of her pedes without almost passing out from strain due to overextending her mending body. “I don’t feel dizzy any more and I haven’t wanted to puke after getting a workout.”
“Wonderful. You’re getting better, my love.” The Seeker eases off of the bike, leaving a large servo on her blue pauldron. “Oh, Windblade, I can’t wait until you’re home. It won’t be too long, now. We just need to do a little more work to make sure you’re ready, then Doctor Red Alert will decide on a recovery plan to follow when you’re out of the ward.”
“Uuugh. I can’t wait to get outta here. Solus Prime.”
Chromia sits in a chair beside the berth, gazing softly at Windblade and reaching over on occasion to gently assist with movements where strain persists, but much of it is done independent of her help.
Slipstream is deeply reassured and proud. “Let’s try a few neck stretches, okay?”
“Sure. Check me out, girls.”
“We’re checking you out.”
The Cityspeaker rolls her helm from side to side, coaxing her neck cables to stretch and relax in slow, steady rotations without pulling on her slender pauldrons, offering a playful smirk. “Impressive stuff, eh?”
“Just incredible,” the bike murmurs with a breathy chuckle, grasping a slender servo in her bigger, rougher digits and squeezing lovingly. “This is why we’re in love with you, truly.”
“Yeah, ’cause I’m giving neck.”
“Oh, behave.”
The Seeker reaches over to carefully lay both palms on those pauldrons, pushing down to increase pressure and thus subtly intensify the exercise, testing the mobility and range of motion, pleased with the results. “You’re doing wonderfully, Windblade. How about a nice massage, after this?”
“That’d be awesome.”
Chromia takes initiative, reaching for a pede propped upon the berth and rubbing it.
Windblade lets out a stuttering breath, hitching partway within her throat, and moans into another loll of the helm on her flexing neck. “Mmyeah.”
“That the good stuff?”
“So good. Just the best.”
Slipstream winks at Chromia, who offers a stealthy little grin.
“Could a girl be any luckier? Got my big, beautiful ladies all over me, taking such good care of me. Doesn’t get any better than this.”
“Focus on those neck stretches, my love.”
The Cityspeaker tips her helm aside, nuzzling into the Seeker’s broad bosom whilst tilting the ankle joint to allow the bike better access to the sole of the pede, drawing circles with both thumbs. “I’m sorry, Slip, but I might fall asleep like this. Feels amazing.”
“Okay, we’ll take a break.” Amused and enamoured, Slipstream rests her chin atop Windblade’s helm, gazing down the length of her curvaceous, slender body at Chromia, locking gazes with her yet again. “That does look really nice, actually.”
“Chromia gives the best pede rubs ever. You ought to ask her for five minutes. It’s transcendental.”
“Oh? High praise indeed.”
The bike tries not to look too proud of herself as she pushes into the Cityspeaker’s sole in a way that elicits a little mewl.
The Seeker wraps her arms around her lover, their lover, and feels the shudder of pleasure as tension is undone from such prolonged stagnation.
“Chromia, ohhh!”
“Hush, Windblade. I’ve got you. So does she.”
“Slip, she’s wicked.”
Slipstream kisses Windblade atop the helm and grins at Chromia, who goes so far as to flutter her shutters whilst massaging that pede into oblivion.
“I’m a little evil, I suppose.”
“So, you guys gonna tell me how you know each other?”
Flamewar takes a big bite out of her oil cake to avoid answering that, optics downcast, cheek bulging, a little slick glistening on her frowning dermas.
Roulette grimaces, sighs, and lays her palms upon the tabletop. “She was a bounty, once. She won’t remember that.”
“Okay, so you had her on your radar. News to me.”
“I never mentioned her to you since we don’t talk much. We’ve hardly disclosed anything about our careers to each other.”
“I’ll accept half the blame for that. So, you wanna tell her something about herself? You gotta know something, if she was your quarry. You’re studious, you do your research. Flames, she might know something about the old you. Got any questions?”
“Nnnph.”
“Goddit. You already talked about it behind my back, I’m guessing.” Shadow Striker drums her digits atop the table, chin propped upon her other palm, hooded optic upon her lover, narrowed scope upon her sister. “That’s why you’ve both been a bit off. Sure, sis, you’ve always chased girls away from me, so I’d expect you to be mean, but Flames isn’t one of those girls you can just chase off, so I don’t like seeing her acting all careful around you, mindful not to offend you somehow. No, this is old history between the two of you I’m not privy to. I don’t like that.”
“Do you really want this discussion here?” The bounty hunter nods at the people sitting at neighbouring tables, enjoying artisanal little confectioneries and hot Energon drinks.
“I guess I do, yeah.”
“You’re such an afthole.”
The mercenary smiles at that.
The bike chews her oil cake far more than needed, finally swallows, and washes it down with a sip of her spiced Energon infusion. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”
Shadow Striker’s smile fades. She looks deeply hurt, but her instinct is to lash out when anyone threatens her guarded Spark. “Not even with me? Don’t you trust me with your past?”
“Boss bot, it’s not that simple.”
“What could you have done that would be too bad to tell me, of all people?”
“I… didn’t do anything. Not to you. At least, I guess not.”
“Flames, I wanna know more about you. How can my sis know more about you than I do? That’s messed up.”
“I bet there’s stuff you haven’t told me that she knows about, boss bot.”
“Oh-ho. Right, right, right. And did my darling sis tell you all about that stuff?”
“I’m just glad your big sis chose to let the issue slide, so I can be with you, boss bot. She’s being the better person.”
“My big sis doesn’t get to decide who I choose to spend my life with, for frag’s sake.”
“Would you both please just not?” Roulette stuffs a fresh cy-gar between her gritted dentas, but does not activate it. “It’s a beautiful day. Let’s enjoy it, like all the rest. We’ve kept the peace this long.”
“Yeah, by lying to my face, talking behind my back. And my dumbaft didn’t realise it until you let it slip by mistake.”
“Yes, my mistake. All to ensure your happiness, might I add.”
“Why, you…”
Flamewar does not want the rest of her oil cake. She loves oil cake.
“You magnanimous old glitch.”
“Calm down.”
“Don’t you dare presume to tell me what to do. I’m not a kid any more. How many times do I gotta tell you that? I can take care of myself. My love life is none of your fragging concern, sis.”
“Guys. Please.”
“You’re my little sister. Your entire life is my concern.”
“She’s not someone you should be protecting me from. Our relationship isn’t a crime for you to pardon, like you’re permitting me to be with her, like you’re doing me a favour.”
“Stop it.”
“She is, in fact, a criminal. My job is to capture criminals. And yet this criminal cares for you, and as you care for her, I allow it. Be grateful for that.”
“Bite me, sis.”
People turn their helms, civilised company sneering at the table with the big, scary twin femmes clearly having an argument in public.
“You’re gonna get us kicked out,” the bike mumbles.
The mercenary snatches the cy-gar out the bounty hunter’s intake and stuffs it into her own, igniting the lighting mechanism without a care. A few deep puffs seem to help calm down.
“Better?”
“Barely.”
Flamewar does not wish to waste the oil cake or spiced Energon, and so she stuffs herself quickly, washes it all down, feels a bit sick after, and pushes back her chair before standing and staggering off. “I’m gonna go have a tinkle. Be right back.”
Shadow Striker grunts a reply, scowling at Roulette.
“You’ve upset your girlfriend.”
“She’s not my girlfriend.”
“What is she, then?”
“She’s mine.”
“What does that entail exactly, little one?”
“None of your damn business, big sis.”
“Reporting for duty, Sir.”
“Ah, Demolishor, you’re in luck.”
“Daddy, you’re here! Hi!”
Empress quirks an optic ridge. “Daddy?” She is not so sure about that one.
“Hey, you.” Demolishor’s stern, soldierly countenance melts as Thunderblast throws herself forward and enthusiastically embraces him. He stoops his huge, refurbished old frame to wrap his burly arms around her, kissing her softly atop the helm. “Of course I’m here. You asked for me, and I missed you.”
“Aw, but I feel bad about pulling you out of retirement, big guy.”
“Don’t feel bad about that. Retirement’s fragging boring. Lonely.”
“You telling me you didn’t spend your days with beautiful mechs?”
“I did, but most of the guys who like old tanks like me are Decepticons anyway, so…”
“Ah. The Deceptibrand. You just got reminded about me over and over again, huh.”
“Mmhm. You, Shadow Striker, Flamewar, and Slipstream. The whole squad.”
“Our old crew. I miss them, too. You think they’ll come?”
“Those two might, but I don’t think Slipstream would be dumb enough to walk away from Windblade.”
“Not even for me?”
“Ahem.”
“Oh, Sir! Sorry.” The tank straightens obediently to attention once more, but keeps an arm wrapped snugly about the happy boat who clings to him. “I understand that I am to be reassigned under General Alpha Strike, Sir?”
“Indeed. All is forgiven. You’re too useful to discard so easily. Thunderblast, here, vouched highly for you.” The gladiator assesses the two subordinate Decepticons with a slight tilt of the helm. “You’ll be reinstated immediately, to form part of a squad of our heaviest hitters, led by none other than General Alpha Strike as I described. A bit of a step up, I should think.”
“If I may ask, Sir, what was your impression of the General?”
“Big. Bigger than me. Big enough to make me feel small. I’m unused to that. I don’t dislike it, though.” Empress drums her digits on her ample hip, smiling thinly. “Impressive, imposing, yet also a pleasant enough conversationalist once she gets a few drinks down and loosens up a bit. She met and then exceeded my expectations, shall we say.”
“Freaked me out a bit,” Thunderblast admits with an airy chuckle. “Damn, what a lady.”
“So she hasn’t changed much since we last served together,” Demolishor intones fondly. “Fighting alongside her was a great honour. Recruiting her into the Decepticons was a wise choice on your part, Sir.”
“Nice aft on her,” is the boat’s helpful contribution, quite irrelevant.
The tank and gladiator murmur their agreement.
Shadow Striker sulks her way to the finish line, losing again.
Flamewar transforms and offers a clawed servo to Roulette, who accepts it after a momentary pause, offering a firm, mutual shake.
“Not bad, for a bike.”
“You say that every time I win.”
The mercenary is last to transform and she is scowling up a storm, trudging over to them.
The bounty hunter sighs quietly, giving the bike’s smaller servo a brief squeeze to convey something, before letting go again. “Rematch?”
“Hey, I’m game.”
“Alright, then.”
Shadow Striker looms on the periphery, utterly furious, itching for another confrontation. She is hurt, and for some people, being hurt elicits stronger reactions than others as a self-defence mechanism. She fights what she fears will hurt her the most, when fleeing is not an option.
Roulette knows this, and so she keeps calm, for she is not afraid to fight her sister. She is quite used to it by now, finding these temper tantrums tedious, predictable. “You choose the next track. Winner’s perks.”
“I’m gonna go for one with lots of loops. I like leaning low into my turns, scraping the turf ’til sparks fly. Dramatic as frag, y’know?”
“And after we went and got you all prettied up with polish.”
Despite everything stressful, Flamewar smiles, fanged and playful.
Damn that smile, the bounty hunter thinks to herself. Damn those memories of a femme, smiling like that, at her. She reaches for it, very gently tapping a fang with the tip of a digit, like she did once before, millions of years ago, with a lapful of willing bike insinuating that their little rivalry would inevitably lead them to it, so why resist? “Put those away.”
The mercenary swells with rage at that treacherous touch, then deflates with sorrow when it provokes an adorable giggle.
Flamewar, from her own perspective, is trying her best to endear herself to Shadow Striker’s dangerous and difficult older sibling, assuming that Roulette has been very gracious thus far and merciful all things considered.
“I’m hitting the shower and going clubbing to clear my mind,” the mercenary announces, stalking off with a huff. “Knock yourselves out.”
The bike slumps. “Boss bot, c’mon.”
“Let her go.” The bounty hunter shakes her helm. “My little sister throws her tantrums from time to time. You’d better get used to it if you’re seriously invested in being with her.”
Shadow Striker stops dead in her tracks, fists clenched at her sides. “You wanna get a few fresh dents, sis?”
“I’ll kick your aft into next month if you try it,” Roulette answers calmly, eerily so, utterly unafraid. “We both know who the better fighter is.”
Flamewar throws up her servos. “Enough! You’re family! You don’t fistfight family!”
“We do. Though she tends to lose.”
“Eat my aft, sis. You’re goading me.”
“You could do with some humbling, my love, and I’ll be the one to sort you out so you remember to behave yourself. That’s what big sisters do.”
“Oh, you’re offering to beat me up, because you’re so overprotective of me, right?”
“Yes, actually. Sometimes a knock to the helm is the only thing that makes you rational again.”
“Frag you. Why don’t you just leave?”
“Do you really want me to?”
The mercenary scoffs. “Maybe I do.”
The bounty hunter lowers her gaze, wincing softly.
“She doesn’t mean that,” the bike says quietly. “But you’re pushing her to say hurtful things. You gotta stop.”
“Flames, you sticking with that old glitch, or are you gonna hit the clubs with me?”
“You’re acting immaturely, sis.”
“Shuddup, I’m not talking to you.” Shadow Striker turns to look down on Flamewar. “Who do you feel safer to be left alone with? The bounty hunter who lets you linger and live your life as a free femme whilst holding onto your past like a debt you owe? Or the dumbaft who just wants you around because you make me happy since I figure we’ve got a future together and I can’t see my future without you around to share it with? Your choice.”
“You know I’ll always choose you, boss bot, but you’re being kinda cruel.”
“Yeah, I do that sometimes. I’m an afthole.”
Roulette shakes her helm. “I’m trying to make this work.”
“Sis, I love you, but lying to me about her just doesn’t cut it.”
“Do you really think she wants her history disclosed just to satisfy your jealous intrigue? She barely knows herself, you selfish fool. Cast her a thought.”
The mercenary's optic widens, then narrows. “Oh.” She softens, offering a shaky sigh. “Frag me. I’m sorry.”
The bike moves in for a hug, wrapping about the bigger femme’s chassis. “Aw, boss bot.”
“I’m being really awful, aren’t I. Cruel, you said.”
So am I, the bounter hunter thinks, but dares not say aloud.
Orion returns with another stack of datapads and more ancient records than those, stored on archaic datachips kept preserved in perfect temperatures within cases to protect from touch and dust alike.
Ratchet is surrounded by knowledge, recollections of medics past, born and died long before he was forged. He scribbles his many notes and draws his intricate diagrams with a sort of intellectual curiosity bordering on mania, murmuring softly to himself as he obsessively uncovers all the learning he craves, with the agreement that he must concoct something suitable for rebuilding Sentinel. Why did Alpha Trion so readily agree to what is, essentially, largely experimental medical intervention, successful only in few cases, rarely ever attempted at all? No, this is too exciting to even bother questioning that. A unique privilege, an opportunity not to be squandered. Red Alert and the other old fart doctors that Ratchet loves as his friends and rivals must be so jealous!
Orion is more sedate, however. He loves his adoptive father figure and trusts him as a mentor, but sometimes it truly does seem that Alpha Trion knows more than he lets on, sees things that he will not disclose, keeping his mysterious Quill and whatever he conceives with it so very close to himself to appear mystical. It sometimes seems that the wise old mech perceives the future, somehow.
“Are you mad at me? Can we just chill, pretend this never happened? I can be chill, I can try. For us, yeah?”
Flamewar thought she had attachment issues, but she can only stare at first when Shadow Striker pulls her aside, actually tearful, begging for reconciliation.
“Please. Just try.”
“Boss bot, I never said I was mad at you.”
“I’m mad at me. I pushed you and I’m sorry. I keep doing bad scrap. This is a lot, okay? I get that. I need you here, with me. I love having you around too much, Flames.”
Love.
“Don’t let me screw this up for us.”
Arcee is here, in the office, feeding Captain Snuffles when Ariel returns. “Look! Your mom’s back!”
Captain Snuffles squeals and scampers over to Ariel, abandoning his food and feeder to claw adoringly at her pedes, ankle joints and lower legs, hopping in place, begging her to scoop him up for a cuddle, which she does, holding his soft, furry, warm body against her face as he slobbers all over her.
Arcee thinks it is the cutest thing ever, every time it happens. “Hi, mom!” Chipper and sweet, as always.
“Hey. Thanks for looking after my little guy.”
“Aw, no need to thank me. I love him, too.”
Ariel enjoys the affection for some time, then gently sets Captain Snuffles back down on the floor, watching fondly as he skids a bit whilst scampering across the polished tiles, little paws struggling for traction on the metal, making his way back over to Arcee who remains stooped over by the feeding station, privileged to have her wiggling digits licked and nuzzled before he tucks into his meal.
“He’s hungy.”
“He sure is.” The older femme shuts the door behind herself and approaches with a wet face and a warm smile, navigating the little organic pet to scoop up the younger femme instead, lifting her slender yet sturdy frame off the floor and pulling her effortlessly into a big, burly hug, smothered in pink and gold. “Mmm.”
Arcee giggles, muffled, her grin pressed to Ariel’s cheek, managing to deposit a messy kiss there. “Captain Snuffles drooled all over you.”
“Lovely. Sorry about that.”
“Oh, I don’t mind. Kinda used to it by now.”
Eventually, the older femme gently sets her younger femme friend down, gratitude shining in blue optics fondly downcast.
“How’s Sentinel?”
“He’s himself, just in text format.”
“Ah, well, that’s great!”
“Yeah. Here’s hoping the Doc can figure something out that’ll work. Sentinel is invested in being made a new mech, bigger and better than before, the old fool. I just want him back.”
“Doctor Ratchet is really talented and smart and stuff. He knows his scrap. I’m sure Sentinel will be just fine, one way or another. Chin up, okay?”
A slender digit hooks under Ariel’s jaw, offering a slow caress that has her projecting sensory spires quivering adorably atop her queenly helm as her great engine lets off a rumble from deep within her ample pink bosom.
Arcee is very affectionate and emotive, open-minded enough to love organics as living beings, clever enough to appreciate the intricacies of their fleshly construction honed by their evolutionary advantages. So few people care for organic alien life. Most people fear what they cannot understand. But she is different. She is special, even among her wonderful friends. Bumblebee and Windblade like Captain Snuffles well enough for being cute and cuddly, Grimlock and Chromia find the creature curious but strange, and Hot Rod is very fond of the little beast, but Arcee is the one offering to maintain regular feeding intervals when Ariel is away from her office, popping in to keep Captain Snuffles fed and comforted without his maternal figure, eager to observe a real organic alien.
Captain Snuffles seems to have his favourites. He is not shy about expressing this himself, as he eats his fill for the moment and tries to climb up Arcee’s leg, then Ariel’s, back and forth, squeaking for attention.
“Hey, you wanna play? Where’s your toy gone? Did you hide it under the desk again?”
Ariel can only feel a warm fluttering in her Spark chamber when Arcee gets on her knees and palms, reaching under the desk to retrieve the rubbery chew toy.
“How do you manage this, Captain Snuffles, huh?”
“Here, let me move the desk.”
“I goddit. Oh, no, I don’t goddit. Juuust out of reach.”
Captain Snuffles sits back and watches in anticipation, awaiting his toy with much excited trembling.
Ariel moves to grab her huge, heavy desk, lifting it by the corner with ease, careful not to disturb the various stationary atop as it tilts.
“Ah-ha! Goddit!” Arcee caws in victory as she is able to easily retrieve the desired toy, presenting it like a prize. “Ohhh, Captain Snuffles!”
Captain Snuffles bounds over in his plump, fluffy way and snatches the toy from her digits, scampering off again.
“Hey! You didn’t say please, or thank you, mister!”
The older femme waits for her friend to kneel, arms safely retracted, before lowering the desk.
“Rude! I’mma getcha!” Arcee makes a playful grab for Captain Snuffles as he comes careening past her and barely misses the furry creature streaking across the office with chitters, chew toy in his toothy maw. “Almost!”
Ariel loves it when they play. At her age, she sometimes does not have the energy to chase Captain Snuffles around the office like a lunatic, though she indulges him with plenty of affection and talks to him about whatever passes her mind. It is so nice to have someone else around to help take care of him, someone spry and energetic and kind and cute and-
One femme turns to another upon managing to capture the organic in a cuddly hug, smile like the sun, optics bejewelled. “Got him!”
“Well done.” Oh, no. “Got him good.” Ariel recognises this feeling and she reminds herself sternly, with some amusement, that she is too damn old to be entertaining such a notion with Arcee, who has her whole life ahead of her, at her prime. Windblade is bad enough, but she is a bit of a flirt and she knows it, so a lonely old fool can be forgiven for a fantasy or two if she is in it. Arcee, however, is just being nice, a really good friend, motherly over Captain Snufflies, and Ariel is glad for that much. It is enough, it must be.
That is, until Arcee sets Captain Snuffles in Ariel’s cupped palms, thus free to wrap both slender arms around her larger frame, kissing her bowed forehelm as they cradle the organic between them with a murmur, “Now he’s sorted, can I get you anything?”
“Um.” Oh, yes. “A drink would be nice. Check the bottle under my desk, would you? Should be some grog left.”
“Sure.”
“Thanks, pal. Help yourself, of course.”
“Don’t mind if I do!”
A fool can be forgiven for wanting so much more than a drink between such good friends.
“…Officials reassure us that further spread of the cosmic rust plague has been halted…”
They did not go clubbing, after all, opting instead to grab take-out and chill back at the suite. The holoscreen is on at an unobtrusive volume for a little background noise.
“…Effective treatment is being administered to those contaminated with the disease, however…”
Flamewar is curled up on the couch, helm at rest upon Shadow Striker’s lap, her digits stroking back and forth, pinching finials, dipping shallowly into neck cables.
“…Ongoing concerns about compromised shipments and social traffic that may harbour traces of rust have some officials considering total cut-off of trade and tourism…”
Roulette activates another cy-gar, blowing rings of smoke that float up to the ceiling vents to be sucked away.
“…A last resort, due to the devastating economic impact…”
The bike rolls onto her back with a feline stretch, coaxing the mercenary to divert her attention there, tickling abdominal plating with a downcast smile.
“…No cure…”
The bounty hunter reaches for her bottle of mid-grade and takes a swig, cy-gar propped betwixt two digits.
“…This is Circuit and Longtooth, reporting live for the Cybertronian News Service…”
Flamewar yawns with a little squeak and Shadow Striker rewards her with a fond pat on the belly.
“…And now, the weather…”
Roulette chews her cy-gar, staring at the vents in the ceiling.
The bike giggle-snorts when the mercenary digs a digit into a ticklish transformation seam, squirming.
It draws the bounty hunter’s bored optics.
“Boss bot, stahp.”
“But I like making you wriggle like that.”
“I’mma bite you.”
“Go for it, I dare you.”
Roulette quirks an optic ridge as Flamewar obliges, sitting up and sinking her fangs shallowly into Shadow Striker’s arm.
“Ow! Scraplet!”
“She did warn you.”
The mercenary tackles the bike, scooping her up into a smothering hug, pushing their helms playfully together. “Bite you back, how ’bout that?” Dentas nip at the keen casing of the audial, eliciting a rumbling purr of the engine.
“Would you two please take this to the privacy of the berthroom, where I don’t have to see it?”
“Look away, sis.”
Roulette balls up some greasy foil from her portion of the take-out and throws the wad at Shadow Striker, bouncing harmlessly off her forehelm.
Flamewar grins, giggling as the sisters give each other a challenging look. This is fun, this is better than before, when they were at each other’s throats.
“Maybe I oughta frag her on the couch while you sit there, just to gross you out.”
“Don’t be so crude, sis. If not for my sake, at least treat her like a lady.”
“As if you know how to treat a lady.”
“I have my ways.”
“Oh, please.”
“You guys are silly.” The bike prods the mercenary’s cheek with a claw, grinning at the unimpressed bounty hunter. “I’m no lady.”
Roulette seems tempted to remark on that, but ultimately decides not to, savouring her cy-gar.
“Pass that to me, sis.”
“No. You pinched one already.”
“Don’t be a glitch.”
“These are expensive. Get your own.”
“Whatever. Be that way.” Shadow Striker gives Flamewar a cheeky kiss to the neck, then slouches rudely back on the arm of the couch, drawing the smaller femme upon her lap and against her bosom. Lounging intimately together like this, they exchange little nuzzles and interweave their digits.
The holoscreen blares on and on.
For frag’s sake, it makes the bounty hunter feel distinctly lonely, when her sister gets personal with her squeeze like that. Fragging is not necessary. She changes the channel aimlessly, scrolling through meaningless drivel broadcast from across different colony networks in one convenient subscription package.
“Find the porn, sis.”
“No, thank you very much.”
The mercenary spreads out the bike’s metallic talons, admiring the cutting edges, the gutting curves.
“Beast.”
“I have fun, sis. You should, too.”
“I have fun. Notions of fun differ between people. Fun comes in different shapes and sizes.”
“Heh, sure does. But I remember us going on the prowl together, back when you weren’t such a-”
“Hey.” Flamewar tilts her helm back to peer up at Shadow Striker. “Be nice.”
“I’m not nice. I’m nasty.”
“If you keep teasing your sister with low blows like that, I’ll get off your lap. Leave her be.”
“Damn, alright. Lay down the law. I can respect that.”
Roulette sucks hard on her cy-gar, feeling at once hot and itchy and emasculated, her channel hopping landing on a documentary about singlehorns.
“Aw, c’mon, sis. Don’t settle on something boring.”
“Shuddup. It’s educational. Learning is good for you.”
“Bah!”
“I wanna learn about Singlehorns, boss bot.”
“Ugh. Fine.”
All femmes present turn to stare at the holoscreen, from which moving images and soothing narration emanate.
“…The elusive mare seeks open pastures to graze on blades of tinfoil grass, where her laterally positioned optics may take notice of opportunistic predators lurking in the shadowy undergrowth within the surrounding treeline…”
All femmes have their attention fixed.
“Interesting,” the bounty hunter notes quietly. “Majestic creature.”
“I wanna ride one,” announces the bike rather more loudly. “I bet they go wicked fast.”
“They’re kinda cool,” the mercenary confesses under her vents. “I like the stabby horns.”
Suddenly, the singlehorn transforms into its vehicular alt-mode and surges over the forest, moments before a dark quadrupedal feline pounces out of the tall tinfoil grasses, ambush foiled due to making the mistake of stepping on a copper twig during the stalking, the betraying sound of a singular snap alerting prey of predator.
“Damn!” Flamewar giggle-snorts. “Look at her jetting it!”
“I feel sorry for the cat,” Roulette intones. “Now he’s destined to go another night hungry.”
“Of course you’d sympathise with the hunter and not the hunted,” Shadow Striker teases. “Eh, sis.”
“Frag off, brat.”
“Love you too.”
“Oh, look at that. Dinner is not on fire tonight.”
“See? We can manage it as a team.”
“The both of us together make for one reasonably stable whole, mm?”
Slipstream grins, slapping her palm against Chromia’s in a high-five over their efforts at making dinner, which is passable and not ruined even a little bit. “Yay for team us!”
Windblade’s lingering spectre laughs merrily with them, delighted that her loves continue to cohabit and cooperate.
“Now, then. Will it serve?”
“You do it. I get nervous at this point.”
The bike makes a masculine, determined grunting sound as she carefully dishes out generous portions upon their plates. “Ah-ha. It’s not stuck to the bottom of the pan. It serves.”
“Dinner’s not on fire tonight, but we sure are.”
“Absolutely.”
The Seeker accepts her portion with a grin. “Thanks!”
“Don’t thank me, you helped make it.”
“But you also helped make it.”
Chromia huffs handsomely, about to say something cool, only to reel when Slipstream nuzzles her cheek, a chaste and fleeting gesture of gratitude and affection typical of flier bodily language, then takes a seat at the table they have set for three.
Windblade has a space allocated to her too, though she does not occupy it in more than spirit, and her spirit is fist-pumping victoriously right about now.
“It smells good.”
“Uh, yeah, it does.”
The Seeker offers her cup.
The bike dumbly stares at it for some moments, then realises what this implies and shyly presents her own, cheeks flushed.
“To Windblade.”
“Yes, to Windblade.”
“And to all our friends, too.”
“Of course, to everyone.”
“And to us. May we never burn the house down with our combined meal prep.”
“Heh, to us.”
They thus toast their beloved, and all the rest, and each other, gently bumping their cups together with a crystalline tinkle.
“Mm. It’s not half bad.”
“Could do with more lead sulfide crystals.”
“Ah, hahaha.”
Chromia’s quiet, stoic demeanour lends a sort of gentle banter at the best of times, when she finally relaxes and lets her guard down. She has many layers of self-defence and she is fiercely protective over Windblade, but to those trusted few, an amicable personality reveals itself, lingering on the fringe of playfulness.
Slipstream is comparatively friendlier, less shy, which is nice for her since she is usually the most socially anxious person in the room, and so she finally feels like she can steer a conversational partner for once, though she tries not to be bossy or overbearing about it. She wants to be liked and offers sincere demonstrations of her affections, being so very lonely.
“A university, you said? With a letter of recommendation?”
“Yes, and if things work out, I could study hard and aspire to be a medic.”
“Wonderful. I hope it happens for you. You deserve it.”
“I could finally be useful to people.”
The bike feels a pang at that, recognising the Seeker’s desperation.
“I’ll tell Windblade when she’s less likely to hurt herself getting excited on my behalf. Do you mind keeping it a secret? Especially since the university hasn’t got back to me yet.”
“Of course.”
“Thank you.”
Chromia clears her vents, abandoning her meal for a moment to reach over and grasp a servo larger than her own.
Slipstream looks up, smiling sweetly. “Mm?”
“You’ve taken such good care of her. I owe you a great debt for–”
“Oh, no-no-no, you don’t owe me anything. Letting me live with you is more than enough kindness on your part. Please, don’t worry about it.”
The bike lets the issue go, after giving the joint within the base of the Seeker’s thumb a slow caress.
“Listen, boss bot…”
“Mm?” Shadow Striker palms the protoform cheeks to pry them further apart, rooting deeper into Flamewar’s gorgeous aft.
“I don’t mean to keep my past a secret from you out of some, like, distrust or intent to hurt you. Roulette doesn’t hold it over my helm just to torture me, she just wants to make sure I’m safe for you, that and that you’ll be okay when she’s gone.”
The mercenary pauses, glossa out, face plate buried in humid mesh.
“She’s not perfect, she’s a jerk, but she loves you. She knows me better than I know myself, so I don’t blame her for being cautious, considering I can’t even recall what I’ve done, but she can.” The bike draws shapes into the synthetic pillow propped under her chin for comfort as she keeps her aft hiked high, her spinal strut arched exaggeratedly. “She told me about my past so I could face her for it, and she only did that so she knows you’ll be safe when you’re alone with me.”
A slow, unsteady exhale, muffled and wet, answers that from behind.
“She’s being real nice by honouring my privacy, but she’s doing it to protect you, not me. Like, I haven’t done anything directly to hurt you and Primus knows the me I am right now would never do anything meant to hurt you. But the old me was a different beast altogether.”
The mercenary pulls out, dragging an arm across her grimace to wipe up the perspired coolant and drooled oral lubricant, sitting back to peer down at the bike from this erotic angle, rather turned off.
“I don’t wanna talk about it because I don’t wanna say something that’ll make you dump me for stuff I can’t even remember or verify as the truth, beyond taking her word for it, but I don’t think she’s lying since she could just capture me and take the old bounty if she wanted, like, assuming bounties don’t expire, but your happiness means more to her than that.”
“You say you didn’t do anything hurt me.”
“Far as I know, far as she said, yeah. And even if the old me’s wiped out, I know I’d never hurt you on purpose, not as I am now.”
“Okay. Well, I still hate that she knows your past better than I do, but if you really don’t wanna say something about it, and you’re really sure that you didn’t hurt me back then and that you’re no danger to me moving forward… I guess I can bury the hatchet.”
“You’ll let this go, boss bot?”
“For the sake of us, yeah.”
“I want us to work out, too.”
“Then we’ll just leave your past in the past and focus on our future, and hope this doesn’t blow up in our faces later on, yeah?”
“Yeah. Thanks, boss bot.”
Shadow Striker gives Flamewar a forgiving little pat on the aft, then moves to sit on the edge of the berth, fiddling with the softening, deflating mesh of her uninspired spike, interest in interfacing subconsciously lost, manifesting in performance issues. “Dammit.”
The bike feels monumentally guilty, for which she tries to compensate by being cute, crawling over to drag her sensual self against the bigger, heavier mercenary, reaching into her lap to offer another servo to the task of playing with her spike until hopefully it revives again.
“This never happens to me. Sorry.”
“It’s okay. That was a heavy topic and I brought it up at a bad time.”
Shadow Striker stares down at her mostly flaccid spike. A ridiculous thing, heavily modified and rendered bigger than natural to impress, and now she cannot even will herself to use it. Her libido has never failed. She even made a point of seeking out lovers after successfully completing assignments before joining the Decepticons, as the high of her own excellence would incite her.
“We don’t gotta frag if you’re not up to it.”
“I’m always up to it. Ugh. I feel old and impotent, but I know I’m not. I can frag all day. You know me, you know I can.”
“You’re a person, not a toy. I use you like a toy sometimes, but you’ve got thoughts and feelings too.”
“Yeah, guess so.”
Flamewar stoops into that lap, hefting the uncooperative spike to take it into her fanged intake, sucking and licking the stale taste of disinterest. She feels like she broke something precious and difficult to fix, but she is here for as long as she is wanted and she will do her best until the end.
“I don’t think I’m gonna get hard for a while. My valve might cooperate, so you can spike me instead.”
“Mmhm.”
The mercenary sighs mutedly as her spike is gently spat out. It is mortifying.
The bike brushes her claws over the folds of mesh, lukewarm and moist, alighting upon the anterior node crowning the valve and plucking at it with a teasing talon. “How do you wanna do this?”
“You like me on top, so–” Shadow Striker grunts when Flamewar lovingly lays a gentle claw, slick with some lubricant, upon her dermas.
“We don’t always gotta follow my script. I can top, too.”
“Mmm.”
The claw descends again as the bike lays her other palm upon the mercenary’s breastplate, pushing her onto her back to climb atop, mounting her with ease in spite of their difference in scale. “Comfy, boss bot?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Good.”
Shadow Striker folds her arms under her helm and focuses too hard on relaxing, which is counter-intuitive. She cannot find the inner peace she seeks.
Flamewar carefully navigates the valve with her claws, her own spike semi-erect, somewhat interested. “Can I eat you out for a bit? I love eating you out, boss bot.”
“Yeah, okay.”
The bike stops what she is doing and withdraws her servo, peering at her claws. “You’re kinda wet, but you don’t sound very enthused.”
“I’m fine, just a little miffed, is all.” The mercenary glances at her lover, then looks away with optic and scope seeking dark recesses in the room to get lost in.
Flamewar swallows thickly, dismounting to instead recline beside Shadow Striker, cuddled against her.
“Oh, okay.”
“Maybe later?”
“Frag it, let’s just sleep.”
“Boss bot, maybe we should talk about–”
“Talking is what ruined the mood to begin with. I was fine before you went and brought my sister up and all the secrets you feel you must keep from me.”
The bike buries her face in the mercenary’s chest.
“I’m not mad at you. I’m not even mad at her, not any more. I meant what I said. I’ll get over myself and we’ll leave this all behind us. I guess my body just has to get over it all, too.” That said, Shadow Striker seals her modesty panels with a very loud sound.
Flamewar retracts her spike without waiting for it to fully depressurise and seals her indecency away, resigned to cuddling tonight. She usually loves to cuddle.
After a couple of hours spent peacefully reading uninspired schlock before berth, bearing an addictive quality due to being written with the express intention to entertain lonely people, Chromia’s romance holonovel suddenly delves into a particularly raunchy scene that has her flushed and nervously glancing up from the datapad, as if wary of being spied upon indulging in something so saucy beyond the privacy of the berthroom. She likes her romantic schlock, a penchant for which Windblade gently teases.
Slipstream has fallen asleep in her favourite armchair, slumped inelegantly back, jaw hung, drooling, and so she could not criticise even if she were the type to challenge one’s reading material. It is getting late and it has been a long day.
The bike watches the Seeker sleep for several silent seconds, not intending to be creepy, but definitely noting certain similarities in her bulky yet streamlined framework to the main romantic interest within the plot, who is also a flier, though the specific model is never defined beyond being handsome and muscular – the chiselled facial rigging, sturdy pauldrons, burly arms, broad bosom, knotted abdominal plating, a tapering waist…
Slipstream mumbles something in her sleep.
Chromia snaps out of it, admonishing herself and setting her holonovel aside, sure to turn the datapad off so that the contents cannot be unintentionally shared. She rises from her seat and crosses the lounge to lay a servo upon her companion. “Slipstream.”
“Huuugh.”
“You mustn’t sleep like that. It’s bad for your back.”
“Wuh?”
“Come, let’s get you to berth.”
The Seeker rouses with a yawn and a rippling stretch. “Mmhm.”
The bike chuckles and helps the bigger femme stand, supporting her on the way to the main berthroom.
“Chromia, you’re really nice.”
“So are you, Slipstream.”
The femmes reach Windblade’s big berth, littered with too many synthetic cushions and pillows and blankets, always neatly made even in her absence, hopeful that she will be home soon. It comes with temperature and tilt controls for maximum comfort.
Peeling back the layers, Chromia commands gently, “Lie down.”
Slipstream climbs into berth and collapses in a relieved heap, groaning softly. “Tuck me in?” comes out in a rather adorable little voice.
The bike proceeds to do just that, pulling the blankets up to the Seeker’s chin.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Is your alarm set?”
“Mmhm.”
“Very good. Sleep well.”
“Okay.” Slipstream peers up at Chromia through narrowed optics, drowsy and soft. “Don’t stay up too long. S’late already.”
“I’ll go to berth in a minute.”
“Sweet dreams only.”
The bike smiles, dimming the lights and shutting the door quietly after herself.
The Seeker promptly falls back to sleep, laid out in the Cityspeaker’s scent.
Ravage rakes his claws over the shut door – cybercats despise shut doors, as their movements prefer freedom of entry and exit – and yowls demandingly for admittance and attention, infuriated that his servants ignore him.
“Sing for me, beautiful…”
Soundwave makes the most melodious moaning, his bulk thrown back dramatically with his helm dangling over the edge of the berth and digits sunk into his own cassette compartment, open to bare the place closest to his Spark chamber to his lover’s wanton gaze and probing ministrations, thighs wrapped about Hot Rod’s hips as their valves collide again and again and again, spikes already spent and flailing about, scattering dregs of residual transfluid.
“Yeah, sing higher, sing louder…”
When yowling does not work, Ravage departs in a huff, hops onto a counter, and proceeds to push things off with his paw, choosing objects likely to hit the floor with the most noise of impact.
The mechs do not notice. Hot Rod seeps hotly over Soundwave’s lap, offering a stuttering thrust as an overload flutters within the plump, tight folds of the valve, pressed against another valve that throbs deliciously in response, erect anterior nodes ground together with a flicker of charge passing between, eliciting another overload.
The cybercat scowls down at the floor, littered with random objects overthrown. He will have to claw someone’s leg as punishment for the outrage of being ignored.
Mechs cry out together. Soundwave turns his helm aside, baring his neck before Hot Rod collapses into it, suckling on a flushed fuel line, their valves locked in a kiss, spikes twitching in their entanglement, limbs moving to ensnare, servos reaching to caress.
Ravage brings a toy to the door and drops it, takes a seat, and proceeds to meow loudly enough to wake the dead, as a last resort before he truly runs away from home to find better people more deserving of his magnificence.
“That’s your son,” Hot Rod murmurs through a loving bite to the neck, smiling.
“He’s your son when he irritates me,” Soundwave murmurs in reply, hushed vocalizer warbling musically, holding his mech close.
“We need to get a catsitter, so us dads can get some alone time. I keep telling you, babe.”
“I trust very few people to take care of our precious boy. He’s special.”
“You’re so cute when you get overprotective of him.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I better get up and go give him treats so he’ll stop screaming. Sheesh.”
“No, stay and rest. I’ll attend to him.”
The cybercat hears movement as mechs peel apart, leaving one to languish in berth, the other opening the door with a downcast gaze.
“You called.”
Meow.
“What is it, Ravage?”
Meow.
“He wants to play, looks like.”
Meow.
Soundwave patiently stoops to retrieve the toy, a rubber ball ruined by bite marks and claw marks alike, holding it before Ravage’s bright feline optics before tossing it over him, into the depths of the unlit habitation suite. “Fetch.”
The cybercat would be offended, but he hurries after the toy, sprinting loudly on the metallic floor tiles. When he locates it somewhere in the dim, he makes a chirping sound and gallops back, turning sideways at the final steps and hopping aside, back arched to appear bigger.
“Aw. Toss it again, babe.”
“If he’ll let me have it.”
Ravage does not relinquish his toy so easily, though this is part of the game, proceeding to wrap his legs about the forearm, claws sinking into shell, kicking with his rear paws.
“Ouch.”
“Beware the cyberjaguar.”
“Now you tell me. Ravage, that hurts. Play nicely.”
The cybercat does not concede to the mech’s demands.
When Soundwave redirects his efforts and manages to wriggle his digits over Ravage’s belly plates, Hot Rod can only smile at the onset of rumbling, a little mechanical beast purring whilst playfully savaging his boyfriend and fellow cat dad. “We have gotta socialise him better before we call a catsitter. He’s a terror.”
“He’s perfect. We don’t need someone else taking care of him. We can manage just fine on our – ow. Ravage, that’s not nice.”
“Yeeeaaah, we totally got this.”
Having re-read that particular segment enough times to grow frustrated enough to act on it, Chromia draws her soiled servo before her dissatisfied expression, watching the transfluid seep from her palm into the finer mechanical parts of her inner wrist, seeping into the mesh of her mature, muscular protoform. Getting herself off just does not compensate for missing Windblade, or lusting after Slipstream.
Tomorrow is a new day. The internal chronometer confirms it is almost tomorrow.
A glossa laps up the seed, to be swallowed and repurposed into something the body might find nutritious, in some capacity.
Notes:
The bot accounts responsible for submitting scam solicitation comments attempting to commission art have been reported to the Policy & Abuse team. Hopefully they can sort this out. Online research indicates that these messages I've been receiving are symptoms of a wide-spread problem currently hitting different fandoms, across different sites, so I'm not the only victim. I strongly advise for your own wellbeing that you do not engage with these accounts beyond reporting, deleting, and blocking.
On a happier note, this story is officially a year old. Wow, hard to believe we've come this far in that space of time. I hope you're enjoying the ride. Thanks for being here!
Chapter 59
Notes:
Loads of sex in this one, so I hope someone out there enjoys it. Skip it if you don't, as the plot carries on regardless, but you'll miss some character-driven moments that are significant.
Possible trigger warnings: grief, unhealthy attachments, toxic relationship dynamics, breeding kink.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Sufficiently recovered after being berth-bound for this long, the morning that Windblade is able to walk across the ward with minimal assistance under the watchful guidance of head medic Red Alert is the day she finally coaxes the strict but compassionate doctor to let the friends take her home.
“Alright, but you must attend to your recovery. Do not overexert yourself, but do not skip a single day of moderate exercise and dieting, and no transformation until you’ve recovered your full strength and mobility. Am I understood?”
“Yes, Doctor, thank you. I’ll be good this time, I promise.”
“Very well, then.” Red Alert offers one of her rare, regal smiles, nodding once. “I entrust your care to your friends. I’ll pass you your personalised recovery plan. It’s quite simple to follow.”
Windblade beams, delighted to finally be permitted to leave. She promised not to overexert herself, but she fully intends on dragging Chromia and Slipstream both back to the habitation suite and into the berthroom. However, an obvious problem manifests rather abruptly.
“My love, it’s my job. I have to go back to work.”
“Oh. Right. Sorry.”
“It’s okay. We’ll just miss each other for a little while, but the hours pass quickly.”
“Yeah. I guess.”
“I’ll see you later.” Slipstream chuckles, ruffling Windblade’s helm. “Take it easy while I’m gone. Chromia will look after you. Our other friends will be here as soon as they can. I bet Grimlock is gonna host a celebration just for you.”
“Mmhm.” The Cityspeaker sulks.
The Seeker sighs. “Kisses?”
Windblade grabs Slipstream and drags her closer with a hum, dissolving altogether in soft, wet smacks of their colliding dermas, writhing glossas.
“Nice,” Chromia murmurs, having just returned with medication and a snack.
The Seeker moans into the Cityspeaker’s ravishing intake, but ultimately pulls away, twisting aside with a giggle to evade the kisses that chase for more with a whimper of protest.
“Let her go back to work,” the bike intones fondly. “She won’t be gone for long.”
Windblade relents, flushed and fond. “Have a nice day.”
“I will. You, too.” Slipstream gives her lover a parting peck on the forehelm, then turns to Chromia with a nuzzle. “Both of you.”
The bike is perhaps a tad disappointed, as she shyly wishes for a kiss, but she also understands that they are not lovers and there is still some distance between them. She nuzzles the Seeker back and watches her go with affection.
The Cityspeaker is glad that her favourite femmes are on such good terms now, perking considerably despite her prior sulking. “Sooo…”
“So?”
“Do you wanna do stuff?”
“What sort of stuff?”
“I love it when you act coy, Chromia.”
“Windblade, my love, you literally just got home.”
“Yeah, exactly. I’m finally free and I’m pent-up.”
Chromia smirks softly as her large, strong palms capture Windblade’s soft, smooth cheeks, cupping her beautiful grin with adoration. “You are impossible.”
“I dunno, you seem to know your way around handling me just fine, handsome.”
“Do you realise how hard I had to work to figure out your various moves and moods?”
“It started with you kicking my aft that first time when we met in the sparring ring, which of course won me over since I’d never been so humbled before, and pretty soon it ended up with me bent over your aft in my berth that first night I invited you home and you dared to accept my invitation, because you ended up liking me and my moods and moves. Now, here we are.” The Cityspeaker pokes out her glossa teasingly, then winks. “So, yeah, I have a vague idea, but only because I had to figure you out, too.”
“I’m so glad we understand each other, Windblade.”
“I thank Primus for our love all the time, Chromia.”
The bike melts a little where she stands, fluttering her shutters coquettishly. She is large for a two-wheeler, built unusually sturdy and heavyset, but she is very soft and sweet with those she trusts the most.
“I’m healed enough to suck that huge spike of yours.”
“Oh, yes?”
“Oh, yes! Or I could eat out that hot little valve, or maybe I should eat your tight aft instead? Wanna get fisted? Whatever you like.”
Chromia is sorely tempted. She bites her derma and feels a stirring in her modesty panels, her interface array warming up and automatically redirecting Energon flow to power an erection and dispensing a flood of lubricant to allow for easy entry.
Windblade is a bit shorter, her slender frame pushing against the blue musculature beneath her wandering servos, seeking breasts first.
Groaning quietly, the bike sucks air into her vents greedily, in turn expanding her considerable frame and pushing out her upper chassis, driving her breastplate deeper into those soft, silky palms with a few distinct calluses due to Stormfall’s hilt. She, too, reaches for something sensual to hold onto, landing both large servos on the Cityspeaker’s plump little aft, squeezing protoform mesh to bulge a bit betwixt strong digits.
“Thank you for coming back,” Red Alert intones with subtle humour. “I was worried I’d lost you. Not sure how I’d explain that to Ratchet upon his return.”
“Oh, um, well.” Slipstream flushes, shyly rubbing her neck. “I know I’m a little late, but please don’t doubt my commitment. Though I’m sure I’m quite replaceable with someone else volunteering here.”
“I certainly won’t. Actually, you’re one of the best we have.”
“Really?”
“You needn’t tell the others I said that, though. I’m meant to be impartial.”
“Thank you.” The Seeker gives the older medic a shy smile. “I’ll keep it to myself.”
“I’ll be okay, I promise. Of course I wanna get laid badly, but I won’t get hurt if you let loose on me.”
“The moment it taxes your body too far to bear, tell me.”
“I’ll be sure to let you know.”
Chromia proceeds to pick Windblade up, effortlessly hoisting her below the aft and lifting her close, waiting a moment for the smaller femme to sling her ruby thighs about blue hips, hugging snugly and securely, before hurrying for the berthroom in a trail of giggles and sighs and huffs of hot air.
“Ohhh, someone’s eager!”
The bike is ever so gentle, trembling with restraint and excitement as she lays the Cityspeaker down upon the berth, laid out beautifully below.
“Mmm. I think I might have to tell Slip all about how you fragged me while she was gone, just to see how it drives her wild with want when she gets back home to us.” Windblade knows she is being especially bold, even for her, but she sees the flicker of arousal in those wide blue optics cast ravenously upon her. “Do you think she’ll ask you for a turn next?”
Chromia lurches above, gasping as her hips jerk, jaw clenched. “Windblade.”
“Ah, hahaha. You’re so easy to tease. I love you so much.”
“Brat.”
“That’s me, alright.”
“I’m trying not to prematurely overload, here. Solus Prime, you little tease. Don’t make it more difficult for me.”
“Just ignore those system prompts, silly.”
“Humph. As if I really want to. It hurts.”
“Aw, sweet Spark.”
“You certainly don’t hold back unless I beg you to. You just overload whenever you feel like, usually all over me, when my optics are open and my enstrils are shoved up your interface array. It burns, you know.”
The Cityspeaker answers that with a slow, slobbery lick that spans from chin to forehelm, dragged across the bike’s flushed face plate.
“Slag,” Chromia mutters through a shimmering trail of oral lubricant, then releases her valve and guides Windblade’s digits into it, whereupon she wastes no time in pinching and prodding the erect anterior node. “Mmm. Yes. Right there, just like that.”
“Slip’s digits are much bigger than mine. I’m sure she can get really deep.”
“Ohhh, you beautiful, brilliant glitch. Hnnngh.”
The Cityspeaker yelps as her primary neck cable is sucked hard enough to bruise, arching her spinal strut and hooking one thigh about the bike’s hip, the other thigh flung aside to make space for the spike as it ejects in an arch. “Jerk me off, handsome. You can pretend I’m her, if that helps.”
Purring salaciously, Chromia takes hold of Windblade’s erection and gropes it blindly whilst attacking the other fuel lines in her neck and throat, pre-overload already beading at the tip and running down the shaft in slick rivulets.
“I can’t wait to see her on both knees, on her back, on her belly,” the Cityspeaker moans through shudders and sighs, “taking your spike up to the hilt, smothered in your valve, digging into your aft.”
The bike trembles, her pumping fist unsteady upon the shaft, hastening to squeeze from base to tip, polishing the head of it with quick strokes of the passing palm.
It is enough to make Windblade falter her dirty talk, turning her wrist to insert two slender digits into the quivering mesh whilst digging a thumb into the anterior node, able to thrust and grind at once.
Chromia sucks again, drawing Energon to the surface of rubbery pipes, leaving bruised marks as signs of her love, signs she claimed this body in love. Everyone who sees, knows. It makes her swell with territorial pride, though she is not usually possessive or jealous.
The Cityspeaker feels wetness escape her gaping moan and realises with a jerk that she is drooling.
The bike readjusts her stance, thrusting at this point, mating with a touch between her braced thighs.
“Hahhh… Solus Prime… Chromia…”
“You’re so hard,” Chromia murmurs into the neck of her oldest and best friend, closest confident, and love of her entire life, propped up on one arm to thrust from above whilst the other arm flexes muscularly against a bobbing, twitching, oozing spike.
“You’re so wet,” Windblade answers in a heavy breath, her spare servo groping the blue expanse of breastplate as if intending to deform the reinforced metal with dents, another servo lost to the suction of a devouring valve with wet squelching sounds, erratic in cadence due to the sheer eagerness of those venturing digits and the push and pull of those thrusting hips. “Mount me. Take in my spike. Let me breed you.”
The bike keeps getting prompts in her HUD begging her to overload and the urgency burns in her circuits, spiking her internal temperature readings, but she refrains from accepting relief just yet. “Are you sure I won’t hurt you?”
“I trust you with my body, my soul, my life.” The Cityspeaker is rarely so restrained, as she has phenomenal stamina and recovers quickly enough to overload again, and again, and again, but she is making the rare effort not to overload the first time too soon, holding back for a change. “Please.”
Chromia whines as she grasps Windblade’s wrist and reluctantly pulls her soaked digits away, only to grasp and guide her drooling spike in their place, the tip smearing pre-overload against the anterior node as their interface arrays finally meet.
The Cityspeaker rolls back her optics and sees stars as the bike sits herself slowly down, her hot, slick, throbbing valve snugly swallowing the entire spike in delicious increments until fully seated.
“Yes,” Chromia intones huskily. “Yes, yes, yes…” She begins to bounce.
Windblade drags her heels over the berth and writhes over the comfortable berth, coolant pooling between her breasts, sweat glittering upon the curved plates like jewels. She unintentionally scatters a few of her many synthetic pillows and cushions, twisting her body in the sheets designed to regulate temperature as well as prevent scuffed paint and scratches during recharge cycles. “Gnnnph! Faster, Chromia! Harder! Ride me like a wild singlehorn!”
This makes the bike laugh, but she obliges, bouncing upon her haunches with haste and heaviness, saddled upon the Cityspeaker’s plunging groin, a wet slapping sound punctuating every collide of their joined interface arrays. Laughter dissolves into delighted gasps and groans.
“You’re so good, ohhh, you’re so handsome, and strong, and big,” Windblade coos, willingly submitting in her weakened condition, though she usually assumes a dominant role. “That fat valve is perfect, I can’t imagine a better place to be. I love you more than life.”
Chromia squeezes her optics shut and bares her dentas as her spike tries to punch a hole through the sealed panel. It will get its turn. It just has to wait, along with her various other interface subsystems all demanding quick satisfaction. She wants this to last a little.
Apparently the Cityspeaker shares this sentiment, savouring their lovemaking, not rushing for the first of multiple finishes. “Show me your Spark, Chromia. Let me look into your soul.”
Who could refuse? Certainly not the bike, who releases the seals built within her bosom, transforming the plates aside and opening up to reveal the throbbing, pulsing Spark within its chamber, her immortal life-force tethered to the AllSpark no matter the distance, animating this shell that shall age and wither eventually.
Windblade stares into the light, optics brimming with tears. “Beautiful,” she says like a prayer, reaching for it. “Pure. Precious.”
Chromia stoops, open wide and totally exposed, at her most vulnerable, her most trusting, and allows those digits, slick with her own arousal, to pierce the veil of energy to alight upon her Spark in a familiar, fond, friendly caress.
“Hi.”
“Hey.”
The Cityspeaker sniffles wetly, her digits wading through Sparkmatter.
The bike’s entire body surges as her soul is cupped in a delicate palm and held within the walls of the chamber. There is no greater intimacy, no more sincere a show of devotion, than this.
“It’s been fun, sis.”
“Yes, for the most part.”
Shadow Striker bows her helm, sighing quietly. “Listen, I… I don’t apologise very often, but I realise I’ve been a tool to you, from time to time, and sure, you’ve been a tool too, but… I love you, you love me. We’re sisters, so… I wanna see you again, spend more quality time with you, all that good stuff. Maybe you could hit me up when you’re free?”
Roulette is visibly taken aback, but as she digests these words, she smiles in a way that brings crinkles to the corners of her optics. “I’ll be sure to do that, if you’ll answer my call and reply to my texts, you afthole.”
“Alright, then. Sweet. So…”
“Give me a hug, bolt-head.”
“Yeah, yeah, bring it in.”
The sisters come together in an embrace, bumping their helms affectionately like grounders do, with masculine back slapping and low murmurs of affection passing between them.
Flamewar keeps back, watching them with soft, sad optics.
Eventually, the sisters peel apart.
“Stay away from the Decepticons, hear me? That path is no good for you, or her.”
The bike exhales as the bounty hunter casts her a nod.
“You two can go back to mercenary work, if my sister here is too restless to retire just yet, but do things smart. Keep your servos as clean as you can and stay out of trouble. Watch her for me while I’m gone, yeah?”
“I will, Roulette. I’mma watch boss bot’s back, always. She’s safe with me, I swear it on my life. Trust.”
“I’ll come to collect that life debt from you if it ever transpires that you’ve lied to me. Got it?”
“Goddit.”
“Good.”
The mercenary groans. “C’mon, sis, don’t threaten to kill the girl. What the frag. That’s weird.”
“Just making sure we understand each other.”
“Whatever. I’ll let it pass this time.”
Roulette suddenly offers Flamewar a servo.
Shadow Striker perks, perhaps optimistic.
“It’s been nice, getting to know you again,” the bike says softly and sincerely, accepting the bigger servo in her own. “Thanks for giving me a shot, and not, like, shooting me.”
“Don’t make me regret it,” the bounty hunter intones lowly, with the faintest hint of a smile. “I hope the rest of your life is an improvement over the parts you’ve forgotten. Love her and live well and I’ll call us even.”
“Deal.”
The mercenary flushes, her entire body seizing up, and yet it feels kinda good this time. This time, she does not have a panic attack and retaliate out of trauma, trying to render herself unlovable, hateful, out of fear of being hurt again. Perhaps there is still hope for her.
Roulette sneaks in a kiss, deposited upon Shadow Striker’s flushed cheek, making her scowl rather adorably.
Flamewar giggle-snorts.
“Love you, sis.”
“Ugh, love you back. Now go.”
The bounty hunter’s visor drops. She tips her helm in goodbye, then turns and steps into the crowd, to take the space bridge somewhere else.
The bike leans into the mercenary’s side.
“I’m gonna miss her,” Shadow Striker confesses quietly, before wrapping an arm around Flamewar and pulling her in close, then closer still.
“Overload,” Windblade commands, laid back in tears with Chromia’s life in her servo.
The release is so immense that it rips a high-pitched scream from the usually stoic and soft-spoken bike’s throat. Her valve gushes, spasmodic. Her sealed spike spurts transfluid, flooding against the panel. She would lurch violently in overload, if her Spark was not in the Cityspeaker’s capable servo, stabilising as a tether, an anchor.
Windblade does not let go just yet, caressing and squeezing and wading her digits through the Spark she holds as it flares and pulses in so many shimmering ways before her awestruck optics brimming with tears, this wondrous source of beautiful life throbbing against her submerged and cradling digits. This is a sight she will never grow used to. She would overload right now, but she does not wish to risk hurting her love, and so instead gives pleasure and takes pleasure as its witness.
Chromia eventually stops screaming and holds position to avoid overly stressing her overheated internal mechanisms, sagging in place, panting hoarsely as the aftershocks send little tremors of ecstasy all over.
“You okay?” the Cityspeaker asks softly, petting the Spark almost apologetically now, in turn provoking more pleasure that she witnesses with a healthy mixture of honour and pride, and perhaps an edge of the sort of fear only the reverent can feel.
“I’m golden,” the bike croaks, managing a wonky grin. “Did you overload, too?”
“Not yet. Wanted to get you off first. I think you needed it more than I do.”
“Please, fill me with your seed. My body is ready.”
“Great, so’s mine.” Windblade removes her servo from Chromia’s open Spark chamber for safety’s sake, but gazes into it as those digits alight upon a hip instead, coaxing a motion to rise and fall, stimulating once more. “Aw, yeah, look at you. I’ve never seen anyone with such a bright, beautiful inner light as yours, Chromia.”
The bike flushes and smiles modestly, bouncing upon the spike that twitches in her clenched valve, very aware of the wet squelching sounds. “You are too kind.”
“When I’m not being cruel.”
“Your cruelty is kindness.”
The Cityspeaker answers that with a little slap to her lover’s aft and an impatient upward thrust, heel struts scrabbling for purchase and catching onto the berth for leverage. “Mmmyeeeaaah,” comes out in a low, masculine rumble, spilling forth with a burning liquid heat sourced directly from her aching transfluid reserves, partially draining themselves in thick, sticky ropes against the entrance of the forge. “Take it all, oooh, that’s a good girl, so good, uh-huh.” Another slap to the aft, loud and sharp and damp.
To the bemusement of everyone – though nobody dares criticise or question it aloud – Alpha Strike takes an instant liking to Skywarp, adopting the mute Seeker as a sort of assistant, enrolling her in tasks that are helpful to organising the team of heavies which the old General now leads. The irresponsible young Seeker surprises further in that she seems to do a sterling job of it, lending her unusual intelligence and easygoing charm to the role. It helps that she is cute, easily liked by most.
Demolishor is a part of this new squad and he holds himself with pride, being older and more archaic in design than most of the other burly tanks and other such types, yet his experience and firepower are never challenged by the other brutes. But even he quirks an optic ridge silently when Skywarp collects a datapad from him with a chirp and a nod of thanks, assessing the contents with critical optics until chirping and nodding again with apparent satisfaction.
“Bring the reports here, Skywarp, let me see them.” Alpha Strike is sat at a desk, servo outstretched. “I have high expectations. Best not disappoint.”
Demolishor and his fellow heavies look nervous at that, stood in a neat, orderly assemble within a large, bare room that affords enough space.
Skywarp trots over, returning the collection of datapads.
“Thank you. Hmm.”
The Seeker chirps, remaining at the General’s side as two sets of bright optics review the datawork briskly.
“Primus,” is muttered through facial vents, adding some distortion to the vocalised despair. “Why bother with basic aptitude tests any more? Soldiers now are not what they used to be, Skywarp.”
A low chirp answers that.
“Demolishor, you pass.”
The tank sighs, relieved.
Chromia thoroughly enjoys being overloaded onto, but she adores being overloaded into. She keeps up her contraceptive firewalls, as is responsible of anyone wishing to enjoy the sensation of an ample load.
Windblade’s habits render her transfluid reserves somewhat overactive as per the automated process of transfluid production, the fluctuations in production determined upon regular data packets, thus after this dry spell as a medical patient, as a free femme she has a lot of reserved transfluid from her bloated reserves to pump into this willing forge, sighing and twitching at the hips with every new burst.
“Goodness, you’re still going?”
“Yup.”
The bike sits there, amused and perhaps a little overwhelmed as she starts to feel uncomfortably full, taking it all from atop the Cityspeaker.
“I haven’t busted a ’load in forever,” comes out through dentas, gritted. “I’m not used to it. Hrrrgh. ’Sides, you’re gorgeous and I’m in love with you. Umph. Gimme a break. Hahhh. Oh, scrap. Ow, ow, ow.”
“Sore?”
“A bit. Ohhh.”
Chromia is about to get worried when Windblade looks astonishingly relieved.
“Aaand done!”
“Thank the Thirteen. I was getting worried I’d broken you.”
“Damn. Wonder how long it’ll take for my reserves to replace this huge ’load you just took from me.”
“Probably a day or two, knowing your habits.”
The Cityspeaker giggles, laid out in a puddle of coolant and lubricant and transfluid, fragrant with femme pheromones. “Wanna spike me next?”
The bike perks. “If you’re up to it, yes, absolutely.”
“Frag, yeah.”
Chromia sucks in air, mentally counting to three before she muscularly dismounts, pulling her drenched valve off of Windblade’s soaked spike, still swollen and pertially erect, spilling their fluids liberally. “Oh, no. That’ll be a glitch to clean.”
“Later. Spike me first.” The Cityspeaker swings her thighs wide, releasing her valve with an overflow of lubricant that had been trapped. “You don’t have to last long, my darling. Just long enough to rock my whole world.”
“That’s reassuring,” the bike comments with some humour as her spike flops out with a spray of spent transfluid, twitching with determination to rise again. “I may need some fluffing up, so to speak.”
“Aw, you busted already, with your panel shut?”
“You have your ways, Windblade. Sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’m so flattered, Chromia. Give it here, I’ll get you up.” Windblade drops her jaw like a pleasure frame, glossa overhanging dentas, slick and squirming, as if paving the way for the entrance of the tight, throbbing throat. “Aaah.”
“I love you more than my words can convey.” Chromia admires the sight, then reseals her Spark chamber and climbs atop her lover, trying to be delicate and careful with quivering knees when taking a seat upon the throne of that open intake, spike sliding easily within. “By the light of Primus, you will be my demise eventually, you minx.”
The Cityspeaker smirks with an intake stuffed with spike, ruby dermas sealed tightly about the semi-erect shaft. Big blue optics upcast to stare between bulky thighs, she suckles whorishly, making low moaning sounds that vibrate, laying her servos upon her own valve to pleasure herself, plucking at her twitching anterior node alight with engorged Energon whilst fondling the slick trough below, flirting with little dips in and out of the flexing entrance.
As if the lingering optic-contact is not arousing enough, the bike hears wet sounds and turns to look back over her pauldron, watching those servos work, groaning as her spike swells and hardens automatically with the visual input registering in her brain module as the stimulation she needs to hasten the refractory period of recovery, a preprogrammed precaution intended to prevent damage from overuse. She is so predictable, sometimes. Even she realises this.
Unashamed of her libido, Windblade frequently engages in self-pleasure protocols. She knows Chromia likes to watch, likes to listen, likes to know about it or suspect it is happening or fantasize about walking in on it. They have their arrangements about it. Certain keywords and phrases designed to playfully hint at it. She has trained her lover to be attuned to little tells. Those big blue optics twinkle, digits peeling the folds of mesh apart to expose more of the valve, anterior node pushed from side to side to show off its bright colour and swollen scale when fully erect.
“Push in, two digits,” the bike insists in a quivering voice. “Slow, deep.” She wheezes when the Cityspeaker obliges, gawking at the pair of digits that submerge slowly and deeply, stroking within the twitching, glistening mesh. “Oh, save me, Solus Prime. I am undone.”
Windblade gags, a sort of muffled hiccup, when the spike fully expands and extends, reaching her gag reflex sensors from this angle. Her tears fall freely as she mewls about the obstruction that just sits on her glossa while she suckles upon it, venting against pelvic plates, staring up at Chromia who still looks back and watches those slender digits masturbate.
“Show me your overload,” Chromia insists, rarely this bossy, taking some liberty.
Obliging, the Cityspeaker pinches her anterior node and digs into an internal sensor, hips bucking instinctively as she lets out a baying exhale from around the spike. She does not see it for herself, but she feels it when an arc of lubricant spirts through the obstruction of her wiggling digits, forming an arc that spatters high upon her inner thigh to one side. Her spike, flopped over, manages another spurt to match.
“Primus,” is all the bike can say, before she grips her lover by the helm and pulls out, only to slide back in, sat upon her jaw whilst thrusting forward and at a tilted angle, hitting the gag reflex with little belches and hiccups and a few hoarse wretches until firing off a salvo of transfluid that is mostly swallowed, a gag inadvertently forcing transfluid away from the throat, bursting from the enstrils instead.
Relishing in the discomfort, high from another overload, Windblade continues to touch herself and effortlessly coaxes another release whilst halfway drowning in Chromia’s transfluid, a generous enough load though not as excessive.
“Enough,” the bike cries as she is suckled into oversensitive territory. “Please, I can’t!” She yanks back, wanting to pull out, at war with her instinctively thrusting hips.
Relenting, the Cityspeaker unseals her dermas with a wet pop and drools transfluid mixed with oral lubricant, slopping down her own jaw and throat, oozing from her entrils. She lies back and watches her lover dismount clumsily, falling upon the berth aft-first with a clang, spike flailing.
“Gahhh!” Chromia grabs herself by the cheeks, dragging digits down below her rolling optics.
“You okay?” Windblade tries to say, but it comes out all funny and difficult to understand.
“I’ll live,” the bike utters, “for now.”
The Cityspeaker sighs, relieved. In the wordless pause that follows she clears her vents wetly and swallows what she can, then rudely snorts transfluid into her bent forearm to clear her enstrils.
“Forgive me.”
“What for? That was awesome, from my end. You know I like getting transfluid up in me, everywhere.”
“I liked it, too. I liked it too much.”
“Oh. This, again?”
“Yes, this again.”
“Hey, it’s alright with me. You know that.”
“You said you’d make me hard, but seeing you in your throes of pleasure, I ended up embracing the urge to overload myself. I’ll have to recover a moment before I can spike you like you want me to.”
“That’s so hot, Chromia. I could never be mad at you for ’loading to the sight of me. C’mon, we’ve talked about this before.”
“It’s just that you’ve been away for so long and I’ve missed you, so I want to do all the things I can to make you feel good to be home again, with me.”
Windblade softens, sitting up beside Chromia.
“I know I’m thinking too much.”
“I love you and your big brain module. But it does get a bit too busy sometimes.”
The bike sighs, watching her spike twitch, dribbling reserves of transfluid in a puddle below.
The Cityspeaker is watching, too. “Yum.” With a wily smirk, she resumes pleasuring herself.
The wet sounds of it draw Chromia’s attention, fixed upon the diggits delving messily into the tight, plump valve.
Windblade appreciates the audience, grabbing herself by the spike and playing with the floppy length and girth of it, slipping the head against her own belly with a plap-plap-plap and a cheeky grin.
Optics widen as the bike licks her dermas and swallows audibly.
“Just looking at you gets me hot, too. You know what I’m like.” The Cityspeaker shudders as she teases herself. “All of this, right here, is you. I’m gonna get hard again and I’m already wet, for you.”
Chromia’s engine gives off a throaty rumble as she feels her own valve ooze afresh, spike twitching more insistently. When she looks up, she can see the impression of wetness she has left from sitting on Windblade’s growing grin.
“Wanna taste?”
“Oh, yes.”
They kiss each other until they collapse in a knotted heap altogether again.
“How does it feel?” Knock Out lightly pats the flier’s pauldron, stood closely beside. “A good fit?”
“It feels…” Starscream wiggles the digits, turning his replacement servo over to admire the fresh paint. “Well, your craft is excellent, as expected. It looks the part. I must just get used to it, now.”
By the time Slipstream returns to the habitation suite, tired after being on her pedes for hours on end, Chromia and Windblade have cleaned their mess and got dinner started. “Hi, girls. I’m home.”
“Slip!”
The Seeker hears familiar pedes hurry to greet her at the door, arms open to catch the Cityspeaker in a hobble. “Hey, slow down. You just got back on your pedes.”
“I’m fine, I’m fine! Happy to see you, handsome.”
“Happier to see you, my beloved.”
They melt together, nuzzling and kissing and making grabs for each other’s aft.
“Dinner’s burning,” the bike calls out, in a mild panic. “Help.”
“Mmmph?” Windblade huffs, pulling away sharply. “Already? I turn my back for five seconds…”
Slipstream giggles. “Better go rescue her.”
Chromia curses, evidently in need of rescue.
The Cityspeaker takes the Seeker’s arm for support and hobbles off in a haste. “Turn the heat down, I’m almost there!”
“I’m sorry.” The bike tries not to look guilty. “The friends are supposed to be here in an hour, but…”
“It’s okay, dinner isn’t ruined.” Windblade soothes Chromia with a quick kiss. “See? Not so bad. We can salvage this.”
“I didn’t even do anything. My culinary efforts are cursed. I’ve said it before and this is proof.”
“Now, now, don’t say that.” Slipstream offers a burly hug. “We’ll fix it, as a team.”
“What Slip says. Now, where are the lead sulfide crystals…” The Cityspeaker likes it spicy.
The Seeker winces and the bike rubs her back strut, expression sympathetic.
“You passed!” Thunderblast lifts her cup. “Frag, yeah! Brains and brawn! Congrats, daddy!”
“The test was very basic, but thanks for that.” Demolishor chuckles, raising his cup within his hollow tubes. “I just hope my tired old body can keep up.”
“You’ll do great! This is a huge career opportunity for you, so just do your best and trust yourself. I know you, big guy, and I know you’ll make the most of it.”
“Aw, you’re so sweet.”
“Well, sure, I can be.”
“You have faith in me. It means a lot.”
“Hey, you’re my guy. I gotta believe.”
They tap their cups together, sharing a fond smile.
“How’s it going with your world domination plan?”
“It’s going good. She’s smitten already. I goddit.”
“Nice.”
“Except…”
“Except what?”
“She’s smitten, already.” The boat gazes up at the tank. “And she’s actually really sweet about the whole thing. She’s out to court me, like, for realsies. I haven’t had anyone actually want a full-on thing with me in forever.”
“Oh. Wow. That must be a lot to take in.”
“It is! I’m a little freaked out about it, and yet… I kinda appreciate her for that. I’ve missed the touch of a gentlefemme. It’s nice having someone around who wants to be around, who wants to stay.”
“You sound a little like Flamewar.”
“Aw, my poor little dirt bike. She deserves the world. I hope the boss sorts her scrap out someday soon and treats that girl right.”
“Ugh, yeah. Me, too. Not to be disrespectful, but I have my doubts. Doesn’t seem like they’ll work long-term.”
“Let’s just try to be optimistic, sweetie. Send good vibes only.”
“You’re right, dreamboat. You’re always right.”
“Yup!”
“Cheers to you, Windblade!” Grimlock declares, his cup held aloft. “Welcome home!”
The friends all exclaim the same. Dinner is not a disaster after all. Compliments are honest, although the drink refills are aplenty, as the tasty meal is quite spicy to most Cybertronians – typical of Windblade, happy to share her Camien flavours.
Slipstream is going to have a belly ache at some awful hour in the morning, she does not complain, as it is worth indulging her beloved’s tastes. Relationships are all about small sacrifices and this time, she is determined to make it work.
“Sucks that Soundwave couldn’t come.” Bumblebee cannot believe he just said that and meant it, sat at the table with his closest friends, some of whom are giving him amused looks. “I mean, like, he’s been chill.”
“Yeah, but with Ravage feeling so sick, it’s just not wise to carry him in the cassette compartment. We tried it and, well…” Hot Rod winces. “Let’s just say it’s not polite dinner conversation. So fellow cat dad’s back with the boy at home. Didn’t wanna leave our baby alone.”
“Such responsible cat dads.” Arcee always ends up thinking about Captain Snuffles, who can tolerate being left in the office over the course of a dinner date, and so coaxing Ariel into attendance was not difficult. “I love it.”
Windblade is very pleased to note that Ariel seems to like strong spices just as keenly, and although everyone has complimented the meal, nobody is as enthusiastic about devouring it as she is. “Hungry, huh?”
“She does enjoy her lead sulfide crystals,” Orion intones fondly.
Ariel has been trying to maintain her table manners, but it is a conscious effort after growing so accustomed to her own company when exploring alien words, or otherwise sharing accommodations with rude and boisterous crew-mates on long voyages out into space. She still ends up outpacing everyone else, finishing her portion and visibly tempted to request another helping. “That was awesome. Um, could I…?”
“Go ahead, help yourself. We made plenty.”
“Thanks, don’t mind if I do.”
Windblade is very, very pleased. She likes a femme with a healthy appetite. It indicates a strong constitution.
Of course, Ariel’s bulging pink biceps and broad pink pauldrons and all the other impressive pink parts of her would already indicate a strong constitution as she piles another generous helping of saucy, spiced gears garnished with marinaded filings onto her plate.
Chromia is generally quiet and mild tonight, which is not unusual of her, though she is privately very thankful that Windblade was able to rescue their dinner, as it was rather a close call.
The friends linger for hours after dinner is concluded, sharing in drinking and laughter until Orion, bless him, is a little flushed and his meandering story seems to lose the plot, indicating that he is rather tired and tipsy. He dismisses himself graciously and Ariel elects to take him home, leaving Arcee with Grimlock. Windblade, the gracious host, dispenses hugs and wishes them goodnight.
“My, such a gentlefemme.”
“Uh-huh. C’mon, old mech.”
Orion gives the assembled a rather adorable smile and wave, holding onto Ariel’s proffered arm as she walks him out. Soon, they are gone.
Arcee and Grimlock are retelling tales of their adventures that the friends have heard dozens of times before, yet every retelling is more elaborate and fantastical than the last, thus endlessly entertaining.
“But I thought there were only ten chasing you?” Bumblebee quirks a brow, elbowing Hot Rod who grins, giggling.
“Ten? Why, my good fellow, that’s absurd! There were easily twenty! Right, Arcee?”
“Yeah, Grim, but it was such a blur! Could’ve been twenty-five! It was wild in there!”
“Sounds like it.” Windblade is snuggled on the couch between Chromia and Slipstream, idly playing with their digits within their laps. They are all happy, happy altogether.
Eventually, Hot Rod leaves, as he wishes to return to Soundwave and Ravage, who is poorly but on the mend. A while after, Grimlock and Arcee depart together, leaving Bumblebee with Windblade, Chromia, and Slipstream.
“Are you staying the night, Bee?”
“I’d love to, but I’m gonna do a scout run at a weird time, try a different route to catch the Decepticreeps off-guard. Don’t wanna risk getting spotted, and besides, last thing a scout needs is predictability. Gotta get spontaneous with it.”
“Alright, but be careful. Stay hidden and keep safe.”
“Don’tcha worry ’bout little ol’ me. I’m good at what I do, if I may say so myself, and my stinger comes in real handy when I bite off more than I can chew.”
“Contact me as soon as you can, let me know you’re safe. If you end up in trouble, call for help. Don’t be a hero, okay?”
With those words of caution, a wonderful evening with friends comes to a late end.
Bumblebee has to stretch a bit to kiss Windblade’s cheek, even as she stoops to kiss his. He has to get on the tips of his pedes to deposit a peck on Chromia’s cheek, though she bends for him. He cannot reach Slipstream’s cheek, thus she stoops over the most to present herself for a peck. “Love you guys.”
“Love you too, Bee.”
His engine buzzes as he goes, with a friendly honk of his hooter.
Sealing the front door, Windblade sighs, then turns and smiles up at her lovers. “Ladies,” comes out low and alluring.
Chromia bristles handsomely, shy and at once trying to appear bigger and more impressive, well aware of her best friend’s intentions tonight.
Slipstream’s wings quiver, indicating mounting excitement as she bites her plump derma and chews it eagerly, awaiting further instructions.
“How about we go to berth…” The Cityspeaker tries to saunter, though she hobbles, and drags a slow, singular digit up the bike’s burly arm, then down the Seeker’s gleaming cockpit. “…Together?”
Slipstream and Chromia exchange shy, admiring looks.
“Would.”
“Would.”
Windblade blinks a few times, then dissolves in gorgeous giggles, until two different sets of large servos seize her and scoop her up, collectively carrying her off to berth with haste. “Whoa, ladies, please! Easy! There’s plenty of me to go around, we’ve got time!”
“Boss bot, I wanna go, too.”
Turning sharply, expression stricken, Shadow Striker drops her cup which shatters upon the tiles noisily.
“N-no, not like that!” Flamewar hurries over, avoiding stepping in shattered crystal, seizing the bigger femme in a crushing hug. “I meant I wanna go away from here, with you! Always with you!”
The old mercenary groans with relief, sinking against the bike, chin atop her helm. “Uuugh.”
“Sorry! I’m sorry. I should’ve been more mindful of my words. I didn’t mean to scare you like that.”
“You’re gonna gimme a Spark attack, Flames.”
“I’m so sorry, boss bot. That was on me, my bad.”
Shadow Striker sinks her digits into Flamewar’s reassuring body, as if imagining it might vanish in a puff of vapour, taking away a friend. “Where do you wanna go, with me?”
The bike looks up, nuzzling into the underside of the mercenary’s jaw. “Where Slippy is.”
“What’s got you thinking about her?”
“I always think about her. I miss her all the time. But your sister leaving really hurts you, and seeing you hurting like this just compounds my hurt. It’s got me wanting to take Slippy back, or at least spend a little time close to her, even if I gotta give her back again ’cause she’s happier with Wimbles than without. I would stay and share, but I gotta go with you. Where you go, I go.”
“Am I keeping you away from your happiness, with her?”
“I’d be miserable without you, same as I’m miserable without her. Ideally, I want all my people back, together again, in one place. Choosing someone over someone else sucks.”
“All of us just fragging around, having a fun time, no scrap to put up with. Wouldn’t that be nice, eh.”
“Yeah. I could marry Slippy, have her kids, and Wimbles could be cool with it.”
There is a moment of silence.
“How do you come up with these fragging petnames for people, anyway?”
“I dunno. I like my petnames, boss bot. Yours is pretty self-explanatory.”
Shadow Striker chuckles, lowering herself until optic-level with Flamewar. “Hey, you know what?”
“You miss Slippy too.”
“Damn, got it on the first try.”
“I know Decepticon traitors like us don’t got much prospects back on Cybertron, but… a visit couldn’t hurt, right?”
“Frag it. You want what your sweet little Spark wants, and I’ll do my best to get it sorted for you. Least I can do for keeping you around, subjecting you to my nonsense.”
“Oh, boss bot, you say that like I don’t knowingly choose you and your nonsense.”
“How can you say such kind things, to someone so grossy unkind?”
“You can be really kind, boss bot. You say such nice stuff to me sometimes. I love–” The bike stops herself quickly. “I mean, I like it.”
The mercenary does not react violently, instead making a valiant effort to remain calm and composed even as her scope quivers in its socket and her crooked smile deepens painfully. “Yeah. Me, too.”
“Primus, is that–” Slipstream sniffs the air within the berthroom, following the scent to the berth itself, burying her face in the padded recharge slab and inhaling deep, wings flaring outward.
“Yeah, that’s me,” Windblade purrs with great satisfaction, perched upon the edge with Chromia sat more heavily beside, nuzzling at her slender neck. “And this big hunk too, of course.”
The Seeker makes a metallic cooing sound, instinctive nesting behaviour dictating that she rub her face against the scents of femme pheromones, lingering after being wiped down with a damp cloth hours prior. No wonder they lit scented oils and cracked open viewing ports, keeping the door sealed against guests. It positively reeks of arousal in here to anyone with keen senses, such as a Seeker.
“She was thinking about you while she had me all to herself.” The Cityspeaker tilts her helm aside, granting more of her neck to the bike’s distracted kisses. “Too bad you had to go to work.”
“Such a tease.”
“Well, it’s just the truth, Chromia. She deserves honesty, right?”
Rumbling now, Slipstream looks up sharply yet keeps her brows low, optics unusually dimmed above the strong bridge of her olfactory sensor, wings rising to their full span at her broad pauldrons. She really does resemble a large, predatory avian of some kind, stooped over to roost, digits sunk into the layer of padded synthetic foam like talons.
Windblade feels a delightful shiver along her spinal seam as she meets that look coquettishly and makes a show out of reaching sensually for Chromia, running delicate digits over burly blue. “I can still taste all the transfluid and lubricant that got pumped into me before. It repeats on me, from time to time, churning in my tanks, a reminder that gets me all riled up all over again. You have such tasty fluids, Chromia.”
“You feed me well, Windblade.”
The Seeker watches them with an echoing rumble, ensrils flared, winges erect, optics darkened.
“Think you’ve got a little room for dessert, big girl?” The Cityspeaker is goading, using a velvety tone that the bike recognises keenly from their past play, usually when trying to incite a friend to join.
“I’m sure you’ll fit.”
“Too much of me might make you sick. Are you sure you want some more?”
“And more, and more, and more.” Chromia progresses from Windblade’s neck to her breastplate, moving to crouch before her whilst she remains daintily perched upon the berth, the bigger femme dragging swirling circles over the ruby peaks with the tip of a glossa. The frame runs so hot already that spit simply fades away, evaporating from the surface of the shell in moments. “I feel famished, my love.”
“Really? Even after you had me all to yourself, earlier? Such a greedy thing you are. But…”
Slipstream notices when those shapely thighs swing wide, wafting a scent that bays for breeding. That scent only strengthens when the modesty panels restract, drawing out a soft sound of keen interest.
“I love you, so feast to your Spark’s content.”
The bike promptly drops to her knees and digs in with wet smacks of relish, helm bobbing below the Cityspeaker’s smirk and fluttering shutters.
The Seeker’s wings wag, but otherwise she remains very still, staring and sniffing the air.
“Oh, Slip, she’s terrible. I gave her plenty last time, but here she is, taking me all over again.” Windblade gasps and arches her spine, running a servo along her own chassis, the other seeking support on the berth, digits knotted in fresh sheets that do little to disguise the scents of interfacing up close, under the heady aromatic oils and opened viewing ports admitting fresh airflow. “I mean, sharing is caring, right? If you’re okay with her sloppy seconds, and she leaves any sloppy seconds over by the time she’s done, you can have a go with me after.”
Slipstream scrapes the berth as she draws closer on her clawed digits and heavy knees, moving behind, large and dark and intently fixated, drawing close enough that the hot air from her vents blast ticklish upon the back of the neck.
“Slip?”
Chromia grunts rhythmically as she deep-throats her lover’s spike for some moments, then spits it out to nuzzle into her valve below to root within the plush mesh for some moments more, alternating between, looking up with interest.
“Whatcha doing back there?”
“Preparations.”
The Cityspeaker hears a metallic snapping sound that peaks her curiosity, thus she slowly turns to peer back from over her pauldron, wondering what kinky things could be in store.
The Seeker is flexing her digits, cracking the knuckles.
“What’re you preparing for?”
“I’m told I give very good massages.”
The bike pauses, cheek stuffed with spike. She has been told that very same thing. Is this a challenge?
“Are your massages as good as hers?” Windblade murmurs teasingly, in one of the only times she would ever consider deliberately pitting Slipstream and Chromia against each other.
“You tell me.” The Seeker lays her large, strong, callused servos upon the Cityspeaker’s slender back strut.
The bike narrows her optics as the spike twitches in the pocket of her stretched cheek. The glitch is showing her up!
Windblade can only benefit from this seductive competition, mewling her appreciation as her back, pauldron and neck are kneaded into an oozing mess of relaxation.
Slipstream manages to peer over, winking down at Chromia.
Oh, it is so on. The bike spits out the spike and moves to grasp the Cityspeaker’s pedes instead, propped upon the lap so that both thumbs can dig circles into the soles whilst the Seeker attends to the upper half.
Quite undone from both angles, Windblade moans like she is being paid for it, and yet her pleasure is entirely genuine. “Ohhh, girls, mmm! Work me out. Yeah, do me like that. So good.”
Slipstream grins, remembering massaging Shadow Striker to similar effect in under the downpour of lukewarm recycled oil. Good times, in spite of the Pits.
Chromia receives another wink and smirks in reply. “So, Windblade. Which of us is the better masseuse?”
Windblade is lost to pleasure, melting where she sits. “…Huh…?”
“I asked you to which of us does you better. Who’s doing you best, right now?”
“…Oh, frag me…”
“Well, that’s our answer.”
“A draw, then.”
The Seeker and the bike were not in any real competition to begin with, but their playful rivalry adds a certain tension between them that is quite exciting.
Caught in the middle and having the time of her life for it, the Cityspeaker devolves into making breathy utterances of delight, spike erect and valve soaked, yet she seems quite happy not to bother with a good fragging if this is the alternative.
“We’re glad to have you home with us,” Slipstream murmurs into kisses to the neck and pauldrons.
“Where you belong,” Chromia adds warmly, playing with the pedes upon her lap, moving to rub at the ankle joints.
“Consider this our treat.”
“Because we love you.”
Windblade says something unintelligible but affectionate in reply, optics shut, smiling into the void of pleasure within these perfect, precious moments.
“Hey, Chromia.”
“Yes, Slipstream.”
“I dated a girl once, who was really into pede stuff.”
“Okay, I’m curious. How so?”
“She used to lick my heel struts.”
“Interesting. Did you enjoy it?”
“Yeah, but it was kinda ticklish.”
“Why are you bringing this up?”
“Well, uh… Y’know. No reason.”
“Are you imagining me trying it?”
“Heh, yeah, I am.”
“You dirty girl.”
The Seeker shyly hides her face behind the Cityspeaker. “I’m terrible.”
“I can’t say I’ve tried that myself.” The bike considers this for a moment. “She does here exquisite pedes.”
“Aw, just the prettiest pedes.”
“And she’s always licking me all over, tempting me to stick my glossa in unmentionable places. I might as well try it, I’m certainly not opposed.”
“Really?” Slipstream peeks out from behind the thoroughly undone Windblade.
Chromia sucks in air, lets it out with a shy grin. “Um, Windblade, light of my life, our life, may I–?”
“Yes,” the Cityspeaker moans, peeling an optic open narrowly. “Frag, yes.” Evidently she has recovered somewhat, as she is no longer getting here pedes massaged.
“I didn’t even finish.”
“Do it. Do the…” A vague gesture. “The licking thing. Whatever. Make me feel good.”
The bike huffs fondly. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Do it now. Slag.”
“Oh, I live to serve.”
The Seeker continues her massage, eagerly watching.
“Here goes.” Chromia readjusts herself, cradling a pede in her palm and lifting it before her curious expression. “I hope this doesn’t awaken anything in me,” she mutters, then sticks out her glossa and leans in close, taking a curious swipe at the heel strut.
“Oh!” Windblade gasps, her wings spontaneously ejecting from their sheaths, fully erect, turbines spinning slow enough to cast only a mild breeze. “Damn!”
Slipstream jerks back, startled, and then settles again with a raised optic ridge, amused. “Something tells me she liked that. Do it again.”
The bike shrugs, finding she does not mind, and begins taking slow, slick laps at the heel strut which eventually progress over the sole.
The Cityspeaker squirms a little, biting her derma hard, flushed. “Mmm!”
“Ticklish?” murmurs the Seeker.
“Hmmmph. A little.”
“Is it nice?”
“It’s stupidly nice. What the frag. Why haven’t we done this before, Chromia?”
“You never asked for it, I never thought to suggest it.”
“We had to bring a little freak home with us, huh, Slip.”
“I’m just happy you’re enjoying yourself, Windblade. Do you like it too, Chromia?”
“I like to please. She seems pleased. So, yes, in a way, this is quite fun for me.”
“I think you’re just downplaying what a nasty little slag you are for my heel struts.”
Chromia answers that by taking a playful nip at the tip of Windblade’s pede.
“Hey, I liked that!”
“Mm. I can tell.”
“Do more weird stuff with my pede.”
“As you wish.”
“What can I do for you?” asks Slipstream lowly.
“Do the other one. I dunno about you guys, but this has definitely awakened something in me and it’s your fault.”
And so the Seeker joins the bike in a kneel upon the floor, lavishing the Cityspeaker’s beautifully maintained pedes in kisses, nibbles and licks.
“I love you two so much.”
They murmur their replies, reaching for each other, groping at one another’s frames until finding modesty panels hot and tight, mutually requesting entry, mutually granted.
“That’s so hot,” Windblade murmurs with her pedes attended to, watching Chromia and Slipstream fumble for each other’s spike, each other’s valve. “You can ’load all over my pedes and lick it off after, if you wanna.”
Indeed, they do.
In the blissful minutes that follow, the Cityspeaker slumps back on the berth and props herself up on synthetic pillows, smirking down her own length as she admires the view of two femmes submitting to her, playing idly with her spike and valve whilst pushing the tip of a pede into the Seeker’s cheek to turn her face aside, pushing the tip of a pede under the bike’s chin to tip her helm back, all for the sake of simply doing it. “Nice.” She releases them again. “Back to it, girls.”
Chromia retaliates with some gnawing, too gentle to do any harm. She will not leave a single scratch. She shudders as the fist on her spike squeezes tight.
Slipstream moans into an open kiss pressed to the sole, her valve clenching over rough digits that plunder it so tactfully.
Windblade is determined not to overload first. She waits, watches, ignoring prompts in her HUD begging for relief. “I wanna feel it on my pedes when it comes. Remember that.”
Kiss broken, the Seeker figures out the logistics of this demand and resorts to guiding the pede against her valve, humping it whilst another femme’s digits pluck and prod.
The bike has an easier task, she merely ensures her spike is held at a good angle for the assumed trajectory within another femme’s fist, holding the pede steady whilst nibbling at it.
“Aaand…” The Cityspeaker snaps her wet digits. “Now!”
Slipstream and Chromia convulse together, bellowing and baying as one, overloading upon command.
“Good girls,” the Cityspeaker angles her spike at herself, pinches her anterior node hard, and groans as she feels heat and wetness upon her pedes, chasing her own overload. With a spurt of transfluid that hits her in the face a little too close to the optic for her liking and a squirt of lubricant that seeps into the joint of her inner wrist, she manages to gasp out, “Lick me clean, you… pair of… cheap, filthy… beautiful, wonderful… Solus Prime, ohhh…”
The Seeker and the bike stoop to obey, supporing one another as they slobber over the soles and heel struts to lick their fluids clean, eventually swapping pedes to clean one another’s mess.
“Girls!” Windblade basks in her afterglow, squirming and laughing. “Okay, okay! Stahp! I’m gonna leak oil!”
Slipstream and Chromia lock gazes, their faces slick and their bodies hot. Time seems to stop for them, lost on one another.
“Whew! That was… amazing. Just, like… wow. Wooow.” The Cityspeaker does not get a response, so she lifts her helm and peer down her length at the bike and Seeker. “Ladies? You good?”
Slipstream lays her palms upon Chromia’s cheeks, leaning in and gently bumping their forehelms together.
“Oh?” The Cityspeaker sits up eagerly.
The bike wraps her arms about the Seeker’s frame, pulling her close enough for their bosoms to touch.
“Yes. Please. Yes, yes, yes.”
Moving in unison, Slipstream and Chromia melt into a kiss that is so very soft and sweet considering what they have just shared, considering that they used to be so distant. It is unmistakably romantic.
“Yeees!” Windblade punches the air in victory, turbines spinning faster. “Let’s gooo!”
Does life get any better than this?
Notes:
Feel free to let me know what you think or if you have any suggestions. The plot is already decided, but I'm writing for an audience and not just myself (even if this story is very self-indulgent) so I'm open to considering new ideas. Thanks for reading!
Chapter 60
Notes:
Possible trigger warnings: toxic relationship dynamics, toxic workplace, mention of abuse.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Slipstream attempts to untangle herself from the limbs that ensnare her, but she inadvertently awakens her lovers.
“Morning already?” Chromia mumbles drowsily into a kiss against the neck, as if she does not have an internal measurement of the hour.
“Yeah, sorry. Gotta go to work.”
“Shall I dare to attempt breakfast?”
“No, you stay here and keep warm, with her.”
“I can pack you a lunch.”
“I can pack myself a lunch, but thank you.”
“You’re just afraid of my cooking.”
“Hush, you’re wonderful in everything you do.”
Windblade whines when she is jostled again.
“My love, I gotta geddup and go.”
“Nooo.”
“You’ve got Chromia.”
“I love Chromia.”
“Well, she’s right here. She’ll be here for you when I’m gone.”
“I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
“Want you and Chromia.”
“And I want to stay, but I just can’t. Those patients need nurses to care for them.”
The Cityspeaker acknowledges her own selfishness with a sigh, reluctantly releasing the Seeker and rolling over to snuggle into the bike instead.
Slipstream leaves their berth with soft murmurs and forehelm kisses.
Chromia cuddles Windblade close, the pair of them laid out and listening to the downpour of hot oil within the adjoining shower cubicle.
“I hope she gets to study,” comes out sleepy and soft. “She’ll be such a good medic.”
“Yes, and Primus knows she deserves a better future,” is murmured into a nuzzle.
“With us.”
“Always.”
“You’ve done a sufficient job of it, I suppose, considering you lack any formal leadership qualifications. Besides which, you were rather presumptuous to assume command in my absence, when such a position would be better suited to Shockwave.”
“He’s rather busy just now, dear,” Empress purrs through gritted dentas, sweet as honey mixed with gravel. “Someone had to step up, so I took the mantle.”
“Mm.”
Thunderblast narrows her optics, a palm delicately laid over her ample bosom, for she has never heard a glitchier ‘mm’ in her entire life.
“Be that as it may, I am improved and ready to resume my post. Of course, you shall step down and submit yourself to my rightful authority, effective immediately.”
“Oh, of course, darling. As long as you’re feeling up to the responsibility of leadership, I won’t object.”
“Commander,” Starscream corrects succinctly, strutting past with a sway to his hips that catches the femmes’ collective gaze even as one sneers softly at his back strut and the other makes a motion as if to snap his neck. “Remove your things from this place, forthwith. I’m taking it as my office. The natural lighting in here is rather nice.”
“Certainly. And where shall I relocate?”
“You can take my old office,” the Commander intones airily, shrugging. “It’s more than enough for your purposes and rank, I should think.”
“Thank you, Commander,” the gladiator intones with sweet venom, clenching her fists behind her back until they creak.
“Very good. Oh, also.”
The boat jerks with offence when a rebuilt servo is carelessly waved in her direction.
“Kindly take… her, with you.”
“Hey! Excuse me, you stuck-up, pretentious, rude little–”
Empress lays a palm gently on Thunderblast’s pauldron, silencing her.
“Actually, aren’t you one of the traitors?” Starscream turns slowly to peer back at them. “What is she doing here, Empress?”
“She’s still sympathetic with the Decepticon cause. Her intention back at the arena was to minimise deaths, not to betray our faction.”
“And you think she’s trustworthy? She doesn’t look trustworthy to me.”
The boat puffs herself out proudly and thus replies, “Bite my aft, glitch.”
The Commander’s jaw daintily drops.
The gladiator sighs heavily.
“You dare speak to me in that tone, with such disrespectful wording!”
“I dare, yeah, I sure do! I’m not some goon you can treat like scrap! No wonder Slipstream wants frag all to do with you, you’re awful and you just don’t care!”
“Thunderblast, my cyberswan, let’s just step outside and leave the Commander to his work, before something is said we cannot take back.”
“Nuh-uh, no way, I don’t like him talking to you like that and I damn well won’t take it from him myself! Slipstream deserved better and dammit, so do we!”
Empress is gently shepherding the much smaller, yet equally formidable Thunderblast from the room, with some difficulty, leaving Starscream to gawk after them.
“Guys like him are destined to end up alone! Even I know beauty fades, and he’s only pretty on the outside!”
Left to gawk, alone, even when the door seals shut and they are gone, taking their voices and reverberating steps with them.
The silence that follows is somehow the loudest part.
“He wants wings.”
“He wants what?”
“Wings,” Ariel repeats in a very small voice, quite aware of how ridiculous this sounds.
“Ah, Sentinel,” Orion intones with a soft chuckle. “My dear old friend.”
“Please tell me these wings are merely ornamental.”
“Uhhh, no. He made it pretty clear he wants to fly.”
“Ha! All my plans and research somehow failed to account for such a specification!” Ratchet throws up his servos, giving Orion a disbelieving look. “Oh, and I suppose I’m to simply figure out how to rig his entirely theoretical new framework to somehow support the complexities involved in flight? We all know I – the terrestrial – would be such an expert in aerodynamics!”
Feeling rather chastised, Ariel looks at the intricate illustrations, complicated graphs and lengthy paragraphs of barely legible scrawls scattered upon the walls, then the array of datapads and datachips littered across the desk, and ultimately ends up lost in the patterned metallic tiles upon the floor.
“Well, that’s absurd!”
“I told him you’d say that. But since he’s pretty much barely intact, he figures you should just, um, start from scratch anyway, so… might as well add wings?”
“As he never chose a jet or some other flying vehicle as his alt-mode when he was a malleable young protoform, his transformation cog never adjusted and his surviving internals were never intended for flight! Reconfiguring a frame to support a different alt-mode is no simple matter in the best of circumstances, risky even before the Senate banned the changing of alt-modes without permission, but to attempt such surgeries in his condition, when there is so little of him left to salvage? Not to mention his proposed upgrades would make him significantly larger and heavier than he was even at his prime, never mind the idea of adding functional wings! All of this, without even knowing if this rare procedure will even work!”
“It will work,” Alpha Trion interjects gently, yet firmly. “Of this, I am certain.”
“Mm. I appreciate the vote of confidence.”
“But do not concern yourself with the wings,” Orion adds diplomatically. “You have worked hard and I have witnessed it. I am certain he will make do with a jetpack.”
“A big one,” Ariel mutters. “To lift his fat helm off the ground.”
“If we were to paint it in his colours, he may be more forgiving. It would be personalised to the rest of him.”
“Aw, that’s a cute idea. Appeal to his ego for aesthetics.”
“Our Sentinel does like anything that resembles him.”
Ratchet huffs, then pauses with a contemplative sound, one servo on his hip, the other cradling his chin as he squints at his designs, deeply thoughtful. “Mmm. If I somehow succeeded and overcame these odds, we would have another flier in our ranks, which would be a tactical advantage. Not to mention, it would be deeply satisfying to rub this in Red Alert’s face the next time she teases me.”
“You two go back a bit, huh, Doc.”
“She is the finest medic I have ever known. And she knows it too. Insufferable…” The rest is soft, indiscernible muttering.
“I suppose you’ll leave me.”
“Huh?”
“You heard what I said.”
Thunderblast sets down a box containing a few of Empress’ things, grimacing aside.
“That’s why you’re sulking and silent.” The gladiator folds her arms and turns her back, chin aloft. “I’m clearly no longer in charge, thus I’m no longer appealing. You’re thinking up excuses to escape and leave me behind.”
A deep sigh. “Okay. Let’s talk about this.”
An airy scoff. “So, now you want to talk.”
“Sweetie…” The boat sits atop the box, drumming her digits over her lap. “I like you, okay. It’s still early on, but you’re very appealing. Plans, or no plans, I think you’re magnificent.”
“Are you being sincere?”
“I’m being very sincere.”
“Should I believe you?”
“If you want this thing between us to continue.”
“Then… you’ll stay?”
“Uh, yeah?”
Empress narrows her optics, turning her helm to peer imperially down at Thunderblast, who looks very tired and very unhappy just then.
“I like your attention and I think I want you to keep on courting me like a gentlefemme. It’s a little scary, but in an exciting way, because I’m just so unused to it.”
“Then why are you so unhappy?”
“I’m sulking for a bunch of different reasons. Believe it or not, I have thoughts and feelings like anybody else, and some of those reasons exclude using you to take over Cybertron.”
“Oh. Forgive me, I failed to consider…”
“It’s okay. I’m a bad glitch.”
The gladiator relaxes her stance, unfurling her arms to hang slack at her sides.
“But some of those reasons are especially personal to me, because he hurt someone I care about. A friend.”
“Slipstream.”
“Sugar glider. He continues to threaten her happiness. She’s got this girl and he hates her, wants to tear them apart. And I feel like a fragging fool, since I was gonna seduce him and use him, since he’s beautiful and he’s got rank, but he’s clearly not interested in femmes – which is totally okay, duh, no problem with that – but then I figured out he’s actually horrible to people he’s supposed to care about, and that’s got me rethinking my plans. I don’t need him, I don’t want anything to do with him.” The boat pauses for a flush, clearing her vents. “And even if I could figure out a new plan that excludes you, I still want something to do with you.”
“I could still conquer the world, with you by my side.”
“Yeah, maybe. Even if you’re not my ticket to world domination, you could keep courting me and I could court you back.”
“Cyberswan, you’re admitting some attachment to me.”
“Yeah, I know, right? Ugh, frag.”
Empress offers a huge servo.
Thunderblast takes it.
Alpha Strike does not care for Starscream, thinking very little of him at all, preferring Empress as the leader of the Decepticon movement while Megatron mends. However, for Skywarp’s sake, a meeting is held with her superior, to seek his permission and a formalised reassignment.
“Helped yourself to one of my Seekers, I see. Presumptuous.”
“I am here to amend that.”
“Mmyes. Quite.” Starscream holds out his rebuilt servo. “Come.”
Skywarp obediently approaches, leaning into a scratch under the chin. He considers her his pet project and has been especially affectionate with her from the start, thus she enjoys a certain amount of special attention he rarely dispenses to his other Seekers.
“She has been excellent,” Alpha Strike rumbles in her deep, intimidating way. “I request a formal transfer, Commander. I will need the help to organise my heavies. I do not tolerate most helpers.”
“A difficult personality, mm? Well, this is an interesting choice of Seeker, then. Are you unaware of her propensity for pranks?”
“I am aware. I am a victim, thricefold.”
“And yet you still want her as your assistant?”
“Yes.”
“Hmm. Strange. Regardless, Skywarp is one of my finest. Is she happy working under you?”
“Skywarp should answer, not I.”
The wilfully mute Seeker answers by turning away from her Commander and returning to the General’s side, dwarfed yet unafraid.
Alpha Strike cannot smile, as her survival depends on the filtration unit rigged onto her lower face plate, but her optics are expressive enough, narrowing contentedly and twinkling.
“Are you sure, Skywarp?”
A chirp answers that, with a bobbing of the wings. Skywarp has to crane her neck to meet that soft look with a cheeky grin.
“Very well, then. First I gave Acid Storm away, and now I give away another of my best.” Starscream sighs, disguising his ache with a proud nod. “Permission granted. Treat her well and know that she belongs with me, first and foremost.”
“Thank you, Commander. I will be good to her.”
“I expect nothing less, General. Skywarp, behave yourself. Make your fellow Seekers proud. Make me proud.” With that said, the Commander takes the datapad bearing the General’s report, turns and struts off to the farthest end of his new office, tears throttled as he leaves a Seeker behind without the excuse of betrayal. “Dismissed.”
The steps depart, doors opening and shutting automatically, Skywarp and Alpha Strike strolling together in comfortable silence.
Alone again, with thoughts occupied by lost Seekers and Megatron, Starscream permits himself a little cry.
“Well, nobody broke in and trashed the place, so none of the more resentful Decepticons know this is my old haunt,” Shadow Striker concludes after a security sweep of her old home back on Cybertron, returning her knife to its holster with a grunt. “Or they don’t care enough to bother trying me out. Either way, that’s good for us. We’re safe here.”
Flamewar is generally adorable, but she manages to be especially cute when she opens the closet built into the metallic wall and knowingly retrieves a clumsily folded coarse synthetic blanket, burying her face in it. She had found it the first time she was here and she finds it again.
“Eugh. That musty old thing, again?”
“Mmm.”
The mercenary shakes her helm, smiling. “Why the blanket?”
The bike lowers the bundled blanket and looks up. “It smells like you.”
“Frag off. I smell a lot better than that.”
“I don’t mean the musty part. You don’t smell musty, boss bot. But this blanket does smell like you. You’re in the fibres.”
“You can sniff me whenever you want, all you want. You’re stuck with me. You don’t need to cuddle with my stuff.”
Flamewar is quite possibly at least a little insane, but she gives Shadow Striker such a sober look. “It’s part of your history. Before we met. I like it because it makes me feel more established in your life, especially since we’re a little unsure of where we’re going together, moving forward.”
The mercenary exhales slowly, shakily.
“All we know is we’re together.” The bike inhales the blanket again, deeply and steadily, then returns the bundle to its shelf and reseals the insert closet. “But I’ve missed so much of your life. The age gap doesn’t bother me. It’s just sometimes I wish I could’ve been a good person before I lost my memory, someone you could’ve bumped into and befriended naturally, without needing the Decepticon stuff and ending up trapped in the Pits.”
“Come here.”
“Sure.”
Shadow Striker scoops Flamewar up the moment she is within range, hugging her tight enough to creak.
“Ow.”
“My little maniac.”
The bike’s fangs project as feline points as she draws back her upper derma a bit, not quite smiling, purring into the kisses that roughly pepper her cheeks.
“You’re here now. You’ll be here tomorrow, and the day after that. For however long I’m lucky enough to have you tolerating my aft, that’s all that matters.” The mercenary sighs, nuzzling. “I don’t like thinking about my past anyway. History’s done. Don’t gotta repeat that scrap.”
“People say you learn from history. It’s repeatable.”*
“History just makes people sad. If that’s all the future is, if life’s just about sad people repeating the same sad mistakes over and over again, then frag it, why even bother with the stuff that makes life worth living? Stuff like profit, and pleasure - more than pain. If it’s all for naught but suffering, then we’re fragged no matter what we do.”
“How would I know? I got no history. I forgot my past.”
“I wish I could erase my history. Forget my past. Ugh. Sorry. I know that doesn’t help you. I can’t help but be a gaping afthole.”
Smile fading away, Flamewar runs her claws very softly over Shadow Striker’s cheek.
The old mercenary softens, smiles, leaning in again to bump her forehelm almost playfully against the bike’s.
“I’m gonna hit up Slippy, let her know we’re local.”
“Yeah, you do that. But gimme a kiss first, yeah?”
Flamewar deposits a sweet little peck on Shadow Striker’s olfactory sensor, then wiggles out her arms and wanders off, leaving her chuckling.
“What do you want?”
“To talk.”
“Well, I don’t like you, so I don’t want to talk to you. And if you try to force the issue, my big, burly girlfriend is waiting outside and a locked door won’t stop her from–”
“It’s about Slipstream.”
Thunderblast’s golden optics widen, then narrow, plump dermas drawn in a wary line.
Starscream runs his delicate digits slowly along the edge of his desk, his pretty features downcast.
“What about her?”
“You both worked together, under Shadow Striker, and I understand there is a certain level of mutual affection between you.”
“She’s my sugar glider.”
“You still speak, do you not?”
“We message each other sometimes.”
“Has she said anything about me?”
“She’s said she misses you, but she thinks it’s best if she stays away from you. You hurt her and she’s afraid of what you’ll do.”
“Oh. I see.”
“You shouldn’t be surprised.”
“Surprised, no. Disappointed, yes. I want her back.”
“Glitch, me too, but seriously now. Why would she ever come back? She’s got it good. Her happy ending is in reach. She won’t leave Windblade to rejoin the Decepticons, not even for me, so why would she do it for you?”
“Because she is mine and her rightful place is with my flock, with me. It is in a Seeker’s nature to be among her own kind.”
“That’s some creepy cult stuff if I ever heard it.”
“No, you misunderstand. Seekers suffer especially from loneliness as part of our core programming to ensure unity, group cohesion, and cooperation with our peers. I would know, for I suffer all the time.”
“You’re feeling lonely, sweetie? Is it maybe because you’re so nasty?”
“I have always been in pain. I have been with them, taken my meals with them and taken to the air in a trine, but I have hurt all the while. I have never felt one with them. Their love, their play, I observe yet I struggle to share in it, for I am repulsed from freely partaking in their intimacy and I reject their advances. Though they are mine, I resent their simple wants and meagre needs. The few with ambition I promote generously, the rest I try to keep occupied so as to stay out of trouble. I hated it when we all looked alike, when I looked like them, because I am special, especial.”
The boat’s frown deepens. “You never fitted in with them, because you think they’re beneath you.”
“No, I never could.” The Seeker Commander raises his digits before his optics, seared over and strange. “It is hardly their fault. I am simply different, distinct.”
“That might explain why you’re such a sicko.”
“Sick. You think I’m… sick.”
“Yeah, you’re abusive.”
Starscream flinches, his rebuilt digits curling in on themselves, crumpling into a gleaming fist before his pretty grimace. “And yet I give my all to ensure they are safe, fed, housed, happy. I will bring them glory, ascension, in the warmth of my rising light most resplendent and pure.”
Thunderblast huffs, folding her arms beneath her breasts, locked away beneath her armoured bosom. “Should I even feel sorry for you, after all you did to her?”
Windblade’s words echo from a past altercation, when she had tried to reach him.
“I hate pity.”
“Funny, because that’s exactly what you’re looking for. Someday soon, you’ll feel pathetic enough to get on your knees and beg for someone stronger than you to take pity on your condition, I just know it. Guys like you are all the same.”
“I could have you decommissioned, you saucy little tart.”
“Empress won’t like that. She scares you, like she scares all the other mechs.”
“She should be glad that Megatron alone adores her, for I would have her cast out if I could.”
“You can’t do much without him, huh.”
“No, I confess, I linger in his shadow. He is beautiful and brilliant. All he does is golden. The Decepticons look at him with respect and awe. Yet when I try to take initiative, I get called… sick.”
“What you did back at the arena was sick, Starscream. You got a lotta people killed, and for what?”
“Revenge.”
“Get some therapy, dude.”
“Bah, please. It’s far too late, and I don’t regret it. I only regret that Sentinel and his stupid friends survived, taking my Seeker with them to forsake me for that damn Cityspeaker. And now my beloved is being painstakingly put back together piece by piece and I must lead the Decepticons myself, for I can trust no one else, least of all little traitors like you.”
“Not even your Seekers?”
“They are stupid.”
“Wow.”
“But they are mine and I will wage whatever war I must to win them the whole world. I cannot entrust my great work to anyone but Megatron, but while he heals, I will wage this war.”
Thunderblast clicks her glossa. “Well, I have big plans, so let me do what I gotta do and stay outta my way. Primus knows I’ll keep my distance.”
“I can tolerate you for now, but Megatron might not be so kind.” Starscream rubs his wrist, which was once severed, now restored. “If you do me a favour, I suppose I could vouch for you when the day comes that you are being considered for execution as a traitor.”
“Trust me, I wouldn’t have risked my life coming back here without plans for that. I don’t need you. I have her.”
“You say that like you truly believe Empress is to be trusted. But what if Megatron tells her no?”
Thunderblast’s optics follow Starscream as he wanders from one side of his desk to the other without looking back at her, her hackles up, his down.
“I want you to somehow convince Slipstream to return to me.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“I am. Do that and I will let you off the hook for your actions back at the arena. Empress will vouch for you and so shall I. Megatron will almost certainly listen to us both, pleading for your usefulness, for you life, as Slipstream had pleaded for Shadow Striker’s.”
“I can’t just tell Slipstream what to do.”
“She’s very easy to manipulate. She’s a people pleaser to a fault, and you are one of her people.”
“I can’t just uproot her life.”
“I am her life. The Seekers are her life.”
“The life you propose makes her miserable.”
“If you refuse to do as I say, then so help me I shall-”
There is a heavy thud on the door, a fist slamming hard enough to dent it from the other side, a distinct warning.
“That’s my cue.”
“I am not finished with you.”
“I’m done.” Thunderblast backs away, scoffing. “You’re worse than I thought. Like, way far gone. You need help. Seriously.”
“Then help me.” Starscream bristles all over, seizing an ornament off his desk. “Help me!”
“Here’s the harsh truth.” She keeps her optics on him and the identified weapon whilst fumbling for the console mounted into the wall beside the locked doors, fiddling with the keypad blindly until the mechanism unlocks with a confirmatory beep. “If you love Slipstream at all, you’ll put her first, just once, and let her go.”
“How do you know the passcode?!” he shrieks.
“This was my office,” Empress replies as the door slides aside, huge and barring the way. “She was always welcome to come and go as she pleased. Shall we, cyberswan.” The mighty femme steps aside and Thunderblast hurries out safely.
“This isn’t over!”
“Compose yourself, Commander. You will do nothing to her.”
Starscream’s racing Spark feels crushed and it aches in that strange way, gripped with unnatural terror as something invisible descends upon him. He throws the ornament at the door as it slides shut again, screaming, and the sensation abates.
Windblade returns from her call with Slipstream wearing a frown that has Chromia immediately concerned.
“What happened? What’s wrong?”
“She’s, uh, meeting up with Shadow Striker and Flamewar after work. We’re invited.”
“Oh. The two Decepticons.”
“Ex-Decepticons.”
“Right, of course.”
“I’m not sure what to think or feel about it, except that I want her to be safe and happy, but beyond that, it’s really not up to me to stop her from seeing people she cares about that maybe I disapprove of. Besides, they’re not all bad. Bee has a thing for Shadow Striker and Slip has a thing for Flamewar and I’m just trying to be fair.”
“Will you go?”
“Yeah, will you come with me?”
“Of course.” Chromia pulls Windblade into a burly blue hug, the taller femme kissing her lover’s ornamental crest. “We will both watch over Slipstream.”
Devcon slaps a rough palm over Roulette’s back strut, companionable between bounty hunters. “Thanks for letting her go.”
“Don’t thank me. I’ll hold you personally accountable if the worst happens.”
“Look, I know I’m a tired old dumbaft lost in the past, but I still think the little psycho’s got some chance at a future, and it’s mostly thanks to you sparing her out of the goodness of your Spark.”
“Humph.”
“You must think so too, entrusting her to your sister like that.”
“I really don’t want to talk about them, together.”
“Heh. Fair enough. But one last thing – I owe you a favour, so call me.”
“You would like that.”
“Damn straight.”
With a less than masculine squee of unabashed delight, Slipstream sprints recklessly ahead, arms open to give and receive in equal measure. “Flames!”
“Slippy!” Flamewar vaults her small self in a running leap like a feline creature into her friend’s burly embrace, caught and cradled close, engine roaring as their dermas collide messily.
Shadow Striker smirks at them, hanging back, giving them their moment.
“I’m not sure about those people, myself,” Chromia intones lowly, discretely, stood aside. “You reviewed the memory files. To respect Slipstream’s privacy, you didn’t tell me what those memories contain, but I know you were deeply disturbed by what you saw and I know her old team were involved.”
“Slip and Bee both vouch for Shadow Striker,” murmurs Windblade, shaking her helm with a grimace. “Despite what I saw and however I feel about all of it, they see and feel differently. As for the others, Rod told me about how they betrayed the Decepticons and helped save lives back at the arena, which is no small thing. I’m inclined to give the pair a second chance, my misgivings aside.”
“Aright, but I will be watching them closely.”
“Trust me, Chromia, I’m not gonna stand back and let anyone familiar hurt you, or Slip, or Bee, or anyone I love, least of all myself. Trust can be misplaced, it can be misused. But we’re gonna trust anyway, or try to, because everything sucks right now and we need to have some faith in people. These could be good enough people.”
The bike frowns sternly, but inclines her helm agreeably to the Cityspeaker, thus surrendering to her.
“Let’s go socialise, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Windblade thus approaches, smiling lopsidedly, optic ridge quirked when Shadow Striker meets her first, palm clapped over a dainty pauldron in greeting. “Hi, you.”
“Hey, girls.” Shadow Striker bobs her chin in an upward nod of recognition over at Chromia, which she returns. “How you two been?”
“Alright, thanks. And you?”
“Oh, I’m still kickin’ and Flames is doing just fine.”
“Surprised to see you here. Aren’t you worried about Decepticon retaliation? Or maybe you’re thinking about joining us?”
“Flames and I decided the risk is worth it. And nah, not interested in anything the Council touches. Sorry.”
“We can help you, keep you safe and supported. Your skills could really be useful to us. You two could help a lot more people.”
“Sure, but Functionists and cops aren’t on my team, so you can keep that scrap to yourself.”
“I dislike working with them, too.”
“Bet you think it’s for the greater good though, right?”
“Sentinel’s good, maybe.”
“Why don’t you guys just dump him?”
“Because he’s got good people who love him too much to leave him behind.”
“Not much of an excuse. Doesn’t really justify.”
“I realise that.”
“You coping?”
“Somewhat. It makes me… uncomfortable, unhappy. It has to change, things need to get better. I can’t take it forever.”
The old mercenary chuckles at that, giving the Cityspeaker’s pauldron a squeeze before releasing her, changing the topic smoothly. “Hope you don’t mind all this.” A nod to the Seeker and bike, entangled passionately.
“I really don’t. It’s adorable.”
“Yeah, well, I just had to come back, for my girl’s sake, y’know? She misses her.”
“And you’re just here to be accommodating, I’m sure.”
“Eh, I guess it’s personal for me, too. Being stuck together underground for months on end really bonds Sparks. Reminds me of the trenches back in the old war.”
“Personal enough to apologise and explain yourself to Bee, I hope.”
“Damn, you cut quick and deep.”
“You really hurt him,” Windblade intones lowly, dangerously, her big blue optics suddenly hard, almost as hard as Chromia’s blue musculature. “But you saved him from that riot, and you helped him save lives back at the arena. You went so far as to lead your team into helping our friends fight back against the Decepticons without killing anyone else, at personal risk. I have my doubts about you for everything you made Slip do, I can’t trust you because of the way you treated Bee, but they both still believe you’re good at your core if you just try and I recognise the evidence that might be true.”
“Lotta words just to admit you’re giving me the benefit of your doubt, huh?” Shadow Striker grinds her sharp jaw, letting out air from her enstrils slowly. “Your boy called me his hero, once or maybe twice. Remember that? I like Bumblebee well enough not to harm him on purpose or somehow endanger the guy. Where Slipstream is concerned, well, that girl is good, real good. All I want is for her to be safe and happy, but she figures she can have that with you, so lemme not get in the way. I want no trouble.”
“I fully intend to make that happen for her.”
“We’ll see.”
“You don’t think I’m right for her?”
“I think you’re dangerous, but the attractive, charming, subtle sort of dangerous, easy to overlook or underestimate at first, for a while.”
“How dare you?”
“Chromia, let her speak.”
Slipstream twirls on her heels, provoking an armful of Flamewar to giggle-snort into their kisses and nuzzles.
“All I’m saying is when it comes to girls like you, with girls like her? I know dangerous femmes when I see ’em. I am a dangerous femme. Game recognises game. I lack your positive reputation, but the danger stays the same. That said, I don’t expect you’d ever hurt her on purpose, but I dunno for sure. You really made her suffer back in the Pits. I guess I am to Bumblebee what you are to Slipstream.”
“She hurt because I failed to save her back then. But I’ve saved her now and I can see her healing.”
“Great! And I saved your little boyfriend, who probably perked right back up again and moved on without me just fine. Cool your jets and gimme a decent second chance, if you wanna gimme the benefit of your doubt. Besides, before I left, Bee and I talked a little.”
“What did you two say to each other?”
“I asked if we could patch things up between us. He said maybe. Then it was goodbye. Fact is, he said he’d be open to it.”
“Now you’re back and he’s presumably open. The rest is up to you. Make the effort and prove yourself. Nobody is owed forgiveness, nobody deserves it.”
“I know all that. My sis taught me valuable life lessons long before you were a glint in the AllSpark. I’m not promising miracles here. It’d just be… nice, you know?”
“Try for him. Try for her. Try hard. You’ll need a miracle to spare you from me, if you ever hurt Bee again, or try anything bad with Slip under my watch.”
“Whoa. That a threat? Sounds like a threat.”
“It’s a promise.”
“Damn, little miss badaft over here,” the mercenary jeers, but the way the Cityspeaker looks at her sends a chill down the spinal strut, never mind the scowl worn by the imposing bike. “You’re deadly serious, aren’t you.”
“Testing my word is not wise, Shadow Striker. Chromia rarely messes around.”
“Alright, alright. Primus. Chill.”
The Seeker and the bike seem intent on devouring each other face-first with the way they are making out in the background. It draws very interested looks from the unprepared public.
“Listen, I just told you the risk Flames and I are taking coming back here is worth it. I’m not here to frag someone’s scrap up. How about this, right? Let’s start over. How about I buy you ladies a drink and we sit down to talk like civilised people, huh? Think we can both play nice, for them?”
“Alright, I accept those terms, but I’m keeping you on a short leash.”
“Kinky.” Shadow Striker scoffs, offering a servo. “Gimme a yank when I misbehave. Remind me I’m just a glitch.”
“Oh, Solus Prime, grant me patience.” Windblade sighs, accepting the outstretched servo, her dainty digits small and soft by comparison. She meets the older femme’s firm grip in kind, shaking once, then letting go. “I like my drinks spicy and strong, by the way.”
“Suits you.”
Chromia accepts the servo next, grunting gruffly.
At that moment, Slipstream and Flamewar pry themselves apart with breathy murmurs of affection and joy, forehelms at rest and optics locked.
“I think that’s your cue.”
“Mm. Better seize the moment. Oi, ladies!” The mercenary trudges over with a smirk. “Save some for me.”
The Seeker’s wings quiver as she finally turns her attention from the bike. “Shadow Striker, you came back for me!”
“Ugh! Don’t say it like that. Frag’s sake. People are gonna think things about me. My rep, remember?”
“C’mon, boss bot, get in here.”
The Cityspeaker giggles faintly at that, the Camien bike softening by a fraction.
Glaring aside at the onlookers, Shadow Striker huffs softly to herself and proceeds to slump heavily into a group hug, scowl dissolving crookedly under kisses applied to her cheeks and bent brows, dermas circumventing her scope, teasing out an almost shy grin. “Missed me, did you?”
“So much,” Slipstream murmurs, pushing herself into the taller femme’s neck to inhale her scent where it is strong, kissing the throbbing cables, nuzzling under her chin. “I’m so glad you’re home.”
“I, uh… I’m happy to see you, too. Nice to be back. Velocitron is so dry and hot all the time.”
“I missed your voice, I missed seeing you, I missed how you feel.”
“Okay, knock it off. I’m very missed, I geddit. And don’t you dare tell anyone I said this, or I’ll shoot you, but… Ugh, dammit. I missed you too, sweet Spark.”
“Are you blushing?”
“N-no! No. Frag off.”
Flamewar purrs loudly, propping her chin on a dark pauldron to gaze over at Windblade who nods gracefully in return, evidently a bit wary of the Decepticon traitors. “’Sup, Wimbles.”
“Um, what did you just call me?”
“Wimbles. You don’t like petnames?”
“No, it’s… Hmm. Wimbles. Actually, I do like it.”
Chromia quirks a brow when a claw points at her.
“Daaamn, you are one big bike.”
Notes:
Okay, so this was not part of my plans, but when I watched TF One in cinema (I even got the big blue popcorn tin with the characters on it to remember the occasion) and saw Sentinel's design on the big screen, I thought it'd be a fun thing to reference. Such a good movie, I hope you managed to see it on circuit. Also, Starscream is actually really horrible to Thunderblast in canon, so I want to change up their dynamic out of my own pettiness.
*Flamewar is vaguely referencing George Santayana (The Life of Reason, 1905).
Chapter 61
Notes:
Possible trigger warnings: depression vibes, body horror, psychological horror, rough sex, demeaning sexual positions, taking advantage of a prisoner (no rape, again rape will not be depicted in this narrative).
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
It is early.
“You might wanna look away for the next couple minutes. Dunno if you’re still upset by gore, considering you’re a nurse now, but I gotta clean my lens and I’m told it’s pretty gross to watch.”
Slipstream does not look away. Seated at the table, blowing softly into her spiced Energon tea to disperse the steam, she ceases her idle scrolling through a datapad bearing this morning’s news, attention thus diverted, peering over her tin cup.
Shadow Striker carefully removes her scope from its socket, leaving a hollow gap below her bladed brow, frowning with concentration as she applies a soft cloth to the task of cleaning the lens, the fine fibres removing dust and grit and bodily grime without leaving scratches or chipped paint behind. Some of the circuitry and sensory wires within her helm can be seen from within the gaping socket, keeping her alive and aware.
“Whoa.”
“You’re not gagging.”
“I’ve seen worse by now, to be honest.”
“I know you signed up to stay close to Windblade, so you could take care of her, but I imagine you make a fine nurse.” The old mercenary looks up with her intact optic, smiling in her mean, crooked way. “Are you happy with nursing?”
“I like helping people and I like it when people look at me and they don’t see a big, scary Seeker. They just see me.” The Seeker smiles back, soft and shy. “I’m as happy as I can be, I suppose. Windblade makes it all worthwhile.”
“Damn, that’s really something. It’s like we sabotage ourselves, limiting our capacity for personal happiness, so we gotta rely on someone special to make life liveable. We rely too much on our special someones.”
“Community is important.”
“For some. It’s just mental illness, for others. You can grow too attached, you can end up overly reliant.”
Slipstream’s smile thins. “That seems a little… unkind.”
“Yes, I know.” Shadow Striker rolls her optic, polishing her scope. “I’m speaking about myself as much as anyone else. I’m not usually kind, not even to myself.”
“You can be kind. You’ve been kind to me.”
“Consider yourself lucky, then.”
“I do.”
“Besides, I’ve been cruel, even to you.”
The Seeker meditates on these words, watching the mercenary polish her scope.
“Wanna hold it?”
“Um.”
“It’s not as fragile as you might think. I’m a combat frame, remember. Just try not to touch the lens.”
Slipstream sets down her mug and datapad, presenting her large palm. “I’ll be gentle.”
Shadow Striker trustingly deposits her removed scope into the centre of that presented palm.
The Seeker is a curious creature, as per their very nature, and they all appreciate shiny things to various degrees. She ever so gently plucks up the scope between digit and thumb, inspecting closely. “Can I ask you something personal?”
“You wanna know how I ended up with that thing lodged in my face.”
“If you don’t mind.”
“I got shot,” the mercenary supplies succinctly, sitting back with a sigh. “Blew my face wide open, took out my other optic.”
“Oh, Primus!”
“Yup. The medic supplied me with a replacement, but it felt so wrong, I tore the damn thing out in a fit of… something. I dunno. I think it was a combination of depression, nightmares about everything that happened, and the sensations of wrongness.”
Slipstream holds the scope close to her bosom, her gaze now tracing the surgical scars across Shadow Striker’s cheeks, thankfully symmetrical.
“I went with a patch for a while, which looked cool as frag, until I got into fighting and the depth perception became an issue, never mind the number of close calls I had on the street racing scene. So, I got the combat scope fitted.”
“Does it feel… wrong, still?”
“All the damn time.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“Nah, I survive. I’m mostly used to it, now. Plus, glitches love it almost as much as the ol’ patch. That thing got me so much aft, back in the day. Heh, Flames would’ve flipped about pirates if she saw it for herself.”
The Seeker reaches over and runs her other thumb very softly across one of the scars.
The mercenary sighs at the touch, tilting her helm into it. “Don’t you mind me, good girl. You gotta long day ahead of you. I’ll be fine, focus on your patients. Besides, Flames has my back.”
“She’s a good girl, too.”
“She really is.”
And just then, a terrible roar emanates from the berthroom, snorting and throaty.
“And she fragging snores if she’s not getting constant attention, the scraplet.”
“I think you should go back to berth and hold her until she’s purring again.”
Shadow Striker chuckles at that, then turns to kiss the thumb that would trace her surgical scar back and forth, back and forth. “You headed out, then?”
“Yeah, I’ll finish my tea and go to work.”
“Have a nice day of it, alright. Hit me up when you wanna do something.”
“I will. And thanks again for letting me stay the night, even if I started crying because I missed you guys so bad and it was too awkward to interface after that. Again, sorry.”
“Heh, don’t mention it. It’s nice just to…”
The scope is passed from one servo to another.
“See you.”
“Ha-ha-ha.” The Seeker shakes her helm, huffing. “Very clever quip.”
“I have my moments,” the mercenary intones with a smirk, neatly reinserting the scope into her socket. “Old lady humour, or something. An acquired taste, like the rest of me. You like my taste, right?”
“I like it very much.”
“Attagirl. Now, drink your tea, before it gets cold.”
“It’s a bit jarring every time we revive him,” Acid Storm murmurs to Shockwave, as if afraid of Megatron somehow overhearing their talk about him. “I’m worried the Commander might not understand or appreciate our hard work.”
“He is not sufficiently intelligent to be permitted true understanding or appreciation. That is our burden. Many genius minds go uncelebrated in their time.”
“I just wish he didn’t resemble some sort of…”
The scientist’s singular optic follows the Seeker’s gesture, over at the body trussed up in pipes and cables.
“Unfortunate monster.”
“I’m thinking of getting a job.”
“A job?”
“Yes, a job.”
“Why? I’ve got more than enough means to take care of you. You don’t need to work.”
“Perhaps, though a job might keep me busy. Slipstream has a job and hers is voluntary.”
Windblade sighs quietly, nodding. “Okay, well, you could volunteer for the Council. I know you don’t care for Cybertronian politics, but I do and our friends are all involved, doing stuff that matters, so I’d like you to reconsider your neutrality.”
Chromia sighs too, rubbing her burly arm. “Alright, then.”
“You’ll join up?”
“I’ll offer my services and see if they can make use of me. It gets me out of the habsuite. Besides, I do care for the people, if not the politics.”
The Cityspeaker kisses the bike’s cheek, causing her to flush. “Thank you.”
“Status report, if you would. How is he?”
“Megatron’s condition is improved since our last report. All systems are in recovery mode to conserve power and mitigate heat distribution. His fuel consumption has stabilised and all leaks have been identified and sealed. We are ahead of schedule by thirty-three-point–seven-”
“Alright, do spare me the finer details, you have said enough already. No need to convince me, I trust your craftsmanship, as I am a living testament. I shall just have to trust in the process. In brief, I am to assume it is safe for me to have his audience, correct?”
“Although every effort has been made to minimise risk, he is a work in progress, incomplete. These are not only extensive repairs, but also performance upgrades necessitating reconstruction. However, when revived, he is conscious and capable of communication in brief interludes.”
Connected to a spidery network of pipes and cables, gunmetal grey lit upon the surgeon’s table, rubbery organs exposed to the sterile air where the chassis has yet to seal, Megatron sleeps so soundly as to appear dead, though the vitals on display indicate he yet lives.
Starscream takes a moment to wipe a tear from his cheek, clearing his vents gracefully. “Hrrm-hrrm. Wake him up.”
“Commander,” Acid Storm intones very gently, “are you certain? He isn’t at his best. Yes, he can speak, he can comprehend what’s said to him, but perhaps you should wait until-”
“No. I have waited. I am so sick and tired of being denied all I desire. I could not sleep last night, I have barely slept at all. I must speak with him and gaze into his optics, if only for a little while. If he should survive being awoken, I command it - wake him up.”
Sighing quietly, Shockwave nods at the frowning Acid Storm, poised at the terminal.
“Initiating reboot sequence.”
Megatron lurches with a gasp of static, crimson glare flooding with light and life, confused and afraid.
“Darling, it is I.” Starscream anxiously hovers over the gruesome, entangled mass shuddering to awareness. “I have come to comfort you. Do you hear me, my love? Can you see me? Speak to me, darling, let me hear your voice again, outside the realm of recordings and memory files.”
“Star,” comes out in an echoing tremor, a servo shakily reaching.
“Oh, my beloved. Finally. Finally!” Starscream is quick to capture those digits, kissing the knuckles. “You tremble! Are you cold?”
“I fell.”
“Yes, but you are saved. We pulled you out of that pit and brought you back.”
“He tricked me. He threw me down.”
“Sentinel will suffer for what he has done to you, I swear it.”
“We were friends, once.”
Acid Storm looks away, Shockwave busying himself at a terminal.
“It was dark down there.” Megatron sobs, choked and hoarse. “I could smell them, those that died before me. There I lay broken and alone, for I stewed in the cold, dark swamp of corpses, without even their ghosts for company. Hours, upon hours of feverish half-dreams.”
“Please don’t cry, my dear.”
“I thought about him over and over. My old friend. He threw me away, to die in the stinking shadows. And Orion, and Ariel, my other old friends, they saw Sentinel do it. Do they punish him? Do they reject him? Tell me, Star. Tell me their alliance is finished. At least let my failure bear fruit.”
“Megatron, you will live in the light, with me. Forget them. I am all you need.”
“Tell me. Do they reject him for what he has done to me?”
Starscream becomes flustered, petting Megatron’s servo and stuttering an answer, “N-no, my love, they are keeping him.”
“Then it is the Pit of my imaginings. My personal Pit has come to pass as truth. Only I am cast out.”
“Do not say such things. You are alive, with me. We will make this world our paradise.”
“My old friends. They stood there and watched him do it, and yet he resides in their love, while I rot here, isolated from them. My old friends.”
“Rot? No, never, not while my Spark beats for yours! You reside in my love!”
“Why would you ever want me? I am a foolish, broken old mech.” Megatron pulls a most terrible, ugly expression, squeezing Starscream’s servo until it aches. “I am ruined.”
“Hush, darling, we will fix you, we will make you better than you were before! In just a little while, you will rise again, and I will be by your side! Together, let us rise up and take our revenge!”
“Vengeance is mine, so sayeth I, for which I shall repay.” That said, Megatron reels, gurgling and groaning, his body gripped in a most awful spasm. “Orion, Ariel, Sentinel, Star! Help me! Someone, anyone! I am afraid!”
“Megatron? Megatron!” Starscream loses himself to mounting panic, his volume rising. “Does it hurt?!” A glare aside. “Is he in pain?! Well?! Do something! Make him better!”
“His fine motor functions are impeded by–”
“I don’t care about the cause! Just do your job and fix him! Do it, now!”
Acid Storm is cringing from the sanctity of the terminal hub. All the time and effort spent, and all to create an unfortunate monster.
“Ugh, this is so unfair. Like, I’m happy for Acid and Warp, don’t get me wrong, I do think it’s awesome that their careers are getting them places, but when am I getting my big break?”
“Girl, me too! I deserve better than generic Seeker scrap.”
“Thrust, you’re way too lazy to ever get promoted.”
“Oh, frag you, Nova.” Thrust pokes his glossa out. “I’d make a wicked flight instructor.”
“Actually, that’s not a bad idea,” Nova Storm admits with a thoughtful tap to the chin. “That is, if you can bother getting up on time for morning role-call without one of us having to drag your fat aft outta berth so you can get lectured by the Commander again. Not a good look for an instructor.”
“Ha! As if he even cares about my extended beauty sleep. Our Commander is hardly up early anyway. He’s just grouchy and likes to yell for whatever reason.”
“He’s got a lot on his plate. Be nice.”
“I’ll be nice when he’s nice.”
“Never gonna happen,” Thundercracker pipes up with a huff. “But I just miss our Seekers. We’re losing our best and it sucks since we’re left behind for being all… mediocre and stuff.”
“I’m not mediocre,” Thrust protests rather pathetically. “I’m just not esteemed highly enough by you aftholes.”
“Just you wait.” Nova Storm folds her burly arms. “Someday, Empress herself is gonna see my worth and take me on as her personal Seeker assistant.”
“Wow, datawork and drudgery. How exciting.”
“She’s amazing. I would happily bend over to serve her. Or service her.”
“Sure, but you’d still suck as a personal assistant, Nova.”
“Bite me, Thrust.”
“Um, sorry, hi. My name’s Clobber, I was told to come here – I think – and try out for the team. Am I at the right place? All these doors look the same to me. Heh.”
Skywarp is instantly charmed.
Clobber is just really cute.
The Seeker chirps, reviewing her datapad with a nod, before gesturing for the much bigger tank to follow, lumbering closely after.
“Okay, awesome. Thanks.”
Huge, smelly, fuel-hungry terrestrials linger about, chatting and flexing among themselves, comparing musculature and weaponry, joking crudely and slapping one another in some strange companionship so hard their armoured shells ring, with belts of laughter punctuating their inane banter.
“Wow. Lotta tough guys here. They look excited.” Clobber waves awkwardly in passing. “Hey, how’s it going?”
Skywarp trots among grounders who could crush her like a tin can with the confidence so distinct of a flier. Nobody dares tease her.
“So, uh, what’s this General Alpha Strike like in person? She’s gotta be amazing, to have all these people so eager to follow her. I heard she’s really big, bigger than me, and she’s a legend from the old war with more medals than I can count. The Decepticons are super lucky she joined up, huh.”
The Seeker chirps in reply.
“So she’s cool, right?”
A gesture.
“Okay, great. I’m just asking since I’ve got a little social anxiety and I get kinda shy meeting new people. I hope she likes me.” The massive tank scratches her helm, taking a shaky vent inward, before letting hot air out slowly, pungent with grease and oil distinct of frames as impressive as her own. Some people find the stink quite erotic. “Ohhh. I’m talking at you like this, but not really talking to you, since I forgot to ask for your name. Sorry. That was rude. Lemme try again. So! Uh. What’s your name?”
Skywarp pauses at the door, turning to give Clobber a soft smile.
“You don’t seem to say much. That’s okay. But could you maybe wear, uh, like a name tag? I don’t wanna just call you Seeker since that feels really, um, what’s the word, impersonal? I think that’s the word. I’m not very good with words. I’m good at building stuff and breaking stuff. That’s about the, uh, full extent of my skillset. Am I talking too much? I talk when I feel like I gotta fill space. I’m nervous. Sor–”
“Skywarp.”
Clobber blinks her singular optic, startled. “Oh!” Her features somehow manage a coy grin. “Whoa, you do talk.”
“Don’t tell anyone.”
“I can keep a secret.”
The Seeker quirks an optic ridge as a massive arm is held out to her, lacking a conventional servo at the end.
“Hi, Skywarp. I’m Clobber.” The tank offers her very best smile. It is a beautiful smile. “Oh, right. But you already know that, since I just told you and I’m probably on your little list there.”
Skywarp accepts the pincers offered to her, grasping firmly at the cumbersome tool, shaking once before releasing.
Clobber drags a heel over the floor with a girlish giggle that someone so big should not be capable of. “Primus, she’s just behind that door, isn’t she? I’m really nervous. Do I seem nervous? Lockdown told me to try and look cool in an interview. I really don’t wanna mess this up.”
The Seeker winks, mischievous yet reassuring, giving the door a firm knock.
“Enter.”
“She sounds scary,” the tank mumbles. “Maybe I shouldn’t–” She squeaks as the door releases.
Skywarp confidently steps inside the office, approaching the absolutely massive femme seated at the desk with a friendly chirp.
“Ah, Skywarp, another one?”
Clobber lingers awkwardly in the doorway, peeking within. “H-hello?”
“Come in. Close the door after yourself.”
“Yes, Ma’am. I mean Sir. I mean General.”
Alpha Strike finally looks up from her documents. The filtration system comprising her life-support hitches air.
The Seeker coaxes the tank within the office, timidly stepping through the threshold on ponderous steps trying to be delicate.
The General takes some time to speak. “Designation, soldier?”
“Uhhh. Clobber. That’s me.” Clobber remembers to salute with a gasp, doing her very best to look tidy and alert. “Reporting for duty, General, Sir.”
Alpha Strike actually chuckles, the sound distorted and echoing, chair groaning with relief as she rises from behind her desk, her bulk simply gargantuan.
“Whoa.” The tank’s jaw drops. “You really are sooo big. Bigger than me by, like, a bit.”
“Yes, so I have been told.”
“Oh! I’m sorry, that was rude, I shouldn’t comment on how big you are. Ladies don’t like it.”
“I’m hardly a lady.”
“Um. I dunno what to say to that?”
The General inclines her helm. “Skywarp, tell this one to relax.”
The Seeker is quietly snickering into a fist.
“Are you going out tonight, then?”
“Ugh. No.”
“They’re your friends, dear. You shouldn’t neglect them.”
“I know that. My inner party girl wants to go out, my Spark begs me to accept the invite just so I can see them again, but I can’t, not tonight. Too much going on up here,” Thunderblast mutters with her helm in her palm, scowling prettily into space.
Empress gracefully lays her palm upon her own lap, managing to sit very demurely for such a big lady, as if acting as some sort of hunky therapist.
“It’s fine. I’ll be sure to meet up with my old crew another night, when I’m in a better mental space. If I go out like this, though, I’mma get way too drunk to cope with the crushing social expectations perched on my pretty pauldrons, and then they’ll just have to look after me the whole time, which isn’t fun on anyone. Besides, I’m in such a funk. The last thing I need is to inflict that funk of other people. People other than you, I mean. Please stay.”
“I have no intention of leaving you by yourself, my cyberswan. I rather prefer to go with your company, than without.”
“You say such nice things to me. It makes my valve wet, but also I kinda wanna cry?”
“Come, have a sit on my lap and let me give you a big hug.”
The boat crosses the space to flop into the gladiator’s arms, settling atop her gunmetal grey thighs with a mutual nuzzle.
“There. Isn’t that better?”
“Mmhm.”
“You can stay here as long as you like. Our day is almost over, so I’m in no rush to do anything else but attend to you, my cyberswan.”
“I’m so glad you didn’t kill me for desertion, before.”
“As am I, my darling.”
“Before you go doubting my intentions with you,” Shadow Striker intones lowly from her seat at the noisy, crowded booth, rolling an Energon goodie between her digit and thumb whilst she speaks under the ambience of the old oil house so as to be discrete, “lemme just put this out there, yeah?”
“Okay, shoot.”
“I’m not just trying to make amends with you in the hope you’ll get my spike wet. I actually think you’re cool enough to hang with. I was a glitch to you before and I do regret it, since you didn’t do anything on purpose to set me off and you didn’t deserve my bile. In other words, I’m sorry I snapped at you.”
“I accept your apology. Also, I forgive you for lying about being a Decepticon the whole time.”
“I didn’t lie about that. I just didn’t say anything about it.”
“Lies by omission are still lies.”
“Fair enough. Buuut, all that said, I bet I can make up for it, if you’ll just let me take it from here, so’s I can steer us along for a sweet ride. You know how it goes.”
“Well, I could consider it. One question, though.” Bumblebee purses his dermas softly, quirking an optic ridge as he leans in closely, trying not to be overheard by anyone else. “I gotta ask, did Windblade threaten you on my behalf? She’s got that look on her face that tells me she’s ready to kick some aft, so you’d better not misbehave.”
A wicked grin. “She sure did. She meant it, too. I can’t help but misbehave, though.”
A sigh. “Sorry about that. She’s protective of me, of all our friends, but mostly me.”
“Don’t apologise. It’s kinda cute. Kinda hot. I wouldn’t mind it if she beat me up, damn, I’d probably lie down and let her.”
“You’re so nasty.”
“It’s making you blush, so it’s working.”
The scout shakes his helm, chuckling. “Alright, you got me.”
“I’m awful, huh.” The mercenary’s grin softens a little. “Bet you’re wishing I wasn’t your type, but you can’t help it. You like your ladies big and bad.”
“You’re just the worst. I’m in trouble, I accept that.”
“Better make the most of it. Dance with me?”
“Sure, if you think this scrub can keep up with you, tough guy.”
She runs a large digit slowly across the counter top, until alighting upon his wrist.
His doors, raised at his back like insectoid wings, twitch with excitement at the mere touch and all it suggests between them.
“I think you’ll manage.”
“Whoa. How are you so smooth like that?”
“Practice.” Shadow Striker reaches again for Bumblebee, gently inserting the Energon goodie into the soft curve of his smiling intake. “Suck on that and let me watch.”
“Mmhm.”
“While your intake’s full, I’d like to borrow the rest of you, if you let me.”
Windblade is in her protective mom friend mode, a stoic sentry keeping an optic on those she would protect with her life, and as such she bristles when Shadow Striker easily seduces Bumblebee all over again, taking his servo and easily pulling him out of his seat, tugging him against herself with a whistle.
“I like how your yellow lights up a room.”
“Mmhm?”
“Fine little fragger you are.”
“Mmhm!”
“There they go again,” Windblade mutters, sighing heavily through her enstrils. “One wrong move and she’ll get it this time, I swear it. No more games.”
“Oh, would you relax already? I know she’s got a dark and mysterious past shrouded in spooky stories and rumours about how dangerous she is, plus she sure looks scary and she has that vibe with how she puts up a front for us, but she did help save our afts back at the arena and she clearly likes him. She’s not so bad. I think a lot of it is just posturing,” Arcee supplies cheerfully, before tossing back a shot of something bright green. “Mmm! That burns.”
“I’m trying, okay. But he’s my little honeybee and I can’t help myself. I have to keep him safe.”
“I know, sweet Spark. You’re so brave and strong and we love you for it.”
“She could hurt him again.”
“And if she does, you and me are both gonna kick her to the curb, trust.”
“Alright, but I get the first kick in.”
“If it comes to pass, yeah, of course. Meanwhile, I recommend that you have another drink, distract yourself with meaningless talk about whatever, and loosen up a little. Here, I’ll let you take a shot off my tits if you want?”
“Yes, absolutely.”
Slipstream turns in time to observe Arcee tipped back in her seat, neatly balancing a little crystalline cup on the swell of her pink bosom, keeping very still and allowing Windblade to lean in closely, taking the shot betwixt her dentas before tossing it back and swallowing the burning Energon blend with a hiss of satisfaction.
“Ayo, that’s my girl!”
“Hold on, I think I spilled a little on you.”
“Any excuse to lick my tits.”
“Oh, please. We’re in public. I have manners.”
“Do you, now.”
“Hush. Here. Let me just…”
Slipstream’s optics widen as Windblade very delicately runs a thumb over Arcee’s breastplate, as if wiping away a small spill.
“Nice,” Flamewar declares, attention also caught.
“Nice,” Chromia echoes, having abruptly lost interest in hearing adorable stories about Ravage, who has finally recovered from his sickness and is doing much better, being a menace in his household.
Hot Rod makes a needy whining sound. “Chrooomiiiaaa!”
“Huh?”
“I was just getting to the cute part! You’re not listening.”
Grimlock giggles into his cup. “Indeed, why are you so distracted, my friend?” He is teasing, of course. He knows very well the cause.
“Oh, forgive me, they were just – um, never mind. You were saying?”
“Yeah, so our little rascal jumped on the table and–”
Leaving the other cat dad to boast about the antics of their beloved little bundle of pride and joy, Soundwave opens his cassette compartment by a fraction, sneakily depositing an Energon goodie within, which Ravage nibbles at with a soft purring that echoes within the mech that shelters him bodily.
Unfortunately, Demolishor and Thunderblast are not in attendance. He is confined to curfew for rest, as per mandatory recharge periods suited to an old soldier. She is too depressed to be social, though she does not admit this and merely promises to pop in another time. Still, it ends up being a nice night out. But the night is not endless to those who treasure good times with good friends.
Starscream rolls over in berth, staring at the wall, then the ceiling, then the other wall, so alone, so aware, so awake. From his lonely perspective, the night does seem endless.
“You’ve got a beautiful home.”
“Thank you. I’m very blessed.”
Flamewar is mindful to scrape off her pedes before stepping within the luxurious habitation suite. She has been here once before, invited by other friends along with Shadow Striker, but Windblade was in the medical ward at the time and so could not play hostess.
“Are you hungry?”
“I’m alright, thanks.”
“Can I get you anything to drink?”
“Only if you’re having something.”
Chromia is already at the liquor cabinet when she overhears this, pouring out measured portions for everyone.
Windblade eases herself onto the couch with a soft, feminine sigh, smiling mildly at Flamewar as she wanders about, intrigued by the Camien art on the walls, the foreign little objects of interest on display across various polished metallic surfaces.
“Here, love.”
“Thanks, dearest.”
Chromia thus passes Windblade a drink, with a meaningful look between them.
Slipstream had hurried off to the guest room some minutes prior, likely making sure it is prepared for an overnight stay, what little night is left to them. She returns with a fond grin as she discovers Flamewar poised over a potted plant stategically placed by the viewing port. “Venturing about again, are you?”
“Yeah, I’m curious by my nature. Is that… organic?”
“Yup.”
“Like, for real?”
“For real.”
“Whoa. How’d you get it?”
“It was a gift from a friend,” Windblade answers with a soft grunt as Chromia playfully nudges her with an elbow, garnering an unabashed smirk.
“A very good friend, mm?”
“Oh, yeah, we’re real friendly.”
Flamewar does not dare touch the organic plant that Ariel had cultivated and gifted so generously, loping over to Slipstream to hug her instead, for no reason in particular.
“My little one.”
“My big one.”
“One of a few, huh.” The Seeker strokes the bike’s helm.
“Yeah. You, boss bot, dreamboat and treads. Everybody’s bigger than me, even that short king Bumblebee.” Flamewar grins up at Slipstream. “I bet he likes not being the littlest guy in the room for once.”
“Short king?” Windblade giggles at that.
“Of course, being small has its advantages. I can get in tight spaces and I’m basically optic-level with most folks’ tits.” Flamewar proceeds to press her face plate against Slipstream’s broad, flat bosom. “Mmm.”
“Flames, behave.”
“I dunno. She’s making sense to me, Slip.”
“Aaah, frag, you really like my aft, huh?”
Shadow Striker licks and sucks and gnaws at the puckered waste port, bruising the soft, warm, humid protoform mesh with dermas and dentas alike. She bobs and grinds with her wrist, a digit stuffed up and into the throbbing valve and buried until the knuckle, her lover plump and tight about her beckoning strokes.
“Mmm. Take it easy, back there, I gotta sit on that later. Ahh, scrap.” Bumblebee is sprawled out on the berth, fists knotted in twisted textile as he clings to anti-scratch sheets and pants into a synthetic pillow. “Ohhh, damn, ah, ah, ah. Don’t turn me inside out. Mmyeah. Nasty girl. Frag.”
As he overloads, she worms into his aft with her glossa, letting his rocking hips ride her servo to completion. He is tight, especially tight, until the delicious aftershocks rattle through his yellow shell and he feels loose enough to collapse, alerting her that this is her moment to take what she wants, what he willingly surrenders, thus yanking her digit out his valve and withdrawing from his waste port with a fond kiss to the cheek of his aft, followed by a sharp smack to his valve.
“Ow,” the little mech moans, before the bigger femme flips him over onto his back, folding his wings beneath himself and leering down at his flushed expression of aroused discomfort. “Beast.”
“You want me to treat you like a pillow princess, you take it like a pillow princess.”
“So rude. Why am I into it?”
She slaps his thighs apart and mounts him at an angle, bouncing on her sturdy haunches to drag the slick heat of her valve against his, their valves smearing together as their protoform folds kiss and caress roughly enough to creak rhythmically upon the berth. “Because you’re a hot little freak, honeybee.”
“Nuh-uh-uh.”
She purrs as a digit wags teasingly before her grimace of pleasure and focus.
“I am sweet, sure, but I’ve got a sting, and only Windblade gets to call me her honeybee with her whole valve out.”
The old mercenary grunts as the scout flicks her on the olfactory sensor.
“Got that, handsome?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Keep talking about fragging your friends. I wanna picture it in my dirty, dark thoughts.”
“Windblade makes love to my body and my mind, Chromia won’t frag me but she’ll share me real nicely, Hot Rod likes it when I tell him all about how I’m feeling and what I’m thinking especially if it praises him, Grimlock does me so gently for such a big guy, Arcee makes me laugh the whole time and if you haven’t overloaded while laughing then you’re missing out, and Slip likes to pretend I’m innocent which I don’t mind.”
Hips hastening, Shadow Striker licks a bead of perspired coolant from her upper derma, pulled in a snarl of satisfaction, proceeding to grab herself by the headlight to grope at the sensitive crystalline casing, slapping her other servo on the firm, flat belly of the submissive mech, effectively pinning him below herself. “You got a favourite frag outta your friends?”
“Nope. I love and appreciate them all equally.”
“Oh, please, gimme something I can bust a ’load to.”
“Hey, what can I say?” Bumblebee bounces beneath these lunging thrusts, sheets of yellow living metal jostled on protoform, running his digits over the bigger femme so as to trace her curves and angles as she frags him deeper into the berth. “I’m just a lucky little guy.”
She cannot resist a mewl as her valve gushes over his, pooling her lust into the seams of his armour, spilling between his hugging thighs.
“Did that set you off?”
“Hoooyeeeaaah.”
“Slag.”
“Wimbles doesn’t mind?”
“She doesn’t mind.”
Flamewar apparently needs no more reassurance, her promptly released spike springing out its chute with such bouncy enthusiasm.
“Look at you, handsome.” It has Slipstream salivating, her wings quivering excitedly as she crawls across the berth to nuzzle her friend and lover’s cheek, depositing a playful kiss there. “What a big spike you have, so hard and heavy. For me?”
“For you, Slippy. Help yourself to the whole damn thing, however you like it.”
The Seeker reaches for the erection, palming the shaft and teasing the tip with a thumb, humming huskily to herself as she assesses the length and girth of it, impressive enough on its own, but especially so when the bike’s overall mass is taken into consideration.
“Tell me how you’re gonna take me.”
“First, I think I’ll have a taste.”
“Ohhh, yeah. Go on.”
“Aaand then, I want you to make love to my cockpit.”
Flamewar blinks, lowering her searing gaze to the crystalline dome upon Slipstream’s broad, flat bosom. “Really? We can do that?”
“Mmhm.”
“Is that, um, safe and stuff?”
“If you’re not too rough with me. This is one of my most intimate, sensitive parts. You’d be almost making love to my spark chamber.”
“Aw, Slippy. Even when you’re randy, you’re so sweet. When we get married, we are gonna be the baddest, kinkiest, happiest Conjunx Endurae ever.”
“I really hope so.”
“Trust, Slippy. Trust.”
The Seeker smiles as the bike launches into a hug, spike squished between them.
“I love you so much.”
“I love you too.”
“You goddit, girl. Whatever you want, it’s yours. I’m yours. I’ll be so gentle inside your cockpit and I’ll help wash you out when you’re satisfied.”
Slipstream kisses Flamewar atop the helm, then gently pushes her over and onto her back, pinned effortlessly beneath with an excited snort of the engine.
“Aw, yeah, come and geddit.”
Cooing, the Seeker allows some of her considerable weight to press down, flattening the bike against the berth.
“Squish me, Slippy, crush me ’til I can’t move.”
Laid out atop with easy authority, Slipstream nuzzles one of Flamewar’s tyres, propped by her pauldrons and pushed flat upon the recharge slab, depositing a noisy kiss upon the rubber.
“Hnnngh!” The bike makes a strangled sound as dentas pinch at the tyre, one of the grounder’s most sensitive bodily parts, necessary in measuring speed and angles and other such variables when driving. Claws rake down a broad, burly back strut without leaving any marks, sinking shallowly into the protoform flesh of the tight little aft. “Hahhh, Slippy, you make me so wet.”
The Seeker works her way slowly down from that tyre, nipping along the dark and sharpened pauldron, kissing the flushed and scarred cheek just above a fang, lapping into the slender neck cables, suckling at the swells of fiery breastplate, dragging over the knotted abdominal plates until dipping into the curve of the spike permitted to salute once more.
“Frag me, Slippy.” Flamewar cups Slipstream’s helm between both palms and caresses her, coaxing her to rise and lower again, bobbing upon the shaft that slides betwixt plump dark dermas, scraping over the squirming glossa, nudging at the back of the throat just shy of triggering the sensors responsible for a gag reflex. “Take me there. Take me with you.”
Bumblebee finds himself suspended upside-down, folded in on himself with his helm dangling off the edge of the berth and legs held aloft, thighs hoisted about Shadow Striker’s neck and pauldrons, ankle joints hooked together behind her helm to lock himself in place as she kneels on the berth and bears down on his interface array, gripping his thighs and noisily devouring his mesh with a heated glare directed down upon his crumpled form.
All that talk of beautiful friends being beautiful lovers really had an impact, it would seem.
“Oh, oh, oh, Primus, yes, gimme that, I need it, ah, ah, ah!”
Music to the old mercenary’s audials. She bites down savagely and shakes her helm, as if a turbofox rending metallic flesh.
The scout screams, transfluid spurting from his flopped spike to spray ropes that lash across his belly and breast, valve reflexively clenching, aft port pulsing spasmodically.
She wrestles to escape his thighs, dropping him upon the berth with a scoff, snorting on fluids. “Where are you gonna take my spike?”
He squirms, unable to lift his dangling helm to look at her, watching the holographic flickering of his Cube posters from upside-down.
“Dealer’s choice, mm?” She shifts, the berth creaking as she moves. “Alright, then.”
He stares, vaguely aware of the drool and the sweat, and sighs as she steps into his line of sight.
“Keep that intake open real wide.”
He flinches as she slaps him across the face with the sheer heft of her truly terrific spike. The notion of getting his face fragged while he is in this position has his cooling fans working far too hard to dispel the surge of heat that would melt his guts with arousal.
As if to be helpful, she roughly pries his jaws apart with her callused digits and thumbs, then presses the tip of her spike to his curious glossa, then pushes past it with a ragged sigh. “Yeeeaaah, that’s a good boy.”
He chokes, kicks weakly, grabs her by the plump expanse of her aft and holds on dearly, tears bursting forth as he tries his very best to swallow her whole.
Gazing down at him, she grins as his throat bulges in the shape of her encroaching spike.
There is a horrible wet retching sound, the loudest noise they have made in the guest room, trying not to disturb the other occupants of this habitation suite.
“Haaaahhh.” Flamewar’s optics roll back, her shutters fluttering, yet she does not overload.
Slipstream pulls off at the worst possible moments and sits back with a huff, looking actually rather smug whilst licking the slick from her inky dermas, sighing as she swallows, throat bobbing.
“Aw, Slippy, what the frag?”
“Mmm.”
“I was so close, you had me right there, pleeeaaase.”
“Hush. I’m saving it for my cockpit.”
The bike forgives easily enough, swooning at the notion. “Ohhh, Slippy, that’s even better.”
The Seeker drags a thumb across her smile, smearing oral lubricant mixed with pre-overload, before she flops onto the berth with a comically pronounced thud and winces at the noise, then assumes an inviting pose.
“You gorgeous glitch, you.”
“Get on top of me,” she commands lowly, then releases the seal of her cockpit, the dome lifting upon its hinge mechanism to release her scent so strongly into the room.
Scrambling to obey, Flamewar straddles the bigger frame, gripping herself by the spike and eagerly guiding it closer to the opening, optics wide and wild, a delighted grin stretching with fangs bared. “I can see inside you. So beautiful and special.”
“So close to my spark, my love.”
“I’m gonna burst real bad, Slippy.”
Laid back in a very relaxed way, Slipstream lays her large servos on her lover’s plump hips, drawing her closer, closer, closer, until the spike nudges something inside with a gasp they both share. “Flames, I feel you inside me, so close to my soul.”
“Whoa. Slippy, I dunno how to describe it. You’re so… soft, and warm, and your Spark thrums with beautiful, brilliant life… and you smell like you, but only a hundred times stronger than the rest of you smells like you… and I think there’s something about this that gets me kinda closer to Primus. Is that a lot?”
“It sorta is, yeah.”
“Heh, well, your cockpit is awesome on my spike, let’s leave it at that.”
“Frag me, Flames. You’re wet and hard and I ache to be filled with your seed.”
These words, these sensations, have the bike’s engine purring throatily and her optics flaring like twin suns. She finds the Seeker’s digits, holding them tightly, and begins to thrust at a gentle, lazy pace, rubbing inflated and slicked spike to the components of aircraft interior, provoking pleasure wherever contact lands. “Mmyeah, you like that, big girl, good girl?”
“Yes, my love, take me, make me…” Slipstream forgets to finish whatever she had intended to say, so lost in these moments. She does not need to release her own interface array, as the stimulation combined with the excitement will make her experience a tactile overload.
Even as a grounder, Flamewar understands that this is a very vulnerable, sacred act for a flier to permit.
Starscream has left his berth to linger outside a door, leading to a cell, holding a prisoner captive. He contemplates his life, his choices leading him to this, and then nods to the guard. “Open it, then lock me inside the room. Do not disturb us, no matter what you hear, no matter what it sounds like. I’ll let myself out when I’m finished with him.”
“Yes, Commander,” grunts the Decepticon with a rather curious frown, releasing the door just long enough for the Seeker to stride into the cell, then resealing the lock with a shrug. “Meh, I’m not paid enough to care.”
Starscream peers into the dim, aware of his own bodily functions in the silence.
Outside the cell, the guard yawns, shifting his Energon spear from one arm to the other. He cannot wait for his shift to end. So boring.
“Jetfire, are you awake?”
Notes:
Turns out I'm going away next week, so there probably won't be an update that weekend, but I'll try to get back to the usual update frequency as soon as I can, so please enjoy this chapter in the meantime and feel free to supply me with feedback if you'd like to spoil me - please accept a warm thank you for all the support this story has garnered so far, it really amazes me and I am so glad to provide some entertainment in these tough times. I wish you and yours a wonderful December!
Chapter 62
Notes:
My sleep has been fucked and my neck has painfully seized up for a few days (painkillers don't do much for me anymore and I struggle with the stretching exercises due to my rock-hard swollen muscles from the shoulders upward) so basically I wasn't in the best mindset or mood for writing, but I didn't want to make you wait another week for an update so please accept this token and forgive me for not pumping out something longer and sexier for the occasion. The story's plot is already decided, so I intend to get to the juicy bits at my own pace and I just hope you'll enjoy the journey as I take my time with telling it. Thank you for being here and for being so patient with me.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Days later, Slipstream has her answer: “So people really are still scared of me, even the educated people fear me, and my behaviour, my contributions, matter so little so as to mean nothing at all in the grander scheme of things.”
“They’re fearful of Starscream and his lot. You’ve got nothing to do with them. People, even educated people who ought to know better by now, are often prone to oversimplification and the compounding of interests.”
“I’m a Seeker and it’s wartime and Seekers are warriors. People see a Seeker, they don’t see me, they don’t see me as a person. I’m just a living, sentient weapon.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Why not? It’s the truth. After everything I’ve done to try and do better, be better, and I’m still just another monstrous Seeker. That’s clearly all I am to those academic types, and they’re the smartest of us, so what hope do I have, thinking I might live a normal life?”
“It’s bitter. It’s cynical. It’s cruel. You cannot afford to give up on yourself. If you give up on the people around you, then you’ll only set yourself up for loneliness in the future. You’re still so young and full of life.”
“It’s frustration. It’s despair. It’s hurt. I’ve been trying so hard.”
“I see that.”
“Do you really think the average terrestrial sees that, too? Do you think the guy down the street and his lovely wife care to distinguish some military flier from the flock? To the vast majority of Cybertronians, I’m just like all the rest of my kind. Who was I trying to fool otherwise, myself?”
“Your patients would make the distinction. Your standard of care for them has not gone unappreciated. The youngsters in particular rather like you.”
“And that gave me hope. I really thought it could be different, I could be different, if I could just be helpful. But this proves me wrong. A Seeker attending a university. Oh, please. As if. Never gonna happen. Too violent and loud and stupid for study. Just gonna mess up the place, being all big and boisterous.”
“Don’t indulge in such talk.”
“Even if it’s honest?”
“It’s unproductive. Take a moment to process, and then proceed.”
“You say that like it’s so simple to just… soldier through it. But being a soldier is my problem.”
“I acknowledge that this is difficult.”
“Heh. Yeah. It’s a lot.”
“Furthermore, I acknowledge the unfairness of it all.”
“Thanks for that. At least I know I’m not crazy to feel this way.”
“Please understand where I’m coming from.” Red Alert sucks in air gracefully, lowering her gaze in dignified contrition. “I had hope for you, too. I still do. When I vouched for you, I did so because of my belief that you could offer so much more to the ungrateful, ignorant world, and I still believe it, even if the educated elite denied your application and mocked me in the process. I will not rest until you have a fair chance at studying medicine and earning a fair income doing so.”
The Seeker sniffs wetly, dragging a burly arm across her optics.
“I must confess my disappointment and disdain for those stuffy intellectuals on the university board. I knew the possibility of rejection was always present, it always is, and I know others have been turned away for petty reasons, but I never intended for an opportunity at study to cause you such suffering.” The senior medic opts to sit elegantly beside the bulkier femme, tall and slender by comparison. “Forgive me. I just see your potential and I wish to foster it further.”
“You believed in me. That means so much more than I can ever express, more than you’ll ever realise. Please never apologise to me for caring about my future.” Slipstream sags where she sits on a bare bench outside the medical bay, datapad in her servos, thickset digits trembling bluntly about the crystalline device. “I’m such an idiot, but having someone smart like you in my corner makes me feel like maybe I can manage something good with my time, like maybe my life can be lived doing good somehow.”
“Then you won’t give up on medicine. Am I right?”
“I like nursing. I don’t wanna quit.”
“Very well, then.” Red Alert sighs quietly, subtly readjusting her noble framework as she turns to smile ruefully aside at the younger femme. “Here’s a thought.”
The Seeker looks up, adorably forlorn. “Mm?”
“Consider it an alternative to university, one I’d hesitate to suggest due to my own eccentricities. Primus knows I inflict myself on everyone here quite enough already and they loathe it. Do you think you can tolerate seeing much more of me, one-on-one?”
“With all due respect, I like you.”
The senior medic chuckles faintly at that.
“I mean it. I don’t understand why everyone’s so, um, afraid of you. You’ve only ever been professional and pleasant. You do such a great job of, well, everything all the time. It’s amazing watching you work, working beside you, learning from you.”
“Ah, hahaha. Well, now.” Red Alert cracks a very rare smile, the sort that shows her perfectly maintained dentas. “You say that, as you haven’t garnered my wrath as of yet, unlike a number of your fellow volunteers. Ratchet would tell you I’m a terror based on a lifetime of knowing me as intimately as he does. He has stories about me. I’m his favourite reoccurring villain.”
Slipstream shrugs her burly pauldrons. “I still think you’re really cool.”
“Thank you. We’ll see if you still think so, after truly digesting my proposal…”
“And here he is,” old Ratchet declares with a manic, drunken energy of a mech at once excited by his own intellect, yet also utterly exhausted due to his own labour, accompanied by a suitably dramatic flourish courtesy of a tiredly sagging and smiling Orion Pax as the finalised blueprint of Sentinel’s new body is finally unveiled to the greater public. “Witness with awe the culmination of everything I could glean from the vast expanse of Cybertronian medical records, with the help of our dear archivist himself as my guide and assistant. We proudly present to you, our completed rubric for the new and improved Sentinel – he’s bigger, he’s stronger, and he flies this time. A modern miracle!”
“Ta-da.”
“Whoa, you guys! Very nice!” Ariel applauds, grinning from her seat. “You even got the wings in there after all!”
“You have no idea how complicated that feat was.”
“Seriously, I dunno how you did it, but this design looks awesome.” She rises to offer a standing ovation, the mechs taking a bow each.
“Thank you, thank you.”
“He’s like someone straight out of a holocomic! And even better, it’s just shiny and ostentatious enough to suit my big idiot perfectly. I love it.”
“Funny you should say that, as I was briefly inspired by the historical holocomics archive.”
“What, really?”
“Really! I wandered in there when I was low on fuel. I got confused and I had vivid visions. The characters really spoke to me.”
“That’s… probably not good, Doc?”
“I had to rescue our good Doctor from the, errm, visions,” Orion admits with a sigh. “I fed him and forced him to rest a while, but–”
“But the divine inspiration was there! Gnawing upon my imagination, seeding my genius with bold new ideas!” Ratchet declares with a trembling fist. “And here he is! Embodied!”
“Indeed, I strongly approve. Most elaborate and imposing a design.” Alpha Trion strokes his beard, smiling demurely in that subtly all-knowing way of his. “Excellent work. I commend the both of you. Sentinel will be delighted, I am certain of it.”
“Oh, he’d better like it, I swear to Primus.” Ratchet rubs his brows, managing a sort of breathy, nervous giggle. “Oof.”
“Uh, you good, Doc?”
“Mmyes. Just a little tired.”
“I think some rest is in order, good Doctor.”
“Oh, I’m going to go take a much-needed nap, that’s for certain. People forget I’m not just fragging brilliant, but also, I’m fragging old.”
“So say all of us.”
“A nap first. Then I’ll assemble a team to help perform the necessary surgical procedures, with myself leading my carefully cultivated team of leading experts. It’ll speed up the process and simplify the ordeal. Perhaps, in my enthusiasm, I went a bit overboard with Sentinel’s reimagining.”
“Yeah. Maybe a bit, Doc.”
“Hmm. I might have to consider including Red Alert, to my undying chagrin. But I can still rub this achievement in medical science in her face, for it was I who had access to the archives. Ha! Take that, best of our class.”
“Don’t let her steal your thunder, tough guy.”
“Absolutely not! In the meantime, just to remind all present, Sentinel had promised to attend to the matter of resources himself, and so I’ll send him an itemised bill.”
“Throw in some high-grade, Doc. You earned it.”
“I need it, too.” That said, Ratchet falls into a chair and promptly passes out, neck slumped, snoring into his own breastplate in the way only surly, older mechs can.
Ariel lopes over to give Orion a burly hug. “Well done, old mech. Thanks for helping out.”
“Truthfully, I did very little, though I did my best.”
“Aw, you’re way too modest.”
“Thank you. I have tried to be useful.” He rubs his burly neck with a weary sigh, resting his chin atop her pauldron. “And yet Doctor Ratchet has driven himself to the brink repeatedly, over a prolonged period, despite my aid and my protestations. I believe he will need to seek rest for a few days minimum. Perhaps if we assemble a team, they can begin the procedure while he rests.”
“Absolutely not,” Ratchet suddenly snaps, reviving within his chair as if someone had dared touch the remote to the holoscreen to change the channel, upon which he would claim to have been watching the Cube match the entire time despite his brief interlude of rest mode. “Nobody touches my project without my supervision. Red Alert will boss everyone about and make it her project.”
“Did you two date or something? I get the feeling.”
“She is the finest medic I have ever… hrrrmph-mmmph-hmmmph.” He falls back to sleep with soft, inarticulate grumbles.
Starscream is not here, for he could not find it in his Spark to return today. He does try on most occasions, certainly his visits are regular, but seeing Megatron like this – still partially disassembled, in the process of being painstakingly repaired, rebuilt, and repurposed into a superior mech, after so little of his original body was left salvageable – is too much to bear witnessing over and over again, and so little breaks are needed.
“I hate that you see me like this, as I am, what I have become, all I am reduced to, so feeble and meagre and wrong.”
“Hush, my dear. That’s silly talk. It helps nobody.” Empress drags her thumb softly along Megatron’s tear-stained cheek. “Don’t demean yourself with this sorrow for those who would spurn your feelings. Do you imagine they weep? No, I certainly don’t.”
“I am weak. I am wounded.”
“All the more reason why you need to reserve your strength and return to us with renewed purpose. Forgive yourself and focus on the glorious Decepticon future. We need you here, presently, with us.”
“How can I forget my past? My pain fuels me, it always has.”
“I don’t ask you to forget. I know the mech you are, within this damaged body. Let this outrage and indignity incite the fire within you. I was so persuaded when we first met, by the fire in your gaze when you first looked at me, the fire that singed your words when we first spoke. It still burns. I can feel the warmth. Never let them snuff you out.”
“Cybertron will burn.”
Shockwave does excellent work, as he has the resources and skills. However, the strict hierarchical oversight so as not to experiment too liberally, as well as the enforcement of ethics into surgical science, otherwise slow down this great labour. It would be so much more expedient, if not for the Decepticon higher-ups. Starscream makes his irrational demands when he deigns to show up and inevitably gets emotional, and Empress likes to poke her helm in to lend her unneeded input at any opportunity she can afford to do so, thus Shockwave is frequently interrupted and his course is corrected lest he should stray into territory of mad science. Those fools fail to understand. He only appears mad.
“It must burn, to shed away the chaff.”
“You’ve been avoiding me,” Starscream remarks from his place with his back at rest against the wall and a palm delicately splayed over his hip. His posture is casual, yet his raspy undertone quivers with hurt. “Or so it seems. Am I wrong?” Those optics – the most beautiful, bejewelled optics – dart between the floor and Sureshock.
The Minicon sighs, setting her things aside and shutting her locker with a dull thud.
“I thought we liked each other. I like you. Do you like me? Did you ever like me?”
“I like you very much, Commander.”
“Starscream. I did give you permission to use my name.”
“I do like you, Starscream.”
“But?” The Seeker sneers prettily into space. “There always is a but. Nobody simply likes me for the sake of myself being easy to like. I know I’m far easier to dislike. People have told me, you see, most liberally in fact. I must accept – and anticipate – that I am to be so very difficult to like. Forgive me for pondering the possibility that your feelings for me might be different, refreshingly so.”
“Would you give me a chance to speak, please.”
“Please, go ahead. Be sure to make it hurt me. As if I cannot hurt enough.”
Sureshock shuffles over to Starscream, dwarfed by his tall, curvy frame.
He somehow manages not to look at her, even as she boldly stares up at him. “I’m listening,” comes out bittersweet.
“Back at the arena, the things you said, the things you did, the things you had your Seekers do…”
“Another critic, are you?”
“Shush. Let me talk.”
He huffs, but bows his helm.
“You once told me that you empathise with Minicons. Mass-produced, Sparks thawed and assigned to bodies with alt-modes already decided, ultimately used to be abused and disposed of. You said you thought of your Seekers when you thought of me.” Sureshock dares to reach out and lay her palm on Starscream’s stomach, not quite able to comfortably reach for his bosom. “So how could you do that to them?”
His vents hitch. “The Seekers are mine to use however I see fit.” He licks his dermas, looking away. “It is my right.”
“And now you know why I avoid you,” she says, then takes back her servo, turns, and walks away.
“Wait. Wait!”
She does not.
“I need a friend!”
Finally, she stops, hesitant to leave him behind, hurt on his account. She needs a friend, too. So it is true, they are both lonely.
“I need a friend,” he confesses again, shrill and pathetic, assuming an almost grovelling posture so defiant of his beauty and grace and arrogance. “I am so very friendless!”
“Then you need to reconsider how you treat people, Starscream.”
There is so much he should say to that, but his voice dies.
She walks away, without him. Every step is agony.
“I wish you’d consulted me sooner,” is Red Alert’s haughty summation after some moments spent critically perusing the documentation with a pair of lens spectacles neatly perched upon her queenly olfactory sensor. “You definitely need my help.”
Ratchet rolls his bright optics, huffing breathily, arms folded. “Then I take it you wish to make medical history with me, old friend?”
“Yes, I’d be delighted,” the senior medic intones, lowering her spectacles to peer over them. “Esteemed colleague.”
“Esteemed colleague! That’s all I get?”
“I’m rather annoyed that you got to partake of the very darkest depths within the archives, without me. You left me out of the research, you spoilsport, and that’s not a friendly sort of thing to do.”
“Only because I knew you’d hog the whole thing if I let you. Are you jealous, mm?”
“Seethingly so.”
They definitely dated, Slipstream thinks to herself, sanitising a surgical tray in the background.
“Sooo… I was just wondering, um…”
Empress is not in the best mood, her mind occupied by Megatron’s broken body and broken spirit, and so Nova Storm’s obvious infatuation is at once indulged yet also brushed aside with a long-suffering, “Yes, my dear?”
“Acid Storm is working as Shockwave’s Seeker, and Skywarp’s now working as Alpha Strike’s Seeker, and I guess you don’t have a Seeker yet, so do you want one? Because I’m totally available anytime. You can have me, right here and now. Just take me. Please.”
“Oh, you’re so very sweet, Nova, dear.”
The Seeker swoons as a huge palm offers her a demeaning little pat atop the helm.
“But I’m rather busy just now, so perhaps we could have this discussion later, darling, yes?”
“Uh, okay, sure!”
The gladiator smiles in her sinisterly motherly way, then turns and marches off on sweeping strides.
“Nailed it,” Nova Storm tells herself softly whilst fondly and forlornly watching Empress go, more specifically, watching her departing aft.
“I don’t need anyone to like me,” Starscream tells his reflection. “I like myself. I am enough for me, I am all I need. I am a bad glitch with big dreams and a heavenly purpose. Frag the rest of them. They will rue the day.”
Except Megatron is so sorely missed.
Slipstream is so sorely missed.
And mourning proved futile, since Jetfire.
“Me, myself and I, so very alone.”
“C’mere, good girl. That’s it. I gotcha.” Shadow Striker scowls with a scoff, roughly palming the back of Slipstream’s neck whilst affectionately bumping their helms together. “Dumbafts dunno how bad they lost out on you. Frag ’em! The institution’s a sham anyhow, engineered to put young people in debt. Most qualifications aren’t worth scrap in the real working world.”
“Still, I would’ve appreciated the chance to study medicine, since it could’ve opened so many doors. But maybe those doors aren’t locked to me, or maybe there’s another way through. Let me mourn this prospect and consider my options in the meantime.”
“Glitches gonna get cut for making Slippy sad. Trust.”
“Please don’t cut any glitches on my behalf, Flames.”
“They gotta watch their backs from now on.”
“You’ll leave them be, thank you very much.”
“Ugh. Fiiine.” Flamewar buries her face in Slipstream, hugging her about the middle as much as such a difference in scale can allow. “If you change your mind, lemme know,” comes out adorably, yet sinisterly muffled. “I got my ways.”
“Hush. I’ll be okay.” The Seeker sighs into the mercenary’s cheek, stroking the bike’s helm. “I’m still helping people and there’s other ways to progress being helpful onto a career path.”
“Don’t give up, then.”
“I won’t.”
“Attagirl. Gotta get done what matters to you most. Do what you love.”
Flamewar looks up, purring under the palm that strokes her helm. “Hey, Slippy.”
Slipstream gazes down into those big, bright, golden optics, fringed strangely with a surreal hue of purple, the peculiarity of which is more apparent depending on fluctuations in mood. “Yes, Flames.”
“I know you like it clean, so I can make it look like an accident. A violent, painful accident.”
“Oh, would you stop?”
“We got ways of making people disappear, no leads, no strings attached,” Shadow Striker mutters ominously, then grins crookedly when this garners a light shove.
“Both of you! Chill! You’re not murdering anybody for my sake, end of story! I confided in you for cuddles and conversation, not death threats!”
“Perked you right up though, huh, good girl.”
“Weirdly enough, yeah, you scary weirdoes do cheer me up. Thanks for that.”
“Anything, anytime, for you, Slippy.”
Clobber keeps a personal diary, which she diligently updates on a daily basis with her thoughts and feelings and observations, all in accordance with operational security standards because that stuff is super important. In today’s entry, she updates her progress in trying to endear herself to the other heavies on General Alpha Strike’s squad, hopeful to make friends among comrades. However, these tanks and other such terrestrials tend to be a bit too crude and unruly for Clobber’s gentle, sweet self, and so she is struggling to relate to them in any sincere, meaningful way. She really misses Lockdown. But more optimistically, she has taken a liking to the surprisingly sensitive older guy, Demolishor, who acts stoic but sometimes seems like he might cry, and Skywarp is really cute and likes to prank people, so that makes it easy to like her a lot because she boosts morale. Hey, that makes two prospective friends here. And even General Alpha Strike herself is nice, in a scary, strict way. She is clearly much smarter than the rest of them. Prettier, too.
Curious as per Seeker nature, Skywarp chirps and wriggles in, attempting to peer around Clobber’s bulk at whatever she is typing so diligently with her huge pincers on her tiny personal datapad.
“Uh, sorry, this is private stuff. I should probably write my journal entries when everybody’s in recharge.”
“That won’t stop her. She’s not supposed to be here, these aren’t her barracks,” Demolishor grumbles as he stuffs his joints with grease, sat on a neighbouring recharge slab. “Why a Seeker would wanna spend her precious recreational time with a bunch of tankers like us, I just don’t understand…”
“I like having her here.”
“Even with her mischief?”
“Yeah, a little mischief cheers up the place.”
“You’re really nice, Clobber. Too nice.”
“Aw, thanks, Demolishor. You’re nice, too. Skywarp, no.”
The Seeker’s wings bob as the tank holds her datapad out of reach.
“Knock it off, Skywarp,” the mech grumbles. “Behave yourself. You’re the General’s second-in-command, so act like it, even in your off-time.”
Skywarp pokes her glossa out at Demolishor, but relents, leaving Clobber to update her diary in peace to go and pester another terrestrial instead.
Most establishments prohibit smoking indoors, and so the femmes step out into the waning daylight.
“So, you’re not rejoining the Decepticons, then?”
“I dunno. I do need the pay, and I’ve kinda wrecked my professional reputation already because of this and all the associations that come with it,” Shadow Striker grumbles, gesturing to the baleful Deceptibrand that glows mournfully upon her ample cleavage. “I hit up some old mercenary contacts, got told to frag off.” She sucks on her cy-gar, then blows a playful plume of smoke at Flamewar, who seems to strangely like the stink. “A lotta folks are scared I’ll take them down with me, since people are losing faith in the Decepticons now that psycho Scream’s in charge and Megatron’s outta commission. The big mech flunking so hard in that duel with Sentineldidn’t help the Decepticon image either. Sucks for me, since the mark’s pretty permanent.”
“Oh, I’m sorry you’re struggling.”
“We all are.”
Slipstream gazes at her own Deceptibrand, sighing. “Yeah.” Try as they might, both Ratchet and Wheeljack have studied the Deceptibrand yet cannot seem to purge Shockwave’s malicious code or erase the seal that embeds so deeply in the host CNA. “Maybe you could reconsider a change in career?”
“I’m not working some soulless corporate job in a stuffy little office. I’d rather die that do all that datawork for a meagre living. No way.”
“You could join us. Most roles are volunteer, but we do pay some people. Your skills would help a lot.”
“Nuh-uh. You got too much to do with Functionists and cops. Not you, personally, but that Council of yours. Bunch of stupid old people, if you ask me, though the big pink lady’s a baddie.”
“She could sit on me.”
“Attagirl,” the old mercenary mutters fondly, taking another hit of her cy-gar and blowing smoke at the bike, whose enstrils flare with weird interest.
The Seeker leans against the railing overlooking the residual traffic and passing pedestrians, swirling the remnants of her drink in the bottom of the crystalline bottle as she thinks.
“You worry too much about me,” Shadow Striker says. “Worry about Flames, she deserves it, but don’t waste the energy on my decrepit old aft.”
“You’re both a package deal to me,” answers Slipstream easily enough. “I conflate you both, thus you share my worry between you.”
“Long as I’m not getting in the way of what you girls got going on.”
“I can share myself just fine between both my girls, boss bot, and that includes her and you.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Uh, yeah? Duh. Slippy knows the score, so you should too.” Flamewar grins cutely into cy-gar smoke. “Where you go, I go, but I’mma find my way back to her, trust. Nobody’s gotta feel sad for so long. Nobody’s gotta carry the burden of guilt.” And then the grin fades. “Nobody deserves to live life like that. Right? It’s not really being alive if it’s a life lived in regret and loneliness.”
The Seeker and the mercenary exchange a look of mutual concern.
“Right,” the bike murmurs quietly to herself.
“Flames, are you alright?”
“Sometimes I’m so sane I scare myself. Sorry. I’ll stop.”
Slipstream scoops Flamewar into a big, burly hug, stooping to kiss her scuffed cheek.
“Aw, yeah. Squeeze me nice and tight. Squeeze me ’til I pop.”
“And risk all your crazy leaking out?” Shadow Striker scoffs, lovingly ruffling the smallest femme’s helm. “Nah, we’ll keep you intact.”
“Ugh. Fine. Uppies?”
The Seeker easily lifts the bike off the floor, neatly perching her aft upon the rail whilst embracing her, their difference in stature levelled out enough to rest a chin comfortably upon the pauldron to afford a faraway gaze nowhere in particular.
The mercenary smiles aside at them, one of her rare, real smiles, then takes a deep drag and lazily blows smoke.
“You guys are the best.”
“You lot like me, don’t you? You admire me, appreciate all I do for you, but you also like me. Yes?”
The Seekers gawk in stunned, stupid silence.
Starscream does not mean to, but he cannot help but burst into the most unflattering tears before his kin.
“H-hey, now! Of course we like you, Commander!” Nova Storm stumbles to exclaim, giving her peers a terrified look. “You’re amazing and smart and beautiful and we look up to you! Right, guys?”
Silent staring at the one who sobs harder, painfully aware of the lack of consensus.
“Uh, guys. Help.”
“You’re, uh, an acquired taste?” Thrust attempts with a shrug, cringing.
“We like the way you look,” Thundercracker proposes with what he hopes is a reassuring smile. He just pulls a pained face instead. “Eh, guys?”
“You smell great,” some random Seeker adds from the back, to the chorus of others who can easily agree with that. “We like your cologne, Sir.”
Starscream turns and flees from them. Actually flees. This is not his reality. This is not his desire, made manifest in the actions and attitudes of others. This is a betrayal, upon betrayal, upon betrayal. He will not forget.
So much for talking to one’s own reflection, hopeful that the correct answer might be granted in a convincing reply.
“Slip, I’m so sorry.” Windblade wraps her arms around Slipstream, drawing the bigger femme into a cuddle on the couch. “Please don’t let this reflect badly on you, okay. You’re wonderful, the senior medics and the other volunteers all see how hard you work, your patients appreciate your care and we love you very much for everything you do. We know you deserve better than this. Nothing could ever diminish your worth.”
“Thank you, my loves. I truly needed to hear that.”
Chromia mutters some very choice words under her vents whilst trying to dispense comfort, rubbing Slipstream’s back strut and pauldrons.
“It’s not all bad, though.”
The Cityspeaker and bike exchange a look as the Seeker manages a shy smile despite the disappointment of being rejected from higher education by a paranoid and superstitious group of academics in charge of prospective student admittance.
“I now have a mentor.”
Few Seekers can claim the same. Mass-produced all generally alike, Sparks thawed, bodies weaponised and brain modules stifled with combat programming taking up considerable processing power even when inactive, they hardly ever know the mercies of parental love, or the guidance of a responsible elder showing the way into social acceptance, or the wisdom of a teacher dictating right from wrong with the nuance between only taught by experience.
Slipstream is special.
Starscream is special, too.
Jetfire has always favoured him.
They both know it, even now, after everything.
“Am I to be your prisoner forever?”
“If it is necessary to keep you in a cage, to realise the mere hope that you might stay here and love me forever, then yes, forever I shall keep you locked away all to myself.”
“And so you come again, you selfish brute,” the older Seeker intones with a weariness to his handsome, diminished voice. “Come, my dearest Star. Let me comfort you.”
“Please,” the Commander moans, curling up so his helm falls upon the other, larger mech’s lap. “I feel so sore.”
Jetfire’s design is distinct from modern Seekers, as he is old, a relic from the heroic legends of Seekers who fought before and died in great multitudes. He is less fuel-efficient, slower in the air and burdened by wider turns thus limiting his agility somewhat, but he is powerful and durable by design, yet it is his prowess in battle that permitted he should outlive his noble kin and survive for so long, long enough to oversee the dregs of his once great people. But a mech can only endure so much, and so he left them in Starscream’s care.
Starscream, who is remade to be distinct from his own, to be the most beautiful, the most powerful, the most agile, with bladed wings that can separate entirely from his back and thrusters that can carry far more than his slender frame. He is distinctly intelligent, talented, and actually quite capable of efficient leadership if he only bothers to associate with his lesser subordinate Seekers, whom he loves in his own way.
These two mechs love each other more than most. It is their undoing.
“Boss bot, I’m worried about dreamboat.”
“Yeah, she’s definitely bit off more than she can chew and she’s finally realising it. She’s smart, but stupid about it. I think about her, too.” Shadow Striker shuffles through a deck of holocards, huffing into the sterile air. “Banked too hard on that hunky Empress lady. Damn, I hope the aft is worth the risk.”
“I kinda wanna go back to dreamboat, since we’re in Cybertron anyway and it’s not like you know where else to go, so I can help her out and make sure she turns out okay.”
“You obviously realise you’ll have to try your luck with Scream’s Decepticons.”
“Megatron’s Decepticons. He’s coming back. He’ll reset the movement on the right track and push forward.”
“You still have some faith in the big mech.”
“He did speak for me, for other little guys like me, even Minicons, and they’re the littlest guys of all.” Flamewar slouches rudely in her chair, kicking at the underside of the table, drumming claws beside her cup. “Will you come with me, boss bot? I know Scream sorta blames you for Slippy.”
“Of course I’m coming too, dumbaft. You’re my girl, I’m keeping you, one way or another, even at personal risk.”
The bike smiles adorably. “Aw, boss bot.”
“But I’m gonna glitch about sucking up to Scream,” the old mercenary intones lowly, dealing out holocards with a scowl. “Even if signing up gets us closer to Thunderblast so she has someone to rescue her when her plans fall apart, I’m always gonna take the golden opportunity to glitch about it. Scream is a convenient excuse for that.”
“You’re just amazing, boss bot, and I really mean that. You’re so nice, in such a nasty way.”
“Shuddup.”
“Are you feeling better?” Chromia asks in her brusque but ultimately well-meaning way, expressing tenderness with her optics even as she grimaces determinedly and sinks her digits into metallic curves, seeking a firm hold to ensure she does not inadvertently unsheathe herself in the motions of her burly blue hips thrusting deeply against Windblade’s hiked aft with a wet applause and feminine whines as the spike strikes home in the soaked and clenching mesh again and again and again, but even in this passion, there is careful consideration not to do the healing body any harm despite insistence that playing rough is okay.
“Oh, yeah, loads better,” Slipstream pants through sweat and facial twitching, at once firmly bracing and lovingly stroking the ornate helm skewered upon her spike, Windblade thus impaled between the bigger femmes from both ends. “Thanks, girls.”
“You’re very welcome.”
“I love you.”
The Cityspeaker just mewls, knotting her slender fists in the anti-scratch synthetic sheets, holding on for dear life as she is pounded into from the upturned valve and her gaping intake, devolving to the point that she automates the acceptance of prompts for multiple overloads, thus she need not even think.
The bike flushes, clears her vents, turns her helm shyly aside with a crooked smile, yet her thrusts do not yield to her fluttering Spark.
“It’s okay. You don’t have to say it back.” The Seeker grins forgivingly across the berth. “This is nice, too.”
“Are you… close?”
“I can hold it a while.”
“Decent stamina, considering you never did this often.”
“It’s honestly residual anxiety.”
“Oh, how unfortunate.”
“But I’m getting better about it. I feel safe here. I feel comfortable. You guys let me be myself, free as a bird.”
“You say such sweet things, Slipstream.”
“I just like to make you blush, Chromia.”
“And her?”
“Oh, her.”
Windblade is overloading yet again, most immodestly. She has lost count of how many times she has come undone. She is having the best time ever.
“I think she outpaces us both, my friend.” Slipstream ruffles the helm she thrusts into.
“Yes, quite. No keeping up with this one.” Chromia offers a quick, sharp slap across the aft, aiming for the muscular meat of the protoform mesh.
The Cityspeaker squeals, muffled and wet and hoarse, wings ejecting and quivering gorgeously upon rippling back plates and a curved spinal strut glistening with perspired coolant, turbines spinning to cast air.
“And there go all our personal effects,” the bike laments with a sigh as small objects are thrown haphazardly aside. “We’ll have to glue our things down, at this rate. She’s bound to break something.”
“Turbines go whirr,” the Seeker contributes intelligently.
Notes:
Any suggestions (sexy suggestions of what you'd like characters to do to each other sensual-style, for example, if you're here for the smut - seriously, feel free to tell me what sex stuff you'd like to see if you feel up to it), comments, questions or constructive criticisms are always welcome. I'm glad for any engagement you feel comfortable with - feels less like I'm yelling into a void.
Chapter 63
Notes:
I'm feeling better, so I put together a bigger Chapter. Please enjoy it! By this stage, we're nearing the expected end of this story (assuming I can get it all wrapped up within 550 000 words as planned, though I reserve the right to use however many words I choose because this story is self-indulgent to a fault), but the conclusion of Synchronicity doesn't end the overall narrative as there are still the sequels to directly carry the plot and characters onward. Pacing has been the most challenging aspect of this rather large project, considering I've done so much research and compiled enough crazy notes to keep the plot going and then some, with a ton of ideas I haven't yet revealed but really wanna reveal already.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“As long as Starscream’s in charge, we’re not safe. What if he turns Megatron against you, against me?”
“Cyberswan.”
“My friends aren’t safe. Demolishor should be okay, but I can’t promise him that, and I stupidly told Shadow Striker and Flamewar to rejoin the Decepticons, thinking you’d take over and take them back to keep me happy, but of course Starscream healed up too quick and now he’s back and he hates me, hates everyone I like, and he’s been acting fragging crazy ever since that night back at the arena, so all my prior assumptions about him proved disastrously wrong.”
“Thunderblast.”
“I had a plan. Now, I’m overthinking it, but I’m losing confidence in me, and maybe you, too.”
“Hush.”
Thunderblast grimaces against the huge digit that very gently presses to her dermas, stilling her glossa, silencing her words. Only her eyes still speak, upcast in gold.
“Listen to me, my dear.” Empress is massive, thus she bends considerably to hover her face closer, drawing near enough to exhale warm upon the soft synthetic skin of her partner, her own elegant beauty littered with ugly scars from hard labour and gladiatorial battles. “I will never permit Starscream to harm you. If he should harm you, he will die, for I shall kill him. This he understands implicitly and he fears my wrath. Preserving his own life is his ultimate goal. Do not fear him.”
The boat’s chin is now cupped, cradled, her helm heavy with thoughts.
“Go and see your friends today. Spend some quality time together to reconnect those bonds. I’m sure you’ll find they’ll willingly join my Decepticon ranks, and I’ll accept them because you ask me to, and I’ll deal with convincing Megatron myself. I can be very persuasive, my darling.”
“As persuasive as Starscream?”
“Try to trust me a little. Healthy, happy relationships are built on a foundation of trust. Without it, we’re destined to fail.”
Megatron’s exposed guts steam in the chill of the sterile, stagnant air. This work is precise and takes great skill over many hours of every day, thus surgeons perspire even in the constant coldness of the surgery ward.
Perspired coolant irritates Shockwave’s singular optic, forcing him to blink rapidly and deepening his scowl. He only has one servo still attached to his frame and it is covered in gore, his other wrist mounted by a tool he mutilated himself that is good for surgery, theoretically could be used as a weapon, and remains hardly useful for much else besides. His other servo is now a worker drone, busy at a terminal entering lines of complex code, an essential task unworthy of such meagre interruption.
“Here.” Acid Storm draws close, very close. “Let me.” They have an eerie knack for being inwardly empathetic despite being outwardly aloof and astute – the laboratory assistant is not only dutiful and competent, but perceptive enough to innately know what he needs without needing him to ask.
“Thank you.” Unused to concern or tenderness, he stiffens all over upon instinct upon sensing impending physical contact, and as such he holds very still, demonstrating patience and trust even as he fearfully freezes up as they carefully mop about his featureless face with a sterile sponge, large digits dabbing delicately about his optic without hurting him.
“Is that better?” comes out gentle and warm.
“Affirmative,” comes out low and shy.
“Are you thirsty?”
“I am sufficiently fuelled. However, if your reserves are low, you may refuel as needed.”
“I’m fine, thank you.”
Shockwave nods upon impulse, in turn nuzzling the sponge and the digits that manipulate these movements across his face.
Acid Storm smiles in that placid way, anything other than repulsed.
The Decepticon lead scientist feels his frame grow unbearably hot. Much of his sensory network is forced into a dormant state to mitigate the meagre distractions of pain or pleasure, but he senses something stirring in suggestive ways.
The laboratory assistant mops the sweat from their superior’s brow, his finials quivering atop his helm as an itchy spot is brushed over quite pleasantly. “Here?”
“There.”
The sponge focuses on that itch, Seeker placidly smiling still.
He leans into the ministrations, optic cast shyly aside, avoiding their beautiful, handsome face.
“Are you sure you’re not thirsty?”
He would snap at anyone else who dared to question his assertions, but he does feel a bit parched all of a sudden. “Perhaps… I should ingest fortified Energon. Half a ration shall suffice.”
They pull a comical expression of disgust. That fortified blend he makes is healthy and considerate of their resources, but it tastes like aft, and not good aft. They know what good aft tastes like. “Or perhaps I could get you a mineral mix instead?”
“My formula is not so foul. You exaggerate.”
“As does everyone else, I assume.”
“I do not appreciate your teasing.”
The Seeker giggles quietly and proceeds to tenderly mop the sweat from the scientist’s cheek.
He is not logical when he looks up and loses his mind in their softly parted dermas, their darkened optics.
They are a team undergoing great work together, thus perhaps it is inevitable even for their intellect that intimacy is increasingly normalised. It can be assumed that they both appreciate one another, perhaps even entertaining some level of mutual fondness, finding kinship in technical proficiency and scientific enquiry. Though their relationship remains generally quite professional, they have their moments.
“I am not amusing.”
“Oh, absolutely not.”
It harkens back to a happier time spent underfunded and working in a stuffy little laboratory, youthful and daydreaming in a world too deep asleep, making the best of things with the peer genius of Wheeljack and his smiles and laughter and kisses, back when Shockwave entertained notions of happiness – his logical processor did not occupy quite as much processing power back then – with someone else, someone special.
Acid Storm has such big, strong servos.
“Well, you bothered to show up. Not gonna talk?”
“I haven’t got anything nice to say.”
“Figures. Something’s up with you.” Shadow Striker leans forward in her seat, forcing Thunderblast to look up, vents hitching at their intimate proximity. “You’ve been scarce since Flames and I got back on Cybertron. I get the feeling you planned to ditch us again.”
“Look, it’s not like that.”
“Uh-huh. What’s it like, then?”
The boat’s sensory spires lower, pressing flat against her helm as she chews her derma nervously.
The mercenary narrows her optic, whirring her scope as it adjusts within the socket. “Why haven’t you been around, anyway? Slipstream really wanted to see you, Flames was fragging disappointed when you bailed last time, and dammit, you made me sad.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Sure, Demolishor’s got work to do, but should I assume Empress is keeping you busy with actual work? Earning your keep, are you? Wasn’t she supposed to take care of you, like an easy ride, a comfy lap, straight to the top?”
“Shuddup, okay.”
“Hey, I’m teasing. No harm done. Seriously, I give a scrap about how you are. You’re clearly not doing so hot right now.”
“I’m just not… entirely myself, right now.”
Shadow Striker winces, sighing through her vents. “What’s wrong, dreamboat?” The ridiculous term of endearment comes out soft, silky, and actually quite sweet.
“This isn’t easy for a femme like me to admit. I’m a bad glitch. Bad glitches don’t self-doubt, don’t hesitate, don’t…”
“…I know.”
“Yeah.”
“You’re scared.”
“Yeah.”
“Scream?”
“Yeah.”
Flamewar returns to their booth with drinks and snacks, setting down the haul and passing it out.
“Thanks, babe.”
“You’re welcome, dreamboat.”
Thunderblast smiles briefly, but then the smile fades and she looks tired, distracted, unhappy. She is so far removed from the flirty, cunning, ruthless, charming, perceptive young femme one would assume her to be. She just seems to be trying to cope. “I should’ve seen this coming. It’s so obvious. I got overconfident in my abilities, assumed too highly of my talents, and mislaid my plans. Now, I’m in a really sticky situation.”
Flamewar shuffles beside Shadow Striker, leaning into her side, anxiously dragging claws over the edge of the counter until a big, strong arm soothingly wraps about tense pauldrons, offering a comforting weight that helps still the fidgeting.
“I don’t want to endanger you guys. I know what I said before, but ignore all that.”
The bike and mercenary share a frown.
“Dreamboat?”
“Don’t come back to the Decepticons, not while Starscream’s running the show.” The boat shakes her helm, exhaling harshly. “Everything Slipstream said about him was right, but she was too damn nice. He’s worse. So much worse. And I ticked him off, same as you guys. I can handle him, but it’s not just about him. He’s got muscle on his side. I dunno if Empress can keep you safe.”
“Do you trust her to keep you safe?”
“He’s scared of her. He won’t do scrap to me, not directly, not by himself. Maybe he might send his Seekers after me, but I can fight some Seekers. No, I’m bothered about the guy I wanna marry for power and privilege, the guy Starscream wants to keep to himself.”
“Megatron.”
“It was so easy when I thought I could shake some aft and have my way, but I can only try seducing one of those mechs and with such a jealous little glitch calling his shots, I definitely can’t hope to share. One of us has to win.”
“You’ve got that big, hunky Empress lady, though.”
“She’s actually lovely. I’m happy to have her. But Megatron’s the big boss, and he’s been waking up. He’s gonna get up one day soon. Empress is, like, his pet project or something, he’s apparently tried to coach her and elevate her so she’ll be an asset to the Decepticons, so they’re definitely close and she can persuade him for me. I thought that guaranteed my stake in all this. But Starscream is worse than any of us thought, and he’s also Megatron’s boyfriend. Does Empress really hold sway?”
“Wow. You really didn’t think things through.”
“Boss bot, that’s not helpful.”
“Uuugh. You’re right.” Thunderblast drops her helm into her palms. “Frag, frag, frag. I bit off more than I can chew.”
“Spit it out?” suggests Flamewar with a shrug. “You could dump the Decepticons and join us. I’m pretty sure Demolishor’s gonna be okay, but boss bot and I weren’t so sure about you, so if you leave, we’ll take you with us. You’d make a good mercenary.”
“I can’t leave her. She really likes me. She could’ve killed me, but she’s courting me instead.”
“That doesn’t sound healthy, dreamboat.”
“C’mon, Empress is just some glitch,” Shadow Striker drawls, plucking an Energon goodie from the bowl. “You can get another one.” She bites it, snapping off a bit between her dentas, nosily chewing.
“I’m growing attached, okay. She’s not a glitch I can replace like that.”
“Ohhh. Can you convince her to go?”
“She’s too damn fond of Megatron. She visits him, gets all upset about him, and resents Starscream for getting spike from the old mech. I think she’s a little smitten, to be honest.”
“Must be good spike.”
“Definitely. And now I might never get to sit on it. Uuugh! I wanted my turn! Now my plan’s all up in smoke, the whole thing is fragged up, and I dunno what to do!” It is jarring how the boat can get shrill and whiny in an instant, throwing something of a tantrum in her seat, until she goes slack and silent.
The bike clears her vents gently. “Dreamboat?”
“You guys could get pulled into my drama and I don’t want that, so forget what I said and stay way, okay?”
“Dreamboat…”
“See, the problem is, we give a frag about you,” the mercenary mutters whilst chewing. “I can tell you’re in the scrapheap and Flames is far too fond of you to walk away without rescuing you, so my servos are kinda tied here. If you won’t dump the Decepticons because of Empress, then I guess we gotta hope your bigaft girlfriend can extend her macho protection on our helms and take a chance with Megatron’s mercy. However merciful the old mech is likely to be, after Sentinel, anyway.”
“Aw, girls. You’d really put your necks out for me?”
“Duh, dreamboat. We’re still a team, even if only in spirit. Besides, Starscream’s got nothing on us and we’ll figure Megatron out. He’s a good guy. I believe in him. He spared Slippy and boss bot, so maybe he’ll still be so inclined.”
“That’s a big maybe. Still, we’re with you. Things go bad, I’m taking Flames and running, but I’ll do my damnedest to save your dumbaft, with or without your glitch. When it comes down to the wire, remember who your friends are, yeah?”
Thunderblast suddenly throws herself over the table, wrapping her arms around Shadow Striker’s neck, peppering her grimacing face with kisses that smear inky marks all over.
“Damn, girl! Okay, okay, okay! We’re in public, chill! Mmmph!”
Flamewar giggles when Thunderblast pries herself off of Shadow Striker, only to pounce again, smothering the grinning little femme in affection. “Aw, yeah, gimme some of that mmmhmm!”
The mercenary does not realise that she is covered in the glossy, glittery marks of kisses, cheeks flushed and scowl bent with amusement as she rescues her drink and liberally sips it. “Ugh, scrap me. The stuff I put up with for pretty ladies.”
The bike is eventually released, a little dizzy, her adorable little face covered in visible kisses, cupped between the boat’s palms, squished with a grin.
“I love you, sweetie!”
“Love ya back, dreamboat.”
“Aaand you’re actually pretty okay, you surly old glitch!”
“Thanks.”
“Oops, I got myself all over you girls. Sorry!”
Flamewar looks to Shadow Striker, who looks back, and they both dissolve in laughter at one another’s expense.
“At least it’s a flattering shade on your colour schemes,” Thunderblast intones, falling back in her seat to take out a little pocket mirror and reapply her makeup. Maybe she can handle things after all. Maybe she does not have to do it alone. Not that Empress would ever permit her cyberswan should suffer in solitude, of course, but these are dangerous and resourceful friends to have within reach. People can be useful, if one only knows how to use them.
“You like me, don’t you? It’s by my grace that you were forged, my little one. Surely that accounts for something, yes? No?”
Skywarp gazes softly up at Starscream, genuinely concerned for his mental and emotional well-being. He is peculiar, but sometimes he gets especially strange, and none of her Seeker kin know how to handle him effectively, only triggering him as they mismanage his temper. Slipstream was the closest to him, the one who accepted him and mothered him despite his hostility, able to tolerate his moods and indulge his fancies back when she was around, until he grew too extreme and she became estranged.
“Why would I even ask you? You don’t deign to speak.”
Cooing quietly, Skywarp pushes her helm mutely into Starscream’s bosom, nuzzling the amber crystal.
“Oh. This is an answer, I suppose.” He kisses her atop her bowed helm, stroking her pauldrons in something less than a hug. “Well, that makes two Seekers who seem to still adore me, namely yourself and your big sister, Nova Storm. Do you love me more than she does, young Skywarp?”
The subordinate Seeker purrs as the Commander gives her a nice little scratch behind the audial.
“Such a sweet little thing, you are. Naughty, but sweet. Perhaps someday you’ll become my favourite Seeker. You’re so new, yet already among my very finest. Oh, Skywarp, if only you’d behave yourself. Though your propensity for pranks and other mischief can be cute, in small doses, your misbehaviour limits you. With some discipline and focus, you’d easily realise your full potential. Perhaps General Alpha Strike might be a positive influence. She might domesticate you, somehow, teach you and temper you.” Starscream sighs. “One can only hope.”
Skywarp looks up at him, a bit shorter due to the typical Seeker slouch, as well as Starscream’s rebuilt body being leaner, taller, with killer heel struts accentuating his newfound stature. She leans into his palm when it cradles her cheek ever so gently.
“You really are a good girl. You’re one of my best.”
She does an adorable little wiggle of excitement, chirping.
“But you could be better.”
She sags, scoffing.
“It’s true.”
Her reply is to press into his neck as if to kiss him in this intimate place.
He allows it, generally quite affectionate with her, in particular, as her construction was achieved on his terms, thus she is a symbol of his success.
She blows hot air against his fuel lines with a sound mimicking flatulence, then giggle-snorts, muffled.
“Case in point.” He sighs, looking to the heavens for answers, but still, he finds it in himself to smile. “That was not appreciated, you little wretch.” A subtle, sad smile. The smile fades fast.
This is not enough. It never is.
“I’m gonna trust them. If they say they can handle it, I’ll believe them. I still feel bad, though.”
“We’re going out tonight. Perhaps a date might cheer you up.”
Thunderblast perks, smiling coyly. “Aw, a real date, with real romance, for me?”
Empress shuffles through her datapads, winking. “Only the genuine article, for you, my dear.”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” Slipstream says, picking Flamewar up because she complains about long walks, passing her over and seating her on Shadow Striker’s back like an absurd storage pack that abruptly stops complaining and seems quite chill with the idea of being carried like this, slender arms and shapely thighs wrapping around in a hug from behind.
“Of course it’s a bad idea,” the mercenary mutters back, casting a smirk over her pauldron and laying a palm below the bike’s aft, ostensibly to hike her up a bit into a more comfortable position without breaking stride.
“But we’ll do it anyway for a friend.”
“What the little maniac said.”
The Seeker sighs, swinging her burly arms and casting her optics at the darkening sky. “Okay, well, just be careful. Starscream will want his way with you and rejoining the Decepticons will get you within his range. No telling what he might do. Maybe he doesn’t scare you, but he scares me, and as much as I love Thunderblast, I never intend to go back. I’m finally living a life that feels almost right. It’s not perfect, but it could get there someday. I have to put myself first for once.”
“Damn right, you do. She’s happy for you, by the way.”
“I know she is. She tells me that whenever she writes to me. I tell her I’m worried and I’ve invited her to join the Council, but she’s got that big, beautiful lady friend now, so I just wish them the best. Empress is really nice, or at least she was really nice to me.”
“Everybody oughta be really nice to you, Slippy. You deserve nice people, doing nice things by you, treating you real nice.”
“Thank you, Flames.”
“They better, or I’ll kill ’em,” Flamewar mutters very quietly, because Slipstream loves her but disapproves of the very honest death threats.
Shadow Striker giggles her sinister giggle, loping casually with a femme attached to her back strut, chin propped on a pauldron, arms woven about a muscular neck, thighs holstered over rocking hips. Claws make a grab for her headlight and she quirks a bladed brow.
“Boob.”
Slipstream sighs, walking beside, thinking about Thunderblast. “I do miss her. Maybe next time, she’ll find the time to see me.”
“Don’t break my Spark, good girl.”
The day has been long.
Clobber salutes as Alpha Strike lumbers into view, but grins in such an unprofessional way so as to rather ruin the point of a soldier’s salute. “Hi, General!”
The General pauses, turns to nod at her subordinate, bright optics quite expressive in spite of the facial vents obscuring most finer movements, twinkling in reply to the young tank’s radiant smile. “Greetings, Clobber.”
“How are you, Sir?”
“Fully operational. Well, this is untrue, but I function. And yourself?”
“I’m great, Sir. I’m settling in, making friends – uh, I mean, comrades – and I’ve been keeping up with the daily reports.”
“I know. I get them on my desk every evening, courtesy of Skywarp.”
“Oh. Yeah. She does a good job, huh.”
“That she does, yes.” Alpha Strike seems to find Clobber very endearing, which may explain why she is given actual conversation over the other, less endearing heavies, who receive curt commands and harsh reprimands for subpar effort and general idiocy. “The assistance makes managing this lot bearable.”
“Hahaha, yeah, some of the guys are rowdy.”
“Rowdy is… one word for it.”
Demolishor grumbles his agreement at that. He thinks most of these guys are bolt-heads good for little more than even his namesake. At least he can follow complex commands.
“So, uh, those reports I’ve been writing for you.”
“Yes. What about them?”
“Are they good? Do you, um, like them?”
Alpha Strike senses Clobber really wants to be liked, craving a commanding officer’s approval, and it is a little precious, a little pathetic. “They are quite sufficient.”
“I try really hard to do my best.”
“I appreciate that.”
Skywarp snickers quietly, then pretends to be otherwise busy when she senses her superior officer giving her a gently chastising look. Others would drop dead at one of those glares, but being cute and competent combined does tend to grant preferential treatment. After all, who else will deal with all the datawork and boost morale with epic pranks? She, the intelligent and cleanly flier, fulfils an essential role in the team of smelly grounders with treads for brains. Why does she kind of like being here more than among her own kind? Perhaps because she knows Seekers are stupid, loud, and Starscream hardly values her for being her natural, mischievous self. Still, it is difficult, missing Nova Storm. The thought always makes Skywarp’s wings droop.
“Go on,” Alpha Strike intones in her deep, yet gentle undertone, laying a huge palm fondly atop Skywarp’s pauldron, squeezing softly despite such brutish strength. “Take an hour, then return. I cannot parse those idiots’ reports without you.”
The Seeker perks, chirping happily, and hurries off to find her sister and play.
The General is really not so bad.
Windblade has her reservations, but she smiles warmly, genuinely, when Flamewar curls up on Slipstream’s lap for an impromptu nap, purring softly under the callused palm that caresses the helm, the large digits that wiggle behind audials and pinch at finials, the thumb that presses a soft and shallow dimple into a scarred and stained youthful cheek. One can almost forget the deaths and forgive the brutal, manic murderer.
“Aw. Isn’t she just so precious?” enquires the Seeker with a deep, adoring undertone.
“Sure. She’s a sweet little thing,” the Cityspeaker admits with an airy chuckle.
“I’m a critter,” the bike mumbles drowsily by way of explanation. “It’s cuddle time for this critter.”
“It’s generally cuddle time with you, Flames.”
“I’m in it for the cuddles, Slippy. Just a cuddly little critter, and I want titties in my face.”
“Damn. That’s a mood.” Windblade cannot fault a girl for loving her girl, especially as Slipstream is very lovable. “Same here.”
“Easy fix.” Flamewar stretches a little as a cable in her neck is plucked affectionately. “We’ll share the titties ’tween you and me, Wimbles.”
“I don’t have much in the way of titties to share,” Slipstream says with a shy smile, flushed. “But you’re always welcome to them.”
At that moment, Shadow Striker and Chromia return from their interlude out on the balcony, having taken a few minutes to chat over cy-gars and high-grade, the surly older femme and the Camien making the effort to get along for the sake of those they care about. Although actual friendship is unlikely, they can at least be civil.
“Whoa, now. We sharing titties, you said?”
“Yup! Best be ready to bust yours out, boss bot.”
“I’m always ready.”
Windblade gives Chromia an amused look, garnering a helpless shrug in reply.
“More booze, perhaps?”
“Yes, I think so.”
Slipstream giggles as Shadow Striker ruffles her helm in that fond, vaguely maternal way.
“You’re gonna get it, huh, good girl.”
“I sure hope so.”
“Lucky fragger. No, screw that, it’s not luck. You deserve nice things with nice people.”
“You calling me nice, boss bot?”
“Meh. Nice enough.”
“Wow, thanks, you grouchy old glitch.”
The mercenary grins, patting the Seeker atop the helm once more, before making a grab for the little bike’s ankle joint and squeezing the dark metal fondly. “Scraplet.”
“I’ll bite you.”
“In front of these civilised ladies?”
“Oh, I’m not all that civilised,” the Cityspeaker remarks, accepting a drink from her fellow Camien, depositing a peck in gratitude. “Chromia’s the one with manners.”
“I try. Someone has to.”
All in all, a pleasant evening.
“You’re my only friend in this cruel, cold universe!”
“Now, now, darling, let’s not be so melodramatic.”
“It’s the truth! Everyone despises me! They all laugh at me and hope for my downfall, they give me nasty looks and they can think of nothing good enough to recommend about me,” Starscream drunkenly wails, hugging Knock Out tight enough to transfer paint, which makes the gorgeous grounder cringe even as he rubs the flier’s back soothingly and makes low, comforting sounds against the crook of his slender neck. “Except to tell me what I obviously already know!” A fragile, wet hiccup. “I’m pretty and I smell nice.”
“You’re very pretty and you smell very nice,” Breakdown offers in his generally docile way, refilling their cups like a dutiful husband. “Lotta people don’t even have that much.”
“Thank you, but surely that cannot be all I am!”
“Darling, you have many virtues. Your intellect, your charm, your tenacity, your ambition, your… errm…”
“Even you struggle to come up with sincere compliments, my only friend in the world! But thank you for trying. That’s sweet of you to say so.”
“You’re welcome to take the guest room. Flamewar’s made herself quite comfortable.”
“That berth is fragging comfy, boss bot. Way better back support than yours.”
“Well, that’s a gracious offer. You sure you don’t mind the crowd?”
“My friends often crowd me. I’m happy to be the hostess.”
“You’re a damn fine hostess. Alright, then. I’ll stay.”
Windblade graciously bows her helm to Shadow Striker, who returns the gesture with a respectful nod.
“Wimbles, you mind if I hug you real quick?”
“Oh, uh, sure, go ahead.”
Flamewar steps forth and throws her arms around the taller Windblade, cheek pressed to bosom, a bit below Bumblebee’s reach.
“What’s this for?”
“I’m saying thanks. You let me and boss bot into your home, even if we are ladies of ill repute.”
“Seriously ill repute. Just a pair of sick glitches.”
“Yeah, like boss bot said. So I’m real thankful for that.”
“You don’t have to thank me, but you’re welcome all the same.”
“You’re a class act, Wimbles, and you gotta be the prettiest picture ever. Slippy is fragging fortunate to have you.”
Slipstream cups her Spark. “Aaaw. Flames!”
Shadow Striker chuckles, palms on her hips as she winks at Chromia, who manages a soft smile.
Windblade gazes gently down at Flamewar, rather touched by the sentiment, laying a dainty palm atop a deceptively muscular back strut, stroking the dark paint.
“Tell me when I gotta let go before this hug draws out awkwardly long, Wimbles. I’m a hugger and I might not stop myself.”
“Okay, you may release me now.”
“Cool.”
As Flamewar steps back, Slipstream steps forth, and she is sure to kiss Windblade in a way that lets her know that this gesture of kindness is deeply, deeply appreciated.
“Mmm.”
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
Their forehelms rest together despite their differences in height.
“Dammit, that’s cute.” The old mercenary scoffs, scowling aside. “I’m getting soft as scrap.”
“That’s okay, boss bot.” The little bike giggles. “You don’t gotta act hard with us.”
“Only bit of me that’s hard right now is my big, fat, throbbing–”
“We’re in the company of ladies, boss bot. Behave.”
“Oh, pardon me, ladies.”
“Goodness gracious,” the Camien bike murmurs to herself.
“But boss bot does have a gigantic spike, in case you were wondering. It’s actually scary, in a fun way.”
Chromia was wondering. She flushes and tilts her helm just enough to betray her interest, clearing her vents politely, gruffly. “Hrrrm-hrrrm-hrrrm.”
“So much for behaving.” Shadow Striker flicks Flamewar’s cheek, which ends up getting the tip of a digit nipped. “Ow, little fragger. Bite you back, how about that?”
“I’d like it if you did.”
“Ha! You are my favourite little freak, Flames.”
Slipstream and Windblade are lost together in their own little world, a world made up of locked optic-contact searching for souls, wandering palms seeking worship, and kisses that linger on into the echoing eternal.
“I had fun tonight,” Thunderblast says in a strangely shy, modest way, as if making a confession. She quirks a brow at her own undertone, touching her cheek as she feels the heat spread down to her neck, evidently eliciting a flush. “Well, uh… I mean, you booked us a table at a nice place, you’ve been a perfect gentlefemme the whole time, the meal was great and I’ll never say no to good Engex, plus the oil candles were a romantic touch, so… I feel like it was a date, a real date, and it’s been nice. Really, really nice.”
Empress inclines her helm with a motherly smile, downcast upon the smaller femme, simply listening to the adorable babbling of a wordly lady who is unused to the old-fashioned ways of courtship.
“So, um, thank you for taking me out. But not with, like, a sniper rifle or something. Out-out.”
The gladiator rumbles with warm, breathy laughter.
“Hey, you’d be surprised. I’ve been all over, met loads of strange characters, made friends and foes alike. Someone out there definitely wants me dead, if I didn’t kill them first. I always was thorough in covering my tracks, though. Ahhh! I was crazy, back then.”
“Are you certain you aren’t still at least a bit crazy, my cyberswan?”
“Oh, honey, I’m definitely a little capsized. Whew.” The boat rubs her belly, managing a self-conscious giggle, again startling herself. “And now we’re taking a walk by the Energon canal and it’s moonlit out there and shimmering…”
“I knew you’d like it.”
“I have this magical, um, tingling feeling in my tummy, but low down?”
“You’re feeling frisky, are you.”
“No. Well, yes. But I’m not talking about that, this isn’t because I wanna frag you, and I definitely do, believe me, I know all about that low tingle. It’s something else. I haven’t felt this way before, or maybe I have, and it’s just been so long since, so I forgot how it felt, how it could feel.”
“I give you a sentimental stirring inside yourself.”
“Yeah. You do.”
“I have a certain, as they say, rizz.”
“Yeah, you do!”
Empress stops to gracefully sit upon a bench situated with a broad view of the moonlit Energon canal, patting the vacant space beside herself.
Thunderblast sits with a sigh, immediately shuffling in closer to snuggle in the muscular warmth of the bigger femme’s side.
“You will have to endure the tingles, my dear, as I have many more dates planned to woo you.”
“Oh, alright, if I must.”
The gladiator draws a burly arm about the boat, kissing her chastely atop the helm, between the sensory spires which wiggle in a friendly way.
“But you gotta let me take you out on dates, too. We’re not doing this thing one-sidedly. A partnership of equals, or no partnership at all. That is, until I take over the world. Then you’ll be my personal property.”
“I look forward to it, mommy dearest.”
“Oh-ho, you keep sweet-talking me like that and I’ll suck you off right on this bench, out in the open.”
“Later, remember?”
“Ugh. Right. Sorry. I keep doing that, defaulting to being a slag. Must be in my code, my factory settings or something. Gotta reset. I’m just getting used to… this, and you.”
“No shame in being a slag, in my mind.”
“Not at all. I respect that you mean to treat me like a lady, but sometimes the slag comes out to play and I’ll try to be better about being respectful too.”
“Never censor yourself to suit someone else, cyberswan,” Empress intones softly, offering another kiss atop the helm. “Not unless you’re sure to get something useful out of it.”
Thunderblast gazes out at the moonlit Energon, pensive in her silence, but actually almost happy for once.
“Sorry, should I – ohhh, frag – go sort myself out in the wash rack?”
“It’s fine.”
“Won’t be long. Hahhh.”
“You know…” Jostled by motions across the big berth, Chromia lowers her holonovel, propped open upon her torso for comfortable reading as she turns to gaze down at Windblade, huffing and puffing in her agitation. “If you want to join them, I won’t mind.”
“Solus Prime. Oh, oh, oh. I’m not abandoning you to go get laid. Frag, scrap me,” the Cityspeaker mutters whilst furiously pumping her own spike, aiming for a quick finish as she usually does when engaging in self-pleasure, since she does not need to do all that much to seduce herself. “Just need to work it out. Ohhh, yeah. Mmmph.”
“It’s hardly abandonment.”
“Gahhh. It’d be scrappy of me.”
“I really don’t mind.”
“I goddit, I goddit. Ah, ah, ah.”
The bike sets her holonovel aside and rolls over, lending her servo to the task, combining her strong, callused grip with the smaller, softer servo beneath her bent digits, squeezing the shaft with every combined stroke.
“Your helmache,” Windblade murmurs in breathy protest, accepting a kiss on the flushed cheek, returning it messily.
“I’ll endure.” Chromia smiles ruefully. “Your needs come first. I’m sorry I neglected you.”
“You never neglect me. Uuuugh, scrap. You love me more than anyone else.”
“That much is true, Windblade.”
The femmes rest their brows together, sharing a singular spike.
“I love you so much, Chromia, I’ll fragging love you to the Pits and beyond, all my life and more. Mmmore, more, more. Yeah. Right there.”
“Close?”
“Close.”
The bike’s helmache does not benefit from the movements of her burly arm, but she has quite the grip and she knows the Cityspeaker’s body most intimately.
Windblade makes a pained whimpering sound as transfluid spurts from her artfully curved spike, casting ropes upon her belly and breast, oozing down the twitching shaft to soak into the iron grip of her own digits, and clasped over those, Chromia’s bigger servo, lending strength to give pleasure, dripping wet.
“Beautiful.” The bike admires the mess, pointing the spike up at the Cityspeaker’s face whilst stroking some more to squeeze out any remaining dregs. “You produce so much. Your transfluid reserves are a wonder.”
“Lick it off? Suck some out?” Windblade croaks with much fluttering of her shutters, big blue optics flush with pleasure that sends aftershocks throughout her twitching circuitry. “Please? Just a little bit?”
“Very well, then.”
“If the helmache’s not too bad, I mean.”
Obligingly, Chromia leans over and stoops down, suckling softly at the head of the spike, drawing out dregs of transfluid and swallowing diligently.
“Aaah, frag, yeah, good girl, ohhh…”
The bike grunts as a delicate palm strokes her aching helm, evidently resisting the urge to push down and gag her as usual.
The Cityspeaker flops back, simply enjoying the sensation, until she becomes too tender, oversensitive. “Oh-kay, you gotta stop, gnnnph.”
Chromia obediently releases the spike with a moist pop, only to huff with amusement. “Still going, I see.” She resorts to gently lapping at the dribbles of transfluid flowing from the plump slit.
“Whew.” Windblade’s hips twitch reflexively. “I’m still mostly hard. Guess I’m going in for another round. I’ll spare you this time and whack off in the wash rack like I should’ve done the first time.” Her voice has a wondrous husky quality so recently after an overload. “Try to get some rest.”
“If you truly intend to let me rest. Minx.”
“Heeey. I can be considerate. Really, I can. Don’t give me that look.”
The bike licks a trail of transfluid up the Cityspeaker’s belly, breasts, and ultimately bends into a kiss.
“Stay down.”
“Yes, Sir!” Flamewar is easily pinned in place by a large palm that greedily gropes her fiery breastplate, pinching at the swells of metal restored to glossy glory thanks to the sheer affordability and ease of access to Velocitronian beauty standards. “Frag, yeah. Squeeze ’em. C’mon.”
“Little slag,” Shadow Striker mutters with a smirk, giving the perky bosom a light slap, jostling the firm, lightly armoured metal atop the softer mass of muscular protoform beneath. “Nice.” She does it again at the other side, harder.
“Ow! Primus, boss bot.”
“You like that.”
“Yeah, I do, and I’mma slap your tits back, soon as I get a chance. Just you wait.”
“Tch. She talks too much. Fix that, handsome.”
Slipstream is big, particularly for a femme, and although not as graceful as some other Seekers, she manages to be very delicate as she swings a thigh over and seamlessly mounts Flamewar’s face, sitting heavily upon grinning fangs with a pleased sigh and a shiver.
“Oh, yeah, gimme that mmmph!”
“Thassit. Good girl.”
“I am a good girl.”
“Yeah, you are.” The mercenary almost laughs as the Seeker preens at the praise, reaching over to ruffle her helm. “You’re my good girl.” How can one say that, without affording a little tenderness?
The bike makes wet sucking sounds below, buried in aft and valve, muffled by soaked and humid mesh. Her claws are free to wander, stroking thighs, squeezing hips, poking and prodding at the aft.
“She eating you out real good?”
“Real good. And she’s looking for my afthole. Oh, she just found it. In goes a claw. Sharp.”
“You be gentle back there, hear me, glitch?”
“Mmmhmmph!”
Shadow Striker smiles in a way that brings a few shallow wrinkles within the synthetic membrane of her skin at the edge of her unmodified optic, hinting at her age despite being in such phenomenal condition, easily outperforming most younger femmes and mechs alike. “You feel real special, sitting on a throne fit for a queen, good girl?”
“I feel like the most special good girl in the whole world,” Slipstream answers in a breathy, especially husky undertone, rolling her muscular yet narrow hips, biting her plump, inky bottom derma, tugging it between smiling dentas as she draws her digits over Flamewar’s subdued form, plucking at her breastplate as if to purposefully burn in the coils of fire painted upon the peaks.
“You deserve it.”
“Kiss me?”
“Where?”
“Anywhere. Everywhere.” The Seeker flutters her shutters alluringly, which proves extremely effective. She is so much handsomer than she will ever come to accept in her Spark. The little self-confidence she has been able to master over herself renders her more desirable than she once was.
“Lemme just get seated first,” the old mercenary mutters as she grasps the bike’s spike, holding it steady whilst lowering upon it, only to release too early, bending the firmly swollen yet somewhat flexible shaft between their interface arrays. “Oops.” The elasticity of the engorged protoform mesh prevents damage being dealt to the sensitive tool when erect and in use, but it also can render penetration a comic affair on occasion. “Hope I don’t break it.” It is no mistake.
Flamewar grunts as her willing yet overwhelmed spike struggles under Shadow Striker’s astonishing weight and sheer size, bowing to slide through the wet folds of her valve and scraping over her anterior node. It is done very much on purpose, teasing, tormenting.
“Dammit, stay up.”
“Maybe you should grind on her a bit. Seems like the thing to do.”
“Yeah, actually, that’s not a bad idea. I might as well take advantage.”
“Just don’t forget to kiss me all over.” Slipstream flutters her shutters again.
Chuckling at the Seeker’s coquettish display of her rarely utilised feminine wiles, the mercenary grinds her slick valve heavily over the spike squashed beneath her, tilting forward a bit to press down on the anterior node, scraped back and forth over sensory ridges.
The bike mewls, scraping heel struts over the berth, raking claws over armoured thighs, face sat upon, spike crushed.
“That feels nice, doesn’t it.”
“Real nice. Well, I might bust like this. Suppose she’s good for something.”
“Hey, now. She’s lovely and good for many things, same as you.”
“Oh, please. I am not lovely.”
“You sorta are. You sorta can be.”
“Ugh, frag me. You’re sweet. I kinda like it.”
“You like it a lot, don’t lie.”
“Cheeky glitch. Look at you, telling me how it is. A little assertive. Got me real proud.” Shadow Striker leans in, bumping her helm lovingly against Slipstream’s, sharing a smile as the bridges of their olfactory sensors rub intimately together, different in shape yet finding cohesion as the architecture of their face plates linger. “You really don’t gotta chat me up. I’m here for you all night.”
“I could never regret telling you how much I appreciate you. How much I appreciate her.”
“Just shuddup and get a kiss.”
Flamewar really, really wishes she could watch them making out, though it is hard to complain. She makes a needy noise as the valve on her glossa quivers plumply in an attempt to swallow her face whole, the valve on her spike rocking a little quicker against her with that unrelenting wet weight to it. One wrong move from either of her larger, heavier lovers and she really could be killed, or maimed terribly – crushed at the helm or the pelvis, what a way to go out, like a total legend. Awesome.
“Chromia, you really don’t have to.”
“I’m aroused.”
“And sore.”
“The meds will kick in.”
Windblade squeaks as her wing is gently squeezed, sending her to her knees in the adjoining, private wash rack.
“But I will take out my frustration on you, for being a little slag earlier when I was just trying to read my holonovel in peace.”
“Chromiaaah!”
Chromia smirks, pulling that wing back, very aware of the limitations of mobility and the sheer sensitivity.
The Cityspeaker squeals in delighted discomfort, clawing at the edge of the tub, streaked with her own transfluid as her spike messily gushes without regard.
“Now look at this mess you’re making.”
“Yeeeaaagh! Frag me up! Harder!”
“Hush. They’re being quiet about it, so we should return the favour.”
“Make me your glitch! Pull my wing, pull it ’til I can’t think! Ohhh!”
“I told you to be quiet. The whole neighbourhood might hear you, at this rate. Have some decorum.” The bike is grinning the entire time, of course, relishing in reducing her lifelong best friend into a puddle of orgasmic bliss, shrieking for more. “You’re so easy.”
Windblade is mostly immobilised due to the treatment of her wing, a critical flaw all fliers suffer from. She should have known better than to eject her wings on command, she realises this as a digit runs along the blade of her other wing, as if contemplating how best to misuse it for erotic purposes.
“When I’m finished with you, I demand forehelm kisses and cuddles to compensate. Then I want you to read the saucier sections of my romantic holonovel aloud to me, in that delicious berthroom murmur of yours, and I want you to convincingly act out the different characters. ”
“Uuuugh. Nooo.”
“It arouses and amuses me.”
“I love you, but it’s such drivel, Chromiaaah.”
“Hush. You will do this for me.”
“Fiiine. Gimme.”
Chromia releases the wing and sits on the edge of the tub, thighs swung wide, valve exposed.
“Aw, yeah, look at that, so fat.”
“Eat it.”
On her knees, the Cityspeaker eagerly dives in, glossa swiping at the anterior node, dentas tugging at the mesh folds, olfactory sensor nuzzling deeper to inhale the familiar scent of beloved femme and pheromones. The wings wag, endearingly avian, as if to call for attention, demanding attention again.
The bike smiles indulgently, reaching to pinch both wings in both strong servos, dragging slow circles in with the thumbs.
Windblade purrs, conveying pleasant vibrations on her glossa, her ruby smile, wiggling her aft in the air like a harlot. As the valve in her intake oozes, she snorts lubricant in an unladylike fashion, undeterred by the burning as it gets up her enstrils.
Chromia gets a firmer grip and pulls the wings toward herself, provoking a muffled squeal and a gnashing of dentas against her anterior node. She hisses with some discomfort, rolling her optics with amusement as the turbines within both wings activate, in turn stirring the air and throwing over various small things, such as bottles of girly scented oils and tubs of overpriced name-branded joint grease and tubes of ink makeup. “Must you leave your things all over the wash rack? You really do take over this space. You will help me tidy up after we’re finished. Hear me, slag?” All of this is said on the fringe of an overload, convincingly strict and brusque, except for the tiny whine at the end.
“That was so hot,” Flamewar declares, mopping the lubricant from her grin, optics screwed shut against the sheer wet. “One word from Windblade over next door and you just had to blow, huh, Slippy.”
“Heh, yeah, and I’m a gusher.” Slipstream slouches on the berth, sitting in a puddle of her own overload. They will have quite the mess to clean up, though fortunately Windblade is into it and does not mind her home being used as a whorehouse. “You good?”
“I’m great. You halfway drowned me and I love it.”
“Nice.”
“Boss bot, you good?”
“Not too shabby,” Shadow Striker drawls, peering down at herself with a smirk, admiring the transfluid that oozes from her flushed valve, streaked over her inner thighs and lower belly plates. “Could do with a smoke.”
“You’ve been smoking a lot lately.”
“If you’re implying that it’s a dirty, bad habit, don’t bother. I’m a dirty, bad girl. Such are my habits.”
“I like it when you smoke,” the Seeker replies, scooping up the bike and cradling her close. “Seeing you sucking on a cy-gar is kinda… Y’know.”
“Phallic as frag.”
“Yeah, that’s it.”
The mercenary giggles. She does not often giggle. Her giggles are creepy to most, but endearing to those few people who actually manage to genuinely like her. “Pair of skanks, you are, having nasty thoughts about me.”
“Guilty!”
“As charged.”
“C’mere.” Shadow Striker falls onto her back plates, arms open, ample bosom bared invitingly and bejewelled with perspired coolant. “Come suck my tits. I’m in a mood.”
Flamewar and Slipstream grin at each other, then hasten to obey, descending together upon gorgeous headlights with lavishing glossas and puckered dermas.
“Don’t bite me.” The mercenary arches her spine, scowling at the ceiling as she caresses the helms held to her Spark. “I’m serious.”
“Thought you were in a mood,” the bike mutters teasingly, but she keeps her fangs to herself, claws sinking below to pluck and play at the oozing valve. She purrs throatily as larger digits join her claws, and so the Seeker lends herself to helping a fellow femme out.
“Oh, damn, that’s good.” Shadow Striker moans silkily, deigning to gaze down at the other femmes, peering over their helms and the swell of her own buxom breastplate to watch them touch her, together. “Admirable teamwork, ladies.”
“Tell me stories with happy endings.”
“You have heard all my best stories before.”
“Then make something up.”
“Very well, my love.”
Starscream lays his helm to rest in Jetfire’s lap so he can run his digits over the ornamentation housing such tortured thoughts.
Notes:
The scene with Flamewar riding Shadow Striker's back is heavily inspired by Hot Motor Oil (Alex Milne) - one spread has Flamewar on Shadow Striker's back and it's my favourite.
Thank you for being an essential part of this narrative, because your kind readership and generous feedback are fuel for this creative drive - writing for an audience is the reason why this story exists publically.
Chapter 64
Summary:
Whew! Had technical difficulties, again, but I seem to have recovered the document. I'm not sure if I'll update again next week due to festivities, but I'll upload another chapter ASAP before the new year begins. I hope you'll have a merry Christmas if you celebrate it, and if not, I wish you the best regardless. Thanks for being here, please enjoy.
Possible trigger warnings: suicide attempt (unsuccessful, somewhat implied as motivation with some depiction of the act), suicidal depression, surgical gore, helplessness due to injury, abusive dynamics, toxic workplace, using one's will to harm another, dirty talk gone wrong, breeding kink (talk of the robot equivalent of impregnation or being 'sparked' - for more info about Cybertronian reproduction and its relevance to the story please see the series notes).
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
“Search ’em.”
Decepticons advance with their weapons at the ready.
“This is an incredibly dumb idea,” Flamewar mutters through fangs, splaying her palms in a peaceable gesture and grinning awkwardly at the barrel of a rifle pointed at her helm.
“You don’t say,” Shadow Striker drawls back, scope following the sway of an Energon-infused spear drawing closer to her throat.
“But we gotta do it for dreamboat. She needs us, or she might need us, and we gotta stick close just in case. If we’re too far away, we can’t help her if this thing blows up in her face, and it probably will.”
“Well, you already convinced me, but if being a pal gets me killed, I’ll be mad about it. When I’m mad, I get unpleasant.”
A Decepticon yelps and jerks back when the mercenary directs a scowl at him, clutching his spear like a lifeline.
“Hey, watch where you wag that thing, sweet Spark. Buy me dinner first.”
“Uh, sorry?”
“Can’t be mad when you’re dead,” the bike intones, permitting another Decepticon to pat her down for weapons. She left her shotgun behind, knowing the guards will not detect her bow, seamlessly incorporated within her framework and made out of the materials of her own shell, thus virtually invisible to the ignorant optic and conventional scanners.
“True.”
“Besides, you’re not allowed to die. You’re mine.”
“Real reassuring. Tell that to them.” Shadow Striker huffs quietly, scowl darkening as she is poked and prodded. She knows the idiot guards will not find everything she keeps strategically hidden in her rig, filled with an assortment of blades of all sorts. She left her machete at home.
“Just think of all the kisses we’re gonna get for being such good friends, boss bot.”
“That makes it all worth it, huh.”
“I’d die for kisses from somebody I care about.” Flamewar means it, too.
“You’re not allowed to die, dumbaft.”
“Stop talking,” a Decepticon growls, then shrinks away with a squeak when both mercenary and bike glare at him.
“Frag off, little mech.”
“Yeah. Rude.”
“C-call the Commander,” the very same Decepticon stutters nervously to his companions, hiding behind his stun baton. “Let him deal with the–”
“Mind your wording, now.”
“Um. The traitors.”
Shadow Striker and Flamewar do not look forward to Starscream.
Ratchet is undeniably a skilled doctor. His coarse berthside manner disguises a compassionate Spark dedicated to saving lives. He has millions upon millions of years’ worth of experience, a lifetime dedicated to medicine.
And then there is Red Alert, the goddess of this medical bay, performing surgical miracles. Her presence here is a huge help, but the way she assumes command irks him.
“This is all my idea, old friend, so please don’t claim it for your own.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it, esteemed colleague.”
“Bah! You’re showing off for your mentee.”
Slipstream is just astonished she is permitted to attend one of the many surgical procedures in reconfiguring Sentinel as a part of her study. She is here to observe closely, to internalise data, and not to get nauseous, and the nausea she once felt so keenly at the sight and scent of viscera has gradually dulled during her shifts in the medical bay.
“You may make the first incision,” Red Alert intones in a haughty, subtly playful manner. “Happy?”
Ratchet gives her a look, then applies his Energon-infused scalpel to a scrap of Sentinel that will be unneeded in his new body, thus it must be removed to make space for suitable replacements.
People change. If any proof were needed of this fact, is is this – Slipstream stands in attendance, stunned to be permitted here, and as a wet piece of Sentinel is sliced away and falls into a disposal tray she holds out to catch the bits, she feels only the weight of his severed hunk of protoform. Nothing more.
“The gall of you two, returning here, to me, to my Decepticons,” Starscream rasps ominously, wings flared outward as if to make himself appear larger, pauldrons squared, arms folded behind his lower back as he looms amidst Decepticon guards with their weapons still very much at the ready. “After that stunt you pulled back at the gladiatorial arena, you must realise this is suicide. You are both traitors, thereby allies of our enemy faction, or at the very minimum, Functionist Council sympathisers.”
“I got no sympathy for Functionist anything. Those Councillors are stupid old people who dunno how to lead, so I don’t follow them.” Shadow Striker is tall enough, broad enough at the pauldrons and kibble, to be very physically imposing. She also has a very scary face. “Flames and I aren’t with them. We just helped a few friends get outta that mess you started, then cut our losses and cut ourselves loose.”
“Since we thought Megatron kicked the bucket,” Flamewar interjects.
“Well! My darling hero yet lives and is being mended as we speak. Ye of little faith. The Decepticons require strong, cunning believers.”
“Glad to hear it. We like the big mech, but the pay is nice enough.”
“He had… positive reports about you. I admit that much.” The Commander sneers, drawing close enough to critically examine the mercenary’s scope, as if the modification is revolting yet fascinating all at once. “Your friends aren’t mine, so pardon me for being less than sympathetic with their plight. Your duty was owed to me, in Megatron’s stead, and not the likes of Bumblebee and his adorable idiots.”
“I get the feeling you don’t really have friends,” the bike says in her typically blunt fashion, generally unintentionally impolite, unknowingly insensitive. “Maybe you’re just not wired that way, so you don’t geddit, but it meant a lot to boss boss and me. Even she has friends and she’s kinda awful.”
“Thanks for that, Flames.” Shadow Striker scoffs.
“Just saying, boss bot.” Flamewar elbows the bigger femme. “I like you.”
Starscream’s cheek twitches.
A random Decepticon snorts into his fist, trying not to laugh aloud.
“I don’t need friends,” the Commander hisses through prettily gritted dentas, bared at the bike, then the mercenary. “They disappoint me.”
Flamewar dares to look vaguely sorry for him, just then. “Have you tried not being mean? It really helps.”
“Shut up, you dirty little grounder.”
“See, that’s what I’m referring to.”
Shadow Striker does not look even the slightest bit sorry, lunging for Starscream’s throat, only to stop short when weapons hum with Energon charge.
“Back off.”
“Heed your glossa,” the mercenary intones lowly, “before I rip it out.”
The Commander clutches at his cockpit, horrified. “You come here seeking my mercy, only to threaten me!”
“Speak to her, and refer to her, with some damn respect.”
“Aw, boss bot.” The bike smiles adoringly upward. “You’re so bae.”
“Whatever! This just proves my point. One of you two is incurably insubordinate and the other is violently deranged.” Starscream pretends his Spark is not trying to claw its way out his throat with an airy little hum, inspecting the glossy back of his delicate servo for imagined imperfections. “Megatron lies in recovery and I am not in a charitable disposition. Besides which, I dislike you,” he points at Shadow Striker, “and I distrust you,” he waves dismissively at Flamewar. “Why shouldn’t I have you both summarily executed and taken apart for scrap? How can you possibly convince me to retake you?”
“Because I’ll accept responsibility for their performance and their upkeep.”
He bristles all over and pulls a most beautifully annoyed expression, turning stiffly on his heel. “You were not summoned.”
“I overheard the commotion.”
“Oh, is that so? And what are you doing here?”
“I’m hoping to convince you to let the ladies rejoin, of course.”
“Convince me! This doesn’t concern you. I lead, you follow. My decision is not yours to manipulate with your… bah, feminine wiles, or whatever it is you do to people. Your talents don’t work on me.”
Shadow Striker sighs through her olfactory sensor, giving Flamewar a sidelong, downcast look.
“My talents.” Empress smiles her awfully motherly smile, drawing her titanic form closer on heavy yet graceful, sauntering steps. “I’ve put them to good use. I’m most efficient where I’m needed. I find that femmes can rarely resist me, and mechs, well…”
Starscream recoils, keeping away.
“Suffice to say, I’ll keep these girls in line, Commander, and put them to good use, on my honour.”
“Damn,” Flamewar intones lowly. “That’s really hot.”
Shadow Striker swallows thickly. “Uh-huh.”
“Your honour! You have no honour!”
“Be that as it may, you’re hardly in the position to turn away someone with Shadow Striker’s experience and Flamewar’s talents. Need I remind you, Commander, that our Decepticon cause is hurt.”
“It hurts because Megatron hurts.” Starscream lowers his gaze, wincing. “I do my best, but his steps are difficult to follow. Everybody loves him, respects him, or fears him.”
“We all know you’re doing your best, but… I look at the numbers,” Empress bemoans in her deep, docile purr, “and I hear the murmured gossip, and I see the thinning ranks. It’s perfectly evident. Your approval ratings are devastatingly low and we lost a lot of Decepticons in that little skirmish. We’re far from replenishing our numbers.” She simpers a moment, then lays a huge servo very delicately upon her ample bosom. “Now, my little public relations campaign has been proved successful at drawing in replacements, even if the mechs are a little overwhelmed and the femmes are a little overenthusiastic, yet I inspire loyalty and obedience in one way, or another. And I personally believe that Shadow Striker and Flamewar are still of great use to us.”
“I hate you so much. You’re doing this to humiliate me, all for that concubine of yours.”
The gladiator’s motherly smile is gone.
The Commander sinks to his knees, clutching at himself, wheezing.
None of the Decepticons intervene this time, awed and terrified.
Empress is doing something, somehow, her influence invisible but not intangible. “Commander, I insist that you refrain from such language.”
Starscream is squeezed, as if his insides are to be crushed, then expanded again, like he might pop, yet his bodily integrity is unaffected. Warnings pop up within his HUD, though his cursory self-scan cannot determine the cause for this reaction.
“Megatron would never approve.”
“Let… me go!”
“Besides, his word is final. I’ll beseech him myself, if you choose to be unreasonable.”
“I am… his second…”
“And I am also precious to him. He, who has sat with me and taught me how to properly eat at a table, with the appropriate manners. He, who has walked with me and spoken intimately to me to demonstrate how to speak so as to be heard by all, how to appear clever and cultured. I humour your rank much of the time, but I do so to minimise conflict. Believe me, I truly don’t wish to fight you.”
“You… obey me! Release!”
“How fortunate.” The gladiator relents her strange power, offering a servo to help the Commander stand. “I’m on your side, dear.”
“Commander!” Starscream gasps, panting, splayed upon his knees. He slaps Empress’ servo away and picks himself up with a whimper.
“Oh, of course, my mistake. Did I hurt you, Commander?”
“Enough. Have the traitors, tend to them until Megatron orders them destroyed.”
“I’m sure he’ll see things my way. In the meantime, you do have so very much to deal with, so rest assured, I’ll be doing my part to keep the Decepticons functional and growing. I’m just happy to be useful.” The gladiator narrows her gemstone optics with a gentle tilt of her grey helm. “And essential.”
“If he did not care for you…” The Commander quivers, averting his gaze. “I would be rid of you. Leave me alone. Wretch.”
Ignoring this comment, Empress turns to Shadow Striker and Flamewar, both of whom look disturbed. The motherly smile is back.
“Wow. The General is so shiny, like, every day.”
Skywarp gives Clobber a sidelong look.
“I guess she should be shiny. She’s a war hero.”
The Seeker chirps, garnering a shy grin.
“Do you think she could give me tips?” The tank is attempting to mount a rocket launcher to her burly forearm with minimal success. “I’d like to shine too.” Her pincers slip and she drops the heavy weapon atop the bare metal table with an almighty clamour. “Oh, no! Don’t break, pleeeaaase don’t be broken.”
Heavies have turned their helms to stare, pausing their self-maintenance.
Clobber clears her vents as delicately as she can and asks in a loud whisper, “Does this look broken to you, Skywarp?”
Skywarp is greatly relieved that the rocket launcher is currently unloaded, or it might have exploded.
“Clobber.”
“Oh, um, General, Sir!” Clobber hurries to salute, flushed and adorably apologetic. “I was just–” She ends up knocking things over and cringes with embarrassment. “Um. I’m so sorry. I’ll pick those things up, Sir.” However, pincers make it arduous, fumbling and bending things out of shape.
“Clobber, cease.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Heavies jeer and snicker among themselves.
“Silence!”
They all shut up.
“Back to your scheduled self-maintenance,” Alpha Strike booms. “I’ll be resuming inspection shortly. Be ready.”
They hasten to obey.
The Seeker picks up the mess quickly, blessed with tactile digits and not pincers, unlike the unfortunate tank.
“Clobber,” the General repeats with stern displeasure, but in a patient undertone, waving aside the younger femme’s returning salute.
“Yes, Sir!”
“At ease. I already have combat roles in mind for you, based on your existing construction and demolition equipment. You are sufficiently designed to aid in close combat altercations. This was discussed. Your self-maintenance does not include ranged ordinance.”
“Yes, Sir. Punching things is cool, like punching down an old building is cool, and I’m good at it, but… I just wanted a rocket launcher real bad. I thought it could be really cool and badaft and stuff.”
Alpha Strike smiles behind her facial vents. It reaches her searing optics.
Clobber fiddles her pincers together, helm lowered modestly, gazing up at her superior from below a fluttering shutter.
Who could be mad at that face? Skywarp ponders to herself, despite being the one to clean up the big, clumsy oaf’s mess. She uses her entire upper body strength to heft the rocket launcher back onto the storage rack. It is large enough to fill her burly arms. She pants from the exertion, muttering a silent curse and wiping sweat from her brow.
“An admirable pursuit.”
“Most of these guys can shoot stuff, but not me. I feel weird about it. Not jealous or resentful. Just, uh, inadequate.”
“This is a unit. We operate as a team effort. Demolishor and others fulfil such roles, proving their range advantage and crowd dispersal abilities. Your importance as our primary melee combatant is significant enough. Be satisfied and excel at doing your part for the whole.”
“Yes, General. I’ll do my best. I promise.”
“You are unhappy about it.”
“Well, yeah.”
“You remain unconvinced.”
“I’m just being stubborn, Sir. Sorry.”
“You are better suited to melee charges. You lack the necessary depth perception to–”
The young tank slumps, looking so disappointed. “Aw,” she mumbles softly to herself. “Curse my one optic. Can’t have nothin’ fun.”
“It is…” The general cringes despite the obstruction of her life-support vents. “A perfectly sufficient optic. Be thankful you can see.”
“Oh, I am. I just wish I had a second optic. Then I could shoot stuff. I just feel kinda useless when you got Demolishor over there with his gun-digit-thingies, shooting up a storm. No offence, Demolishor. You’re cool.”
“None taken, Clobber.”
The Seeker considers this for a moment, then grabs a datapad and hastily draws something over the hard-light holographic interface, passing her rough doodle over to their superior officer.
“What’s this, Skywarp?” Alpha Strike accepts the datapad, peering down at the crude drawing of Clobber with bulbous attachments to her forearms, apparently exploding with energy on impact.
Skywarp points at the Energon cells, charged and ready for use, and then pokes Clobber’s forearm to illustrate.
“Energon-infused punches? Hmm. I like it.”
“Whoa. Me, too. That sounds way cooler than normal punches.”
“I’ll see what can be arranged.”
“For me?” the tank utters with a little gasp of excitement.
“For you,” answers the General succinctly, optics twinkling as she turns and strides off.
“Skywarp, since this is your idea, can I give you a hug?”
The Seeker grins cheekily and nods.
“C’mere, pal.” Clobber scoops Skywarp up and squeezes her tight enough to creak, cheeks pressed together. “Thanks for pitching in back there. I’ll make it up to you.”
“Must keep morale up, eh, General.” Demolishor dares to grin whilst cleaning the tubes of his left servo with a little brush.
Alpha Strike chuckles softly, forgiving him for teasing her, then proceeds to strictly rebuke him as to the improper application of his joint grease, which makes him get whiny as he hates reprimands.
Thunderblast squeals as she throws herself at Shadow Striker first, embracing the femme with much nuzzling and hip wiggling, garnering a scoff and a smirk alike, not a hugger by nature but actually quite enjoying it.
“Primus’ ball-bearings, femme.”
“You guys pulled through for me! You’re here for me!”
“Like we said. Make with the kisses already.”
“Mwah, mwah, mwah!”
“Oh, my cyberswan.” Empress stands back, huge and handsome, a palm upon her ample hip, her other servo fanning her face as she witnesses this display of affection. “And that mercenary is rather the dark and dangerous sort, quite delicious.”
Flamewar is so comically small by comparison, craning her neck considerably to peer upward at the towering femme. “Um, excuse me, Ma’am, Sir?”
The gladiator turns to empty air. “Oh?”
“Down here, yeah.” The bike waves. “Quick question.”
“Oh! Yes, my dear?”
“I know we kinda just met, but do you take requests?”
“That depends, darling. I did just save your life.”
“I was gonna ask you to threaten it again real quick.”
“Excuse me?”
“Step on me, please.”
“Oh. Goodness gracious.”
“Don’t mind Flamewar, she’s just like that,” the mercenary says whilst enjoying the boat’s kisses in repayment for this risky move. “And thanks for the save. I would’ve got us scrapped for sure, with my temper.”
“Oh…” Empress leans over a bit to see better beyond her ample breastplate, then stoops a little further with a velvety laugh to lay a massive palm over Flamewar’s helm, engulfing it in a patronising pat. “I’ll get used to you, I’m sure, dear. Happy to help. Aw, sweet little thing. Purr for me, yes. Very good.”
Finally, Thunderblast stops her kisses, leaning heavily as if exhausted by the effort, arms looped about Shadow Striker’s neck. “You shouldn’t have come back. It’s risky, even with my big, strong lady keeping you.”
“Too bad. For you, we’ll take the risk. Remember your friends, right?”
The boat scoops the bike into a cuddle and kisses, overseen by the mercenary and gladiator.
“I’m gonna complain about it, though. Old ladies like me don’t have much more than complaints to rely on.”
“Did you see who did this? Did they see you?”
Meow.
Soundwave sighs, setting down a bucket filled with dissolved hot solvent and a coarse sponge. He is stood outside the habitation suite he and Hot Rod share whilst raising Ravage, contemplating the mess and how it best be cleaned before the boyfriend gets back from his mission.
On the walls are horribly offensive anti-Decepticon slogans and other such disparaging marks, some of which are outright threatening harm, evidently left as a warning by those who hold anger, to make the resident Decepticon feel unwelcome in his own home.
“If they’d resorted to hurting you to hurt me, I’d find them and kill them. No one harms my Ravage.”
Meow.
“Hot Rod doesn’t need to know about this. He’ll only stress. I’ll deal with it myself. I have my ways of finding people of interest.” Soundwave begins to scrub the obscene graffiti from the exterior of his home. “These fools will be found and dealt with, most severely.”
Ravage sits on his haunches, frowning rather heavily for a cybercat, tail swatting with agitation.
“Don’t worry. Leave it to me.”
Meow.
“Why do you bother me with this now? I have nothing, I am nothing. The world must burn, so that I may feel warm. Look at me. Look at my ruin.”
“I just… I thought you ought to know that we have traitors in our midst! They must be dealt with, but that glitch destroys me every time I rightfully challenge her!”
“I can do nothing, Star. I am nothing.”
“That’s untrue! You’re Megatron! You’re mine!” Starscream strokes the old mech’s gunmetal grey helm, sniffing wetly and blinking back the tears. “Where would I be without you, mighty one?”
“Do not mock me. I know now that I am but a tired old fool.”
“No, never! You just need to heal, and you shall, and soon you’ll return, better than before!”
“Do not demean yourself. You are easily my superior and I suspect you always were.”
“Not to them! You can vouch for me and be rid of the traitors, as I told that seductress you would, and your support would really show her not to mess with me!”
“Ugh. Empress is not your enemy, Star.”
“She torments me! How can you overlook such horror? She is no daughter to you! She is not your lover, I am! I, your second-in-command, first in your spark!”
“She visits me more often than you do,” Megatron confesses softly, sadly, speaking through numbing agents that barely afford consciousness, hellish optics dim with poor health and the sheer depth of his depression. “I know you do try to be here on most days, but seeing me like this disturbs you.”
Starscream deflates, wings dropping at his back.
A huge palm drags across the surgical slab, digits fumbling blindly for a pipe that feeds fuel to the remains, fist knotting to pull feebly at the rubber tube as if to wrench the lifeline out of the nourishing socket, failing. Another weak attempt is made, failing.
Shockwave promptly intervenes, brushing the servo aside and clamping the wrist within the restraint.
“Do you feel tired, darling? Does your soul seek rest, respite? Did this cruel, corrupt world deny you, my dear?” emanates the motherly undertone from the hovering drone, projecting the lifelike image of a femme.
Ariel is built big, but she has to tip her helm back a bit to meet with Empress’ narrowed optics, eerily focused for a hologram.
“Does it hurt?”
A reflexive swallow as the throat tightens, aching.
“There are more propaganda drones on the streets nowadays than Sentinel could ever hope to disable,” Orion mutters, shaking his helm and carrying on after a moment of dismissal, conveying himself on great strides.
“I hurt, too.”
The mind must ponder if this is true, or if maternal empathy can be so easily faked in such a motherless world.
Orion strides ahead for some paces when he realises his companion yet lingers behind, returning to Ariel with a frown of concern. “Old friend?”
“Almost makes me wanna become a Decepticon.”
“Do not speak such madness. I lost Megatron, I almost lost Sentinel, and I cannot afford even the thought of losing you.”
“Sure came close to it. This glitch damn well nearly killed me. I wouldn’t fall under her spell. Still, this sensation I’m feeling for her…”
Empress maintains slow, airy gestures, bodily language very deliberate as she ingratiates herself to whomever might be humouring the drone, programmed to settle in hot spots for some hours before moving along, randomly approaching stationary bodies to project her pre-recorded speech, spreading her word as Megatron’s word had spread before.
“It’s not hate. How can I not hate someone who tried to kill me?”
“I suppose she has a certain appeal. However, for all the damage she has done, I do not doubt she is wicked to her core.”
“That’s not like you, to say something like that,” Ariel intones, watching Empress’ moving servos, a hard-light hologram tenderly preaching to the desperate and despairing masses. “You don’t decide things like that for other people. You’re all about autonomy of the self, letting ourselves decide our own intentions. Soon as you start throwing labels like good and evil around, you lose all nuance and you can justify or vilify almost anything.”
“And yet she almost killed you. Forgive me, old friend, however you may assume some bias on my part.” Orion rubs his cheek against pink. “I am not perfect.”
“She’s like the mother figure the world craves. Just a little twisted.”
“This is a rather motherless, fatherless world.”
“Do you think that’s our appeal, too?”
“I do not doubt it.”
Bellies full, other appetites must be sated.
Chromia is entirely comfortable with Slipstream by this stage, permissive of her touch, inviting intimacy with a shy smile belying the stoic strength as inky dermas deposit lingering kisses over flushed places, two large femmes playing with each other to amuse their third.
“Okay, now go ahead and grab her aft, then squeeze hard enough to bulge the protoform,” Windblade dictates with a silky sigh, “while she grinds on a thigh with her valve out, smearing all over.”
Assuming the required positions with some heavy shuffling and low rumbles of fond amusement, the bike reaches around and grabs the aft with a firm, tight squeeze whilst pushing her knee forward, in turn driving her long blue thigh betwixt the Seeker’s for an easy mount, grinding wetly.
“Perfect. Just… stay like that for a while. Juuust like that.” The Cityspeaker gets in close, really close, to the point of almost hovering over them, leaning in and tilting herself to peer at areas of keen interest. “Oh, wow, look at that.”
“Are you going to boss us about all night, or shall we expect your direct participation?” Chromia intones with dry humour, baring her neck to Slipstream’s kisses with a shaky exhale.
“I’ll join you in a bit.” Windblade grins with mischief. “When I think you’re good and ready for me.”
“Oh-ho. Taking your time for a change, mm?”
“Hush. I’m in the mood to savour you both.”
“Whilst we savour each other.” The bike massages the aft in her grip, before roughly adding another servo to the firm mass with a swift, sharp slap leading to a clumsy grope and a gasp, thus gripping the Seeker tightly in both palms whilst her grinding stutters.
“Ow. Take it easy. I sit on that.”
“I’ll kiss it better. Or she will.”
“Spank me as hard as you like.”
“That made you change tune.”
The Cityspeaker has fantasised about similar scenarios, but fantasies can barely compare to this beautiful reality. She must extend mindfulness as to her blessed good fortune the next time she meditates, so that she remains grateful and aware, so as to never take these femmes for granted.
Slipstream rocks herself against Chromia’s thigh with little husky grunts, bending tightly to become compact without compromising position whilst nuzzling into a blue bosom, glossa lapping at the swell of breastplate, plump dermas depositing suckling kisses to the unyielding metal, large digits seeking transformation seams to pluck at wires like this body is a string instrument.
“My loves. My big, beautiful beloveds.” Windblade does not even touch herself, her fists knotted upon the berth as she smiles down at their entangled forms. “You make my Spark sing.”
“Come closer, so we may hear it.”
“Of course.”
The bike presses her cheek to the Cityspeaker’s bosom, smiling. “Slipstream, come. Listen.”
The Seeker joins in, resting her cheek closely beside, sighing heavily. “Oh, wow. I hear it, too.”
“Open.”
Windblade transforms her armour aside, exposing the Spark within her slender chest cavity. It is bright and excited, throbbing and flickering with vigour.
Chromia makes a low sound of protective adoration, ever so carefully dragging her digits through the soul, stirring it without causing harm or even discomfort.
Slipstream stares, but dares not touch something so pure, so perfect.
“I remember the night you first unveiled your Spark to me, Windblade.”
“I was a little nervous, but you’ve always made me feel safe, Chromia.”
“What changed your mind?”
“I need to know if you really care about me. About Minicons like me.”
Sat neat and upright at his desk, Starscream sets his datapad aside, laying his palms demurely before himself, digits drumming a tune. His optics are upon Sureshock, who is stood before the desk, peering over it just to see him. Normally, he would help her into a chair, but his mood is dark and she has hurt him.
“Because for a while, it really felt convincing that you could care, that you did care.”
He stops drumming his digits and instead reaches for some random object on his desk, fiddling idly with it whilst watching her watch him.
“You acted caring. Protecting me from bully Decepticons, helping me with my work, spending time talking to me, listening to what I said with attention, bothering to remember small details and recalling them later as if to prove our tentative friendship wasn’t imaginary on my part. You said you could empathise with my kind, which made you kind to me. You made the divide between Seeker and Minicon feel almost… surmountable.” She blinks slowly, round optics brimming with such precious hurt. “But then you said that your Seekers are yours to command, living weapons and thinking, feeling tools for you to throw at the enemy in the masses, like drones. What could you intend for Minicons, for me? Where’s the empathy now, Starscream? Was it all just pity, really? Because I’m so small and pathetic and you felt sorry for a while, perhaps because you feel small and pathetic and sorry for yourself?”
The Commander bends the thing in his servos until it snaps in half.
The Minicon takes a step back.
“I know you’re infatuated with me. It’s clearly clouding your judgment. You may leave my office now.”
“It’s okay. You can touch me there. I want it. This won’t hurt us.”
“I’ve never felt another Spark before.”
“Feel mine. It’s yours, and hers. We can share me.”
Slipstream is simply too terrified to touch Windblade’s bared Spark, staring into the light of life.
“Do as Chromia does. She’s touched my Spark plenty of times by now. Show her, my love, show Slip how it’s done.”
Chromia draws slow, swirling shapes within the Spark, stirring her own rhythm against the beat of it.
“Ohhh, that feels so good.”
“Slipstream, if you want to, we can bring her to overload together, tactile.”
The Seeker raises a trembling servo, large and blunt and powerful, capable of causing harm and healing, drawing slowly closer to the Cityspeaker’s throbbing, pulsing, fluttering Spark, the bike’s digits already at play in the heavenly glow.
Smiling reassuringly, Chromia guides Slipstream’s digits to partake in a similar dance, swirling altogether in a shimmering pool of potency and power.
Windblade looks to the ceiling and moans sweetly. “Yes…” She sways her hips as if dancing to a song only she can hear, her Spark flaring outward aggressively, as if to leap from the open chamber, as if to bite the digits that feed it.
Startled by the sudden flare, Slipstream jerks back her servo, fearful of causing harm.
Patient and forgiving, Chromia offers a welcoming palm to gently coax a return of those larger digits to the swelling mass of immortal energy that will one day outlive the vessel and return to the AllSpark from whence it came.
Cries of ecstasy rise, rise, rise.
They all originate from the same infinite life, good and evil alike.
Demolishor slaps his huge palm over Shadow Striker’s pauldron in greeting, far more gently scooping Flamewar within the crook of his burly arm. “It’s good to see you both.”
“We’ve almost got the whole gang back together, treads.”
“I think Slipstream is finally in a better place.”
“Yeah. Me, too. Good for her.”
Windblade recovers quickly, too quickly, snapping her Spark chamber shut with a harsh heat to her cold blue optics as she drags herself up along the berth and pins the submissive Slipstream between, Chromia’s chin finding rest upon a broad pauldron as she embraces the bigger femme from behind.
“Will you ever be satisfied?” the bike murmurs into the Seeker’s cheek, kissing it.
“No,” answers the Cityspeaker with an insistent stabbing of her spike against an inner thigh. “Hold her open. We’re both going in.”
Swooning with delight, Slipstream allows these smaller femmes to control her, dominate her, reorienting her limbs to suit their desires.
Chromia brings the swollen, slick head of her spike to the puckered aft port, only for Windblade to grab it and steer it further along, into the heat of the valve.
“Hit it from the back. I’ll hit from the front.”
“Oh, you fiend.”
As aroused as she may be, the Seeker balks at the prospect. “W-wait, hold up.”
The bike stops immediately, withdrawing.
“Slip?”
“I… I’ve never taken two at once.”
The Cityspeaker blinks, apparently surprised by this.
“Uh, like, in one hole, I mean.”
“You really haven’t done this with Shadow Striker and Flamewar?”
“Um, no. Shadow Striker’s way too big and Flamewar’s pretty hung too.”
Windblade and Chromia exchange a tender look.
“Aw, Slip. This’ll be another first for you.”
“If you’d like to try it. You can always say no.”
“I mean, I’m willing to give it a go, just…” Slipstream clears her vents modestly, a bit embarassed by her lack of courage. “Go slowly and softly, please.”
The Cityspeaker nods in reassurance. “We’ll be as gentle as we can be. You can stop us anytime.”
“Maybe a safe word?” the bike proposes. “Or a signal?”
“Damn, we really should establish that sort of thing.”
“Aw, girls, I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” the Seeker says with a nervous little laugh, wincing. “I trust you.”
“Boundaries and precautionary measures are important.”
“What Chromia says. Your safety and security are important to us, Slip. We’d never hurt you.”
“Errm, speaking of… Are you both gonna fit? I’ve been told I’m a little, uh, tight, so…”
“Well, only one way to find out,” Windblade almost growls hotly and with playful intent into Slipstream’s flushed face, her expression at once both excited and nervous. “Ready?”
Chromia strokes herself in anticipation.
Slipstream probes her own valve. “I’m really wet. That’ll help.” A shy smile, finding courage again. “Ready.”
“And so then Lockdown got his hook stuck in my–”
“Ugh, the smell.” Thrust sneers at Clobber, who innocently does not notice, taking her ration opposite Skywarp and chatting to the silent Seeker. “Do tankers ever bathe? I figured military service would sort them out, but apparently not.”
“Hey, it can’t be easy to reach all the stinky bits when you’re built that big and clumsy, plus she’s got those pincers. Be nice. It’s not her fault,” Thundercracker mutters over his Energon cube. “Besides, she’s always been lovely to us, and personality matters the most.”
“Yeah, I guess she’s alright. Scrap for brains, but nice enough.”
“She’s a lot nicer than you,” Nova Storm intones, poking Thrust in the cheek, hard. “You’re just the worst.”
“Ow! No, you’re the worst.”
“Nuh-uh. You are.”
This leads to a juvenile fight, brother and sister in the flock squawking at each other over trays of provisions, louder by the moment.
Skywarp rubs her brows, sighing at the commotion.
“You got a helmache?” Clobber asks innocently.
Siblings, the Seeker silently replies through gritted dentas. She loves them, but they are so stupid.
The tank sweetly pushes over her tray. “Maybe you need extra fuel.” Terrestrials of her size are guzzlers and so she has a bigger ration. “Here, have some of mine.” She is too pure for this world. “When I’m low, I get sore and sleepy.”
Skywarp smiles up at Clobber, accepting a few choice morsels of her tray.
“Grrrmph. Scrap me, Slip! Maybe you are too tight for two spikes at once,” Windblade mutters with her erection scraping its way slowly and slickly into Slipstream’s clenched valve, already stuffed with Chromia, swollen ridges pressed and dragging against blooming sensory nodes.
Whining in pleasure, but also some discomfort, the Seeker squirms and grabs the Cityspeaker’s pauldron to find stability whilst reaching back to grab one of the bike’s servos to hold for consolation, thighs trembling against the urge to slam shut.
“Is this sore? Should I pull out?”
“Deeper.”
“You sure, Slip?” Windblade murmurs in her kindest undertone, propped up on one arm, allowing a free palm to sweep the sweat from a cheek. “Don’t soldier through it if you’re not having fun.”
“Deeper!”
“Your calipers could probably do with some… recalibration,” Chromia says with a little more tact than she is known for, attempting to say such a thing politely, realising that it could be offensive. Femmes do not generally like to have their valves criticised outside of dirty talk. Quite the opposite effect is had, however, as she gasps when those muscular mesh walls clench around her, tightening in a rippling wave, the spasms stroking her still spike as she holds position, fully hilted, resisting the urge to thrust. “Did you just…?”
“Y-yeah!” Slipstream nods jerkily, handsome facial rigging taut with arousal even as she gnashes her dermas with strain. “Haaahhh! Frag!” The prompt to overload was a pleasant surprise and she took it. Lubricant is released and the additional slick moisture makes it easier to keep pushing in. The overload renders her unmodified, standard-issue calipers more reactive, more adaptable.
“Oh, yeah.” Smirking with satisfaction, the Cityspeaker feels the calipers give way, swallowing her spike in quivering, sopping increments. “Good girl, Slip. You’re stretching out, now.”
The bike’s engine rumbles below the Seeker’s high-pitched, breathy, feminine utterances, spike scraping against spike, stuffed together in a choking and sputtering valve.
“Take me there,” Slipstream demands with a lurch of her hips. “Again! Take me!” She throws her legs over and hooks the ankles behind Windblade’s sweaty aft, pulling her in closer with renewed courageousness, the sting of being so stuffed ancillary to the sheer instinctual delight. It speeds up the process of penetration.
Chromia’s optics roll as her spike is sheathed against the curve of another, finally bottoming out with her own. “I feel you, Windblade.”
“We’re so deep in her, Chromia. You like that, Slip?”
The Seeker drools, gurgling an affirmative, bouncing between the Cityspeaker and bike, both of whom linger in stillness to be used for pleasure, braced like toys.
“Can we move a little, Slipstream? Do you want us to stay still?”
Slipstream’s optics have squeezed shut. “M-move,” she manages through a shudder that wracks her entire frame.
“Her, or me?”
“Both!”
“You heard the lady.” Windblade winks at Chromia from over Slipstream’s trembling pauldron. “Let’s rock her whole world tonight. She deserves it and so do we.”
“Agreed.” The bike digs her heel struts into the berth, pushing muscularly with her back plates for leverage, and thrusts upward in short, swift, shallow motions to focus on the ceiling node, closest to the forge. It is the most sensitive place within a valve, which already possesses far more sensitivity than an entire spike.
“Ah, ah, ah!”
“She hitting it just right, Slip?”
“Uuuh-huuuh!”
The Cityspeaker giggles, then puts her game face on. She is on top of the both of them and so her movements are mostly hampered by the Seeker’s hugging legs saddled about the hips and aft, but longer and slower strokes within the oozing mesh attend to the other internal node clusters, drawing out spurts of lubricant traced with transfluid upon every pull, every push driving deep. “You’re taking us so good, Slip. Oh, Solus Prime. Such a good, good girl.”
Reaching around from behind, Chromia finds Slipstream’s anterior node and pinches it, biting softly into her neck cables as she squeals.
“Yeah, that’s what I want,” Windblade snarls softly, sweetly as she feels the valve collapse around her. “Bust that fat, hot ’load all over her.” The obscene wet applause of colliding interface arrays provoke a sick little smirk. “Make a mess. You’re licking it up, after.”
The bike jabs her spike into the ceiling node yet again, provoking another overload. Her hammering technique is a bit careless on her part, but she has the experience to know what to aim for, focusing in on that spot whilst the Cityspeaker more skilfully attends to the rest of the valve and supplements with dirty talk.
“Got such a tight, fat little valve, huh? Is this mine? Can I keep it? Will you give it back to me, soon as she’s done using you?”
Slipstream babbles whatever silly scrap happens to fall hot and needy upon her wagging glossa, hardly able to hear herself.
“Because you know – oh, frag – all about how greedy I can get.” Windblade winces as her HUD begs her to overload, but she is holding it in. Usually she just lets go when her system builds up enough charge, as this does not take her long and her libido allows for quick recovery, but she does possess enough stamina to last when so inclined. She is also a deeply caring, considerate individual at her core and always ensures mutual satisfaction with whomever she takes into her berth, attending to their needs just as enthusiastically as her own. “Chromia, leave some for me, alright?”
Chromia answers that with a huff and an amused glare, releasing the cable from her smiling dentas to lick her dermas suggestively, bouncing with her ruthless thrusts.
“Got something to say, handsome?”
“What would you do if I kept her to myself?”
“Spank you for being sooo naughty.”
“That only tempts my misbehaviour, you slag.”
“Oh-ho, and you say I’m the slag.”
The Seeker tries to suck on the Cityspeaker’s bosom, lurching forward to embrace her, in turn pushing back into the bike’s gyrating lap aft-first.
“Aw, Slip.” Windblade ensnares Slipstream with a loving kiss atop the helm. “You’re falling apart between us.”
“Good, because I’m about to explode,” Chromia mutters with a flinch, grabbing Slipstream’s hips and pounding into her from behind with bared dentas and knotted brows.
“If it hurts, let it out.”
“I can hold it a little.”
The Cityspeaker rolls her optics fondly, shutters fluttering dreamily. “I’m holding mine. We can’t both just – ahhh – hold our ’loads the whole time.”
“You first.”
“I’m a gentlefemme.”
“Only sometimes.”
“You glitch!”
The bike endures a playful shove to the pauldron. In reply, she spits a globule of frothy oral lubricant on the Seeker’s broad back strut, watching it collect in her rippling sheets, running down her spinal seam.
“That’s so hot.”
“Then prove it.”
Windblade pushes in as deep as she can, lunging thrusts vying for the ceiling node, in contest with Chromia’s hammering thrusts.
“Oi!”
“You asked for it!”
Slipstream’s wings eject from their sheaths, perhaps a bit hazardous, but she is rewarded with a savage overload as servos wander over the blades, grasping tight enough to be thrilling, twisting at the range of motion hard enough to set fire to circuitry. There is a certain art to playing with wings, the same with tyres or treads or other special sensory parts.
The bike glares at the Cityspeaker, who looks very smug.
“Same time?”
“Fine.”
The Seeker buries her scream in breastplate as both spikes press firmly to her ceiling node, closest to the entrance of her forge, bursting with ropes of hot, slick transfluid like molten silk against tender bruises.
Chromia roars, masculine and fierce, dragging on a wing as she unloads her aching transfluid reserves, at long last.
Windblade still has the capacity for words, but not much capacity for comprehension, intoning with wounded surrender, “Take it, Slip, take my ’load, gonna put a sparkling in you, gonna spark you up–”
Slipstream is listening, in some capacity, somehow. She feels a little funny about what was just said, perhaps recognising the inherent cruelty in those words, but she does not want to stop fragging, getting fragged.
“You’ll look so good carrying, ohhh, and they’ll all see, they’ll all know what I did to you–”
Imagine that. No, it is too much to imagine. It will never happen. They spoke about their future and there is no room.
“Oh Primus, what if it’s Chromia’s, what if she beats me to it, huh, would you like that–”
Unfortunately, overstimulation is setting in, and a femme must beg for reprieve despite the urge to frag forever.
The bike gently withdraws, extracting her spike with a gush of mixed fluids and a flop of it at rest against her thigh, semi-softened but still at full size and shape.
“Feels so good,” the Cityspeaker murmurs with a pleased sigh, slower to pull out, but when she does, she is ever so careful, the twitching erection valiantly offering further service even as it bows beneath its own weight, drooling. “Good girl, Slip!”
“Hnnngh!”
“And you too, Chromia. Good girls. So, so good. Hoooyeeeaaagh.”
For a while, nothing more is said, vents passing hot air, cooling fans whirring loudly within their entangled frames.
“And me. I’m a good girl. But not so much.”
“No, my love, you’re rather naughty.”
“You were misbehaving back there.”
“I don’t deny it.”
“Only Slip is inarguably a good girl.”
“She is very good, yes.”
The Seeker appreciates the sentiment, but she closes her legs and rolls away, groaning as transfluid and lubricant spill from her all over the berth. “Sorry. I’m getting it everywhere.”
“Hey, it happens every time. Nobody’s complaining.”
“Although I fear the stink may set in permanently.”
“Mm. I’d like that.”
“You would. Slag.”
Windblade tackles Chromia, spikes colliding wetly as they lovingly wrestle, interweaving their digits to press their palms together, giggling.
Slipstream watches them with some amusement, wings tender and valve hollowed out, sitting in a puddle that cools quickly. She sags, sighing, unable to complain with her lot in life.
All in all, things could be worse.
Notes:
The next chapter shall introduce a time skip, since I've covered all the establishing stuff and can bring the plot into the final stages for Synchronicity without feeling unprepared or rushed into the sequel - this project is huge and I prefer to prepare for it, which includes taking my time, and I only hope I don't bore in the process. My justification is that I have a particular vision in mind and my writing is self-indulgent because it reflects that vision. Thanks for your patience! Please look forward to weird and disturbing happenings in the future of this fic.
Clobber supremacy.
Chapter 65
Notes:
Upon returning from an emergency visit to the hospital, my hard drive suddenly died. As you can imagine, it all put a dampener on my Christmas. Even better, the text formatting has opted to fuck up randomly, so please feel free to let me know if you see any weird paragraph/line spacing going on, because I proofread everything myself and sometimes my eyes glaze over details. Overall, my writing might not be up to my usual standard and I can only ask for your patience as I recover and figure out this formatting shit. I enjoy putting this story together in my spare time and I don't want to lose my stride in uploading regular updates for you to read, but I'm only human. Thank you. I hope your Christmas (for those who celebrate it) was better than mine. I wish you a wonderful new year. Take care of yourself.
Chapter Text
In the weeks that pass, Cybertron is ceaseless, even if some of the citizens feel frozen.
An incessant pinging resounds within the messy office.
Starscream wakes at his desk with a low groan, lifting his aching helm to peer foggily at his familiar surroundings. An empty crystalline flute is overturned where his arm had flung carelessly in his intoxicated slumber, a bottle of high-grade is unsealed and the dregs catch the light filtering in from a viewing port.
Shockwave is hailing this frequency.
The Commander clears his vents, forces himself to sit up in his chair, and accepts the chief Decepticon scientist’s call. “Yes, what is it.”
“Megatron is ready for release.”
“Oh.”
Shockwave pauses on the other end, apparently expecting more of a reaction from the second-in-command. “You are invited to–”
“I’ll be there in a minute,” Starscream rasps impatiently, nauseous and exhausted and miserable. “Thank you.” He hangs up, pushing back his chair with a sniff. There is a mirror on the wall and he beholds himself with abject sorrow and self-loathing. “Might as well have a shower, mm?”
Slipstream is given preserved donor protoform tissue to practice her surgery, making incisions as indicated in the texts and diagrams, working studiously on her own whilst always learning within the clear and concise confines of the strict guidance of her mentor, Red Alert, who is very busy yet still finds the time to teach. Time for everything, really.
Ratchet made the right call.
Red Alert is phenomenal. She divides her time between attending to Sentinel as part of a team of talented medics, helping Ratchet run the medical bay with the other volunteers, and mentoring Slipstream in the intricacies of Energon-infused scalpels and other such standards of care. How one femme can divide herself in so many directions is astounding.
A minor fuel line is nicked and oozes within the misshapen mass. Slipstream still feels nothing but the responsibility of a scalpel, no nausea. She reaches for a sterilised sponge and very delicately dabs at the incision, cleaning it out for better visibility, then proceeds onward.
Windblade and Chromia have enquired about these studies, of course, and voice how proud they are, because medics serve the community as uncelebrated heroes. Even then, they do not know what to think of Slipstream’s increasingly calm, quiet disposition around gore.
The other Seekers are already gathered, eager to greet the repaired and rebuilt Megatron. Nova Storm is particularly attached to him, bold enough to hug his renewed chassis with daughterly adoration, wings fluttering as he strokes her helm in a vaguely fatherly fashion.
“Why do you cry, little bird? Are you not the strongest Seeker, putting on the bravest face for your brothers and sisters?”
“I’m sorry, I just really missed you!”
“Mm. So you say. I was missed more than I had assumed, it would seem.”
“Oh, the darlings were ever so sad without you,” Empress intones whilst massaging Megatron’s pauldrons, leaning her ample breastplate against his broad, firm, powerful back strut, her voice uttered intimately against his neck. “We’re all so very, very glad to have you back. Myself, especially, of course.”
Shockwave rolls his singular optic and Acid Storm shakes their helm whilst reviewing their datapad.
Skywarp does not like the way Megatron barely reacts, yet glares. He seems numb and tired, but there is a terrible rage in his optics, something so searingly worse than what was already lingering there the night of the pitfall, and when he speaks there is the promise of wrath, however soft-spoken. She keeps her distance, smarter than her siblings.
“It is good to see you all. Thank you for attending to my return.”
Even the known idiot Thundercracker is a bit unsure, though he draws close enough for a hug that Megatron seemingly tolerates with little more than an absent-minded pat on the helm.
“I think a celebration is in order.”
“No, Empress, that is unneeded.”
“Aw, but Megatron, darling, we–”
“I am in no mood to celebrate.”
Empress huffs, a bit put out, frowning where Megatron cannot see her. However, a lady must not give up so easily to get what she wants. “Another time, perhaps?” He may be a bit too depressed to indicate he is receptive, for now, but he will give way, knowingly or unknowingly. She must be persistent and patient. Her mentor does care for her and she has been dutiful to him, good to him.
“Mmm.” He is a bit bigger now, which she enjoys rather too much, running her greedy digits lasciviously over his gunmetal grey extra-reinforced combat frame, his expression stoic despite the pleasant sensations. “Perhaps.” The vulnerabilities of his old body have been painstakingly accounted for, his age overcome through cutting-edge technological improvements, and his arm bears a new port to allow for weapon attachment, which reminds him. “Shockwave, you had something for me.”
“Affirmative. An experimental fusion canon, ready for testing beyond laboratory conditions.”
“Decepticons, I do not wish to do this.”
The Seekers stare, Empress tilts her helm, Shockwave’s finials twitch.
“It is clear to me that my old friends are willing to kill me, or permit my death through their inaction and indifference. None of them dredged me from that pit, none of them attended to my wounds, and none of them greet my return. They only mourned Sentinel. After what he did to me, I cannot go on as I had hoped to. He has changed everything.” Megatron clenches his fists until they creak, tightening his mighty jaw. “Starscream, your reaction has sealed the Decepticon image in the minds of those who fear and hate us, and so I can do little to render our movement less than monstrous.”
Starscream lingers in the doorway, having gone unnoticed until now, ducking his helm as optics glance his way. He is late to his lover’s resurrection and everybody knows why.
“I cannot fault you for it. You meant to avenge my assumed death. Thank you, Commander.”
Empress thinks Starscream rather fragged everything up, necessitating that she do damage control to try and recruit replacements and better represent the Decepticon brand to the public, which she has had some success in doing, but the Decepticons are firmly cemented as bad guys with good intentions and she does not disagree that vengeance was tempting. It still is.
“Lives were lost at the arena. Mine was spared.” Megatron raises a fist before himself, testing the incredible strength of his grip. “Let me not delay my work.”
Everybody flinches when that fist drops.
“Am I taking shape nicely?”
Ratchet sighs. Sentinel asks this every time he is awoken, incomplete but intact, capable of conversation with people who care about him. He is stable enough and insists on being safely awoken on occasion to ask, high as he may be on numbing agents, because he hates being induced under stasis. “You’re coming along as well as can be expected, barring these unnecessary interruptions.”
“But will I be splendid and beautiful, Doctor?”
“Yes, yes, yes. Can I return you to stasis, now?”
“No, I hate it.”
“You’ll hate surgery more without it.”
“I want so speak with Ariel and Orion.”
“You are so very tedious.”
“I’m the boss.”
Red Alert purses her queenly dermas, readjusting her little spectacles as she busies herself at the terminal. “We can keep him up for an hour or so.”
“An hour or so we cannot spend performing these surgeries.”
“We’ll get it done on schedule. Humour him. It’s just easier that way.”
“Fine. I’ll give the Councillors a call.”
Sentinel smiles winningly, drunkenly, his handsome facial features fully restored, chin as distinguished as ever. “Thanks!” As if asking for a quick little favour.
“Oh, darling, really? You’ll give me my own Seekers, to use however I like? Say you will!”
“I will allow you to borrow those Seekers, but you must cease this squabbling with their Commander at once. I have no more patience for it.”
“Of course, my dear, though I must insist, the squabble is entirely on Starscream’s side. I did try to endear myself to him. Honestly!”
“Humph. As for the traitors-”
“Not traitors, my darling! Not really. They remain loyal to you, your leadership, your Decepticon dream. They only opposed the ugly business back at the arena after you fell, and that needless slaughter wasn’t on your order, thus they didn’t disobey you.”
“My second-in-command avenged me.”
“He failed, dear, and ruined your reputation, my reputation, our reputation. It was his temper tantrum that risked it all for grief. But here you are, alive and well! We have you back, to make things right.”
“Be that as it may, I expect all my loyal Decepticons to obey the one I appointed in my stead. He stood in my place, as my representative, and their rebellion is a defiance of my will, through him.”
“Please, darling. He mourned you and maimed your memory, quite against your will. That disaster was never your will. I, however, have continued your good work. If I may say so, I’m rather your representative, for you taught me well. And now, since you’re back to your beautiful, brilliant old self again, I ask only small favours in exchange for my good service. So, you can pardon these misunderstood little Decepticons, safely returned to the fold, and let me have them.”
“My anger is unappeased.”
“Your anger is misplaced.”
“Do not presume too much, pupil. Am I unwise? Am I weak? Am I to permit sorry faces to return to the fold, begging for my mercy, after my mercy sent me to the very pit of my shame, my disgrace?”
“I don’t claim to speak for all wayward Decepticons with hope left in their Sparks, teacher, but you once claimed to. Culling these three examples would defy who you claimed to be, our saviour of all who have been hurt like you. If you aren’t that same mech anymore, then the Decepticon cause is truly lost, a farce. Have mercy, my dear.”
“Careful, or that argument may yet lose persuasive value with overuse. I do not want it to become habit, that those who betray me and mine might appeal to my mercy after the fact. My patience is limited, my pain far exceeds it. The Decepticon agenda may yet change.”
“Fine. Then let me make this clear. They’re mine, and of this I refuse to negotiate,” Empress says rather boldly, pushing out her influence with a little more force. “I like them and I’m asking you to let me keep them. They please me and they do good work as I direct them to. Their loyalty to me is loyalty that extends to you, as I remain your faithful pupil. In fact, the whole notion of their treachery is, well, highly exaggerated. Executing these three would be unjust and wasteful. And I would be remiss. Would you be willing to lose me?”
Megatron sucks in air, hesitant now and that sensation of dominance wraps about him like a crushing embrace, his hellish glare roving dangerously from Shadow Striker, who actually looks somewhat intimidated for a change, to Flamewar, who clearly looks up to him with admiration even if she is unsure that her life may be spared, and finally to Thunderblast, who is doing her very best to look cute so as to seduce. “Why do you want them, truly?”
“I just told you. I like their company, I recognize their capacity to serve me. They’re good girls. The important bit is that I take full responsibility for them. They have useful skills and expertise that, frankly, my dear, we cannot afford to do without. And that applies to Demolishor too, though he resides under the venerable General Alpha Strike. I would trust her, if I were you, to keep him in line. As for these femmes, mark my words, if you destroy them, or exile them, I’ll be very upset. Oh, Megatron. You wouldn’t want that, would you, my darling? Not after everything, surely.”
“You vouch for them.”
“Absolutely. Trust me.”
“See to it that they do as I will.”
“Of course! Anything for you.”
“Any further betrayal is cause for execution at my discretion.”
“They’re most aware. They’ll behave. Let me handle them.”
“You do realise you vouch with your life.”
“My life is already yours, oh mighty one.”
Megatron sighs, persuaded by Empress, resigning himself with a dismissive gesture. “Fine.”
“Thank you.”
“Do not disappoint me.”
Shadow Striker exhales shakily as Megatron leaves the room. “Primus’ beard, I almost scrapped myself.”
“He’s different. Way more… intense,” Flamewar mutters, watching him go. “Coming back from that pit really did a number on him. Poor guy.”
“Such power, radiating like the sun. Sooo hot.” Thunderblast taps her chin, humming. “Sure, he’s angry, but he does still have some capacity for mercy, although the window of opportunity might close soon. If I act fast, do this smart, I can work with that. He’ll be mine.”
“Ahem.”
“Ohhh, but of course, I have you! My biiig, haaandsome, strooong lady.”
Empress puffs out in pleasure and pride as Thunderblast runs a delicate digit alluringly over heavy metal panels, leaning flirtatiously against the imposing frame, plump assets pushed against gunmetal grey.
“Sure, Megatron’s an impressive mech, but nobody does it like you do, my hunky-wunky hero. Thank you for saving my friends - again! I’ll make it up to you, however you like, wherever you like.”
“I look forward to it, my cyberswan, but you don’t owe me a thing.”
“See? That’s my gentlefemme, so noble and selfless, making mommy happy. C’mere so I can give you kissies.”
Shadow Striker cringes. “Ugh.”
“Can I get kissies too, mommy?” asks Flamewar.
“Of course you can, sweetie!”
“Don’t make it weird.”
“I am weird, boss bot.”
“When I’m airborne, those dastardly Decepticons won’t know what hit them! I’ll give it to those Seekers, just you watch!”
“Uh-huh.” Ariel is glad for the modesty surgical tarp, hiding Sentinel’s incomplete frame from view, though she still has access to his handsome face and broad, gleaming pauldrons and the ample expanse of his bosom, Spark thrumming beneath her palm as she caresses the blue and gold. “You’ll be a terror. Just don’t crash too hard, okay. You know how Orion worries.”
“Indeed, I do worry.”
“Crash? Me? Never! I’ll be the most graceful mech to ever ascend to the heavens. I’ll be so splendid, Starscream will look drab in comparison, and he shall rue the day he stepped on me with those damnably sharp heel struts. Stuck-up little glitch.”
“Easy, easy. You’re getting excitable again.”
“Save your strength, Sentinel. We will leave you to return to your sleep.”
“What, so soon?”
“We’ve got work to do, big guy.”
“But you’ll come back and visit me again, right?”
Orion stoops to kiss Sentinel softly on the forehelm. “Of course, old friend.”
“Promise?”
“Don’t be stupid.” Ariel does not kiss Sentinel’s forehelm. She gives him a rather less tender pat on the pauldron, smile strained. “We love you.” She says it like the words are a burden, even if spoken truthfully, but in his intoxication he cannot tell.
“I love you too. Both of you. Oh, I know I don’t say it often enough, but I do so very much hold you two in my Spark. Why are the words so much easier to get out, when I’m like this?”
“You’re high as frag, old mech.”
“Primus, that always was your problem, Ariel. You never romanticise anything. Perhaps I’m just having a special moment.”
“You are a special moment.”
“That makes no sense, but I can tell you meant it rudely, you brute. Shoo. Be gone with you. But be back soon.”
Orion and Ariel nod to Ratchet, who approaches with the needle.
Sentinel gazes up at his friends with his pretty blue optics adoringly wide, which fade and flutter shut as stasis is induced. He does hate the sensation, but seeing their faces comforts him until he sees nothing.
“He’s gonna be impossible when those damn wings are working and he can fly around being all superior from above.”
“I do not doubt it, old friend, but his happiness and health are treasures to us.”
“He’ll be so annoying, though.”
“Indeed. Ariel, are you-?”
“I’m fine, old mech.”
“If you need to-”
“Don’t worry about me.”
“Strength cannot be equated with silence, my love.”
“What, do you miss me yelling at him? Him, yelling at me? You’ll just try to keep the peace again, and fail.”
Orion frowns softly after Ariel’s departing back strut.
“No way! Babe, I know things are hard, but we’re not leaving Cybertron, we just can’t. My friends are all here, my life is here, and Cybertron is all Ravage has ever known, so imagine how scary and stressful it’ll be relocating to a whole other planet when he’s barely used to having a habsuite!”
“The war isn’t safe for him.”
“I know that! I know, okay!”
Ravage hears his name, but he knows better than to respond to it, pretending to be asleep on a cushion, an optic narrowly open, a pointed audial turned, spying on the argument.
“Everything’s so messed up. I finally got my life together, found a great guy, adopted the cutest little cybercat like I always wanted, and it all falls apart around me.” Hot Rod paces about, rubbing his face. He is a soft soul and cries very easily. “I keep telling myself it’s a rough patch, but we’ll pull through it. The Council’s gonna win the war, you’ll be working again real soon, and I can support us ’til then.”
“Face it, my love.”
“I don’t wanna.”
“My career is over. To them, I’m a mere Decepticon – this mark scares clients. You can barely make rent and utilities on your own. If I fail to contribute, I–” Soundwave stops, lowering his helm, visor catching the light. “I’ve never been one to fail in anything, yet I…”
“Babe.”
“I am failing.”
“No. No! You’re awesome. You’re just the fragging coolest guy ever!”
“I’m failing you, my love. I’ve failed our Ravage.”
“That’s so not true! I know it’s hard getting gigs together, and yeah, there’s nothing big enough lately to support our lifestyle, so what? We’ll downsize, live modesty and stuff. All we need is us! And our friends, backing us up!”
“Your friends hardly approve of me.”
“They just think you’re an afthole, but they’re cool with me, loving you!”
Ravage pretends to sleep even as Soundwave, a mech who has always preferred creatures to people, tries to sooth himself by anxiously petting the beloved cybercat.
“Is this about Shadow Striker?”
“Megatron permits her, pays her well. There’s a real chance I could–”
“You’re not rejoining the Decepticons! The pay’s not worth pushing us apart!”
“I can handle him. I’ll keep on top of it.”
“Until he tells you to go out there and kill people! What if he sends you after my friends? What if he doesn’t like it that I’m your guy, so he makes you dump me as, like, a loyalty test or something? He’s crazy, babe! We dunno what he might do!” Hot Rod stops pacing, slumped in on himself as he stares at some spot on the wall. “Please join the Council. We’re not all cops and Functionists. Some of us are just people.”
“People who ally with cops and Functionists.”
“It isn’t gonna be forever. It’s all gotta end soon.”
“A part of me is so damn angry at him.”
“Nobody blames you, girl. Be mad! It’s your right, especially after the scrap you’ve been through. Primus wonders how you’re not madder about it.”
“I am madder about it. I’m trying, here. But a part of me – this ugly part I throttle to keep quiet – wants to rip Sentinel’s big, fat helm off with my bare servos.”
“Uh, okay, that’s… a little intense,” Arcee mumbles, sat at the desk with a datapad in servo and Captain Snuffles tucked in her bent arm, attempting to be useful.
“I can’t pretend forever.” Ariel squeezes moisture through a tube, administering little droplets of nourishment to an organic that depends on her to maintain the correct environmental conditions for survival within the terrarium. “Sentinel won’t listen to me. Never does, never did. He’s not gonna satisfy me with a sincere apology for almost killing Megatron, or diverting our resources so it was those damn Decepticons who dredged him from that pit. I won’t feel any better anytime soon. Orion needs me to be gentle. I need to find it in myself to be productive and preoccupied with anything but this… pain, that I’m feeling. And when Sentinel’s back up and running, Orion needs me to cooperate, when I just wanna leave.”
“No offence to the big guy, but I think Orion’s projecting on you a little bit. Maybe bottling his feelings works out okay for him, but you’re not him. You’re you. You’re big and bold and beautiful. Sure, you should be careful about losing your temper, so you don’t hurt anyone undeserving of it, or rip someone’s helm off, but nobody’s asking you to be perfect. Maybe try framing your feelings around words?”
“Why bother? Like I said, Sentinel won’t say sorry.”
“You can still tell him to go frag himself.”
“I’ve done that before. Never works.”
“Then you’re gonna pile up with resentment and regret until…”
“Boom.”
“You’ll explode, sweet Spark.”
“That, or I’ll leave the planet again, like last time. And this time, I won’t come back, not even to get my research published.”
“I’ll miss you.”
Ariel turns away from her delicate work, frowning softly across the office at Arcee.
“We’ll all miss you, of course. I’m nothing special. Still…” The smaller, younger femme sighs quietly, normally so optimistic and enthusiastic about life, even with the hurdles. “I’ll support you, care about you, whatever you choose to do, whether you go, or stay.”
“You’re very special, to me.”
“Can I, um… say it, yet? Is it a bad time? Too soon, too selfish?”
“I love you, too.”
“Aw, you beat me to it!” Arcee smiles brightly, albeit not as bright as her smiles are typically known to be. “You’ve been a wonderful teacher and an awesome friend. I love you and I love your organics, too. Especially this little guy. Huh, Captain Snuffles.”
Rising large and heavyset for a femme, Ariel crosses her office in a few long strides, stopping once she encounters the obstacle of her desk. She leans over it, palm braced upon the dull unliving metal, reaching over to tenderly cup the other femme’s cheek as their faces hover closely.
“You’re giving me a look.”
“You’re giving me ideas.”
“I like the way you’re looking at me. I like the way you think.”
“I’m an old lady, Arcee. What could you possibly want from me?”
“More of you, duh.”
Ravage quietly slinks into the room, pointed audials perked, feline optics wide. His tail curls in question, enstrils flared, brows subtly pressed in a frown. He announces himself with a meow.
“Aw, hey, boy.” Hot Rod quickly wipes his face, as if to erase the tears, clearing his vents with a cough as he makes himself presentable before his adopted pet. “What’s up? D’you wanna treat? Wanna play?” The mech thinks the cybercat is too dumb to recognise distress, too aloof to care, but he is wrong.
Approaching on light paws that barely disturb the polishing fibres of the anti-scratch synthetic carpet, Ravage rubs himself against Hot Rod’s lower leg, spine arched, tail raised and quivering, a soft purr reverberating metallically as digits wiggle over the back of the neck.
“We should have some yummy-scrummy Energon gummies left. Lemme get you one.”
Meow.
“Yeah, and then we’ll find your squeaky cybermouse and play fetch.”
Meow.
The mech sniffles, smiling with damp cheeks and swimming optics, permitted to reach down and scoop up the cybercat who has grown increasingly docile and easier to handle as the reality of his situation – that he is safe, his needs are met, he has a home, and he is loved – finally sets in. Strays are often distrustful, traumatised. “I love you.”
Meow.
“Yes, I do. Boop,” Hot Rod murmurs, cradling Ravage like a Sparkling, pressing a digit lightly to his little olfactory sensor.
The cybercat loathes his inability to speak with words his beloved idiot mech could understand. If Hot Rod could only understand, Ravage would admit that he understands that his beloved idiot mechs have been arguing and that their love is under strain due to circumstances far beyond anyone’s control, and the cybercat could commiserate with them that he, too, fears for his family falling apart in this world that is burning.
“Hooray! We got a few gummies left. Better go get some more real quick, or my baby boy will be sad. Aw! We don’t want that, do we? No, we don’t!”
Meow.
Hot Rod retrieves a soft chewable treat from the tin and feeds it to Ravage, who accepts the token graciously, without biting any of the digits that feed him this time.
“No, never! I decide where my Seekers reside and I do not approve of this reassignment!”
“My intentions have always been to fill our ranks with Seekers wherever the aerial support and general labour are needed. We are producing more Seekers as we speak and soon we will have more than enough units for you to command, thus I am confident you can part with a few.”
“They are mine!”
“You are mine.”
Starscream flushes prettily with the colour of desire, but tightens his entire frame with intimidation.
“My will be done, my kingdom come. I grow weary of this petty squabbling.” Megatron clearly is wasting no time initiating the next phase of his plan. He lacks his prior patience, speaking now with more force behind his rumbling undertone, glaring down his olfactory sensor with brighter fury in his optics. “It is sufficient to dispense a few of your Seekers – my Seekers – strategically elsewhere. Shadow Striker and Flamewar will make a fine duo, of this their history assures me, and I trust in Empress and her report, but that duo will require grunts to do their bidding. Seekers are easily replaced, so you will barely notice the loss.”
“You dare say that, after consoling my losses before. I lost Acid Storm, I lost Slipstream, I have wept in your arms.”
“Those were your original Seekers. Practically your siblings. It is sufficiently different.”
“And the rest are my children!”
“You never said you wish to sire your own.”
“I am a mech of much mystery!”
“My beloved, I cannot coddle you forever. In my absence, the Decepticon dream has grown distant. I must act swiftly, decisively, and difficult decisions shall be made. Forgive me.”
“You speak strangely now. Are you still in love with me, or have I lost my appeal? Are my desires no longer vital to your vision?”
The old gladiator softens slowly. “Star,” he murmurs, sounding more like himself as his optics linger with familiarity, “I beg you to never doubt my love for you, no matter what I must do, no matter what is done to me. I will earn you Cybertron and liberate Seekers.”
“And will you forgive me? Because I can sense such resentment in you.”
“I resent everyone in this moment. I am dedicated to you in spite of it.”
“I do not doubt it. Yet you evade my question.”
“I am in an unforgiving mood, for my Spark is torn asunder, my pride is in tatters from that humiliating fall, and since peace seems a distant prospect, my mind is preoccupied with war in the present.”
“What does that mean for us?”
“Cybertron will burn. You, my helper, and I, your conqueror. We have both been robbed, we have both been wronged, we are both traumatised.”
The Commander feels a huge digit tuck beneath his chin, cradling his helm tenderly whilst forcing him not to look away as his lover leans in slowly, looming close, closer.
“We will both feel this warmth.”
Thunderblast had once talked about manipulating the transformation sequence of oneself or one’s willing partner for pleasure, the notion that the journey from root-mode to alt-mode and all the modes in-between could be induced manually through intimate practice and thus safely incorporated within foreplay, interfacing itself, and aftercare. She had more formally called it transformation play, or transplay for short and casual discourse, and she made it sound risky but fun.
Slipstream had smiled when a qualified medic first suggested the process as part of Windblade’s recovery, intending transformation play as a form of physical therapy to ensure smooth and safe transformation after prolonged stagnation, perhaps without realising the more exotic applications of such a thing. The procedure for folding and unfolding the Cityspeaker was demonstrated by the medic in a strictly instructional capacity so as to be replicated at home with caution and care, as maintaining such control over someone else entails responsibility and accountability alike. As a fellow flier, Slipstream was assigned primary caretaker in this regard, with the other friends acting as ancillary support. As part of a regular session, Slipstream thus undertakes the endeavour tonight, and once again she recalls Thunderblast fondly.
“It’s not so stiff this time.”
“Yes, I felt less resistance there. Very good.”
Windblade is partially transformed in the centre of the room, furniture pushed aside to afford space for the jet that stands on legs projected from her underside. She looks ridiculous, particularly as she shifts her weight from pede to pede, the mostly intact jet taking a waddling step forward to nuzzle her nose cone against Slipstream, who smiles indulgently and caresses a wing.
“Hold still, my love.”
“That tickles.”
“Mmhm.”
Bumblebee cannot restrain his giggles, garnering a sidelong glare from Chromia, gently disapproving.
“Hush. She’s in therapy.”
“Sorry! I don’t mean to be an aft. It’s just, like, she’s literally a jet on legs, and she walks like a cyberduck. It tickles me every time.”
Unoffended, able to recognise the comedy in these circumstances, Windblade swings herself around and waddles over to Bumblebee, the sight of the jet on legs making her way awkwardly over to him provoking his giggles to intensify until she bumps him lovingly with her nose cone, forcing him to push back against her hull as she almost ends up in his lap. As typical of most jets, she is quite large when transformed even if the transformation is incomplete, but he is a little guy in any shape.
“Bestie! You’re gonna squish me!”
Slipstream sighs, physical therapy derailed for the moment, giving Chromia a helpless shrug as she shakes her helm.
“Windblade, this isn’t play. Focus on your transformation exercises.”
“Aw, lighten up a little, Chromia. You get so stern about it. Why not have a little fun?”
“Play can wait. This is serious.”
“I’m making great progress.”
“That is hardly an excuse to muck about. Remember what your combat instructor used to say.”
Bumblebee giggles afresh as Windblade turns and waddles over to lovingly peck Chromia next.
“She’s so cute,” Slipstream intones fondly.
“Yes, but also a menace,” Chromia mutters, ever so gently caressing Windblade’s cockpit. “Go on, back to it.”
Bumblebee has to cover his intake as Windblade turns from Chromia and makes a show of waddling back to the centre of the room, where Slipstream patiently waits.
“Pick any two you like.”
“Hmm. Lemme see…”
The assortment of Seekers, colourful and generic, stand at attention in neat rows for visual assessment, rather tired after a long day of doing their best to look busy without actually being busy.
“Oh, oh! That one!” Flamewar points at her chosen Seeker. “I want that one. He’s got sad optics. Like a cyberpuppy.”
“Then I’ll have this one.” Shadow Striker gestures at another Seeker. “He seems robust enough.”
The selected Seekers nervously look at each other, promptly pulling a shared expression of mutual disgust. They may be brothers, with brotherly love between them, but they do not particularly get along even as Seekers, and thus are unexcited by the thought of working together. Of course they would get picked and paired. Literally could have been any other two Seekers, but nooo, Primus forbid brothers who actually like each other would be assigned to assist the scary glitches.
“Well, that’s settled, then. Congratulations! I’m sure the four of you will make for a wonderful team.” Empress claps, as if to provoke a reaction.
“Yes, Sir,” the Seekers chorus, miserably.
“Now, then. Ladies, be good to these two boys. I am so very fond of my charming little cyberpigeons,” the huge femme intones with maternal warmth, pinching a Seeker by the cheek, smiling sweetly down upon the rigid, terrified mech, though the sister Seekers flutter their shutters and quiver their wings for her approval.
But nobody is putting on as much of a show as Nova Storm, who is perfectly at attention, smirking with rugged confidence, rippling her muscles in a display of her virile potency, wings fully extended and aglow with polish. This is it, this is her chance to get it on with Empress, the hottest young gladiator and finest example of a Decepticon ever - aside from Megatron, of course.
“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”
“Might surprise you to hear this, but I’m not exactly well-liked, so I don’t get a lot of that sort of attention. It’s been forever, for me.”
“Nonsense! Lots of people like you. People like Bee, and Rod, and Windblade – especially Windblade!” Arcee playfully elbows Ariel, laid out side by side on the office floor with Captain Snuffles asleep between them. “She’d looove to give you a lot of that sort of attention.”
“Heh, yeah, I got the feeling.”
“As for me, I’d be honoured.”
“I’m too damn old for you.”
“I disagree. You’re classic.”
“Classic?”
“Yeah.”
“You saying I improve with age?”
“Just like good Energon wine!”
Ariel stares at the ceiling, running a palm down her neck, flushed and hot.
“But we don’t have to do anything we don’t want to.”
“That’s the problem. I do want to. A lot.”
“And I want to, too. There’s no problem.”
“Don’t oversimplify it.”
“You’re overcomplicating it,” Arcee replies, suddenly sitting up. “Simply put, we’re friends. We’ll always be friends.”
“I want to believe that.”
“Then believe it! It’s the truth. You can turn me down and rest easy, knowing we’ll be okay carrying on as friends. Or, you can put out and let me please you, knowing I’ll still respect you the morning after because we’re friends. Our friendship really matters.”
“You’re a good girl. I know you’ll treat me right.”
“So, you can think about it. I’ll wait. No pressure!”
The femmes linger in silence for some time.
“It’s getting late. Must be dark out.”
“Yeah, I’d better make tracks.”
“Or you could stay here.”
“You’d like that, huh.”
Ariel huffs, reaching over to gently grasp Arcee by the servo, tugging until she flops over and falls into a hug that catches her, laid out on the floor, Captain Snuffles undisturbed.
“I love you.”
“For a prankster, you seem kinda sad sometimes.”
Skywarp huffs quietly, sitting on the edge of the recharge slab, wings low and gaze downcast. She knows it, too. Nova Storm lovingly muscles her way about, demanding an answer as to why her favourite little sister is growing depressed and distant of late, but the answer is hardly appropriate.
“Must be tough, being the quiet one, surrounded by all that noise, when everybody expects you to be naughty all the time and making people laugh, but maybe you’re not always laughing at your own pranks.” Clobber is laid out, tiny datapad clutched within her pincers, pressed against her bosom. “But if you keep sneaking off to sleep with me, you might get in trouble since these aren’t your barracks and I’m not one of your Seekers. Seekers seem pretty, uh, insular? No offence. I like Seekers. I like you.”
The Seeker chirps quietly, rubbing her arm, cheeks a little flushed.
“I like having you here,” the tank intones with kindness, smiling in the dim. “I won’t chase you away if you wanna cuddle. You’re a great cuddle buddy.”
Skywarp looks up, biting her derma.
“So long as you don’t get in trouble, you’re always welcome in my bunk. I won’t tell on you, I promise.” Clobber shifts her huge bulk over a fraction, as the space is limited and she already overflows. “C’mon.” She pats what little room she can afford invitingly with her pincers. “I’ll keep you warm.”
Wings retract as the Seeker falls into place with a metallic thunk and a grin, wiggling as she makes herself comfortable.
“Shhh.” The tank wraps her burly arms about the smaller femme, nuzzling against her cheek. “Demolishor’s gonna get mad if you wake him again. You mind if I read a while?”
Skywarp does not mind one bit, offering to hold up the datapad between them, offering her bosom as a pillow for Clobber to rest her helm, singular optic hooded with drowsy relaxation and cuddly contentment.
“You help me, you know. I hope I help you, too.”
The Seeker whirrs, bumping her chin against the tank’s brow.
“When I miss Lockdown, it helps that you’re around.”
Skywarp finds Clobber’s pincers and cradles them within digits, squeezing reassuringly.
The tank rumbles in an affectionate way, reverberating throughout her massive frame as a delicate kiss finds her forehelm. She looks up at the Seeker, cheek at rest upon her bosom. “Hey, uh, can I get another one of those, please?”
It occurs to Skywarp that Clobber is probably not often kissed. Well, perhaps Lockdown gives her kisses. But unfortunately, society in general does not deem femmes like Clobber all that desirable to kiss.
“That’s so nice,” the tank mumbles softly, sweetly, entirely relaxed with the Seeker’s dermas depositing another chaste little peck upon dull, callused, pungent living metal thrumming with so much love and life and loneliness. “Thank you.”
Society is dumb, Skywarp reminds herself, settling in for another cuddly recharge cycle in Clobber’s berth.
“You are still awake, though it is late.”
“Yes, well. I’ve been waiting for you.”
“Is that so.” Megatron’s expression is depressingly deadpan, his optics are harsh with hurt, and there is a wrathful weight to the words as he says so softly, “I was not sure we would spend the night together, as I understand it, you have found comfort in another mech – your prisoner.”
“I may yet change my mind and vacate your company.” Starscream swallows audibly, throat cables bobbing with the motion. “I’ve done nothing wrong and I don’t appreciate your insinuation that I’m at fault. If you’re going to be like that, I’ll go to him instead, but I merely hoped we might cease this silly stand-off and share in sleep. You could act like you still respect me, rather than covet me.”
“Starscream.”
“Don’t say my name like that. It’s a lovely name, a strong name, yet you said it like a label of loathing, a scathing signature.”
“Star.”
“That’s better. That’s more of the Megatron I recall so fondly, faintly, though these months of misery surely cannot supplant our eternal happiness. You promised to be mine, as I’d be yours.”
“I love you.”
“Then would it really kill you to act like it!”
“Love almost killed me on that platform, Star!”
“He doesn’t love you!”
“He did, once! And I still love him!”
The Commander has left the berth and is pinned to the wall, wings flared, digits scraping for purchase as he ensures a safe distance apart from the behemoth.
The old gladiator is sobbing openly now.
Starscream surrenders his pride and cowardice to the goodness within himself, shrinking as he approaches on cautious steps a mech he knows so intimately, yet has grown to interpret as a threat by some instinct.
Megatron turns his helm and buries his weeping in the palm that rises to cup his cheek, trembling. He cries, and he cries, until he suddenly stops.
Chapter 66
Notes:
My first upload for the new year, please enjoy it. I hope 2025 brings you good tidings.
Possible trigger warnings: arousal caused by the implication of violence, consensual but unenthusiastic sex (pity sex, duty sex).
Chapter Text
Hot Rod leaves for a scouting mission early in the morning.
“No.” Soundwave languishes in berth with Ravage curled upon his bosom, purring. “I cannot do this again.”
The sleek black cybercat lifts his little head, audials perked.
“Wasting away, useless.” The mech runs a palm down his face, expression fixed, impervious, impersonal. “I hate to do this to him, Ravage. But I can make this work. I must.”
Meow?
“I will not fail.”
“By the Primes!” Sentinel exclaims drunkenly, cupping his cheeks with a shaky gasp. “I’m so pretty!”
Permitted to attend another surgery, Slipstream bites her derma and looks to her mentor with a mix of sympathy for the old mech’s condition and amusement at his antics.
Red Alert’s carefully modulated expression of elite indifference twitches with a treacherous little smile, thus she quickly turns her back, clearing her vents to stave off the urge to chuckle. “Come this way, Slipstream. You shall review the chart, under my purview.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
“Why, I could swoon! Am I not just the prettiest?”
“Oh, yes, but of course, Councillor.” Ratchet holds up a holomirror to their patient with a deeply aggrieved expression. “Though, we’ve established your newfound prettiness before. You insist on being reminded, frequently.”
“Yes, well, that’s besides the point! I’m emotionally quite delicate and I need the reassurance! Now, tell me, Doctor, do you think I’m pretty, really? Be honest. But be nice to me, also.”
“Primus, give me strength…”
Stood aside with some discretion, Red Alert remains quite professional until hearing that particular utterance pass from the irritable Ratchet, at which point she lays a digit to her dermas as if to stop herself from smiling, again, and gives Slipstream a pointed look, thus effectively erasing her grin.
“You know, you really could be nicer, Doctor.”
“Right, then. Back under stasis you go.”
“But I haaate it!”
“Now, I needn’t stress to you how very important it is for you girls to behave,” Empress intones in her sinisterly sweet way, delicately cradling a crystalline flute of Engex in her enormous servo. “My life is on the line, darlings.”
“Don’t worry. My girls got it.” Thunderblast is comfortably perched upon the bigger femme’s lap in an obvious claim of ownership, smiling prettily, golden optics flickering with cunning, evidently enjoying a thickset digit as it caresses her hip joint. “Mommy knows for sure.”
“And what mommy wants…”
“Mommy gets.”
The couple sits back together on a mere chair as if it were a throne fit for their combined queenship, never mind their combined weight.
Flamewar is just waiting for the stressed unliving metal to collapse.
“Anyway, you’ve both been so good these past few weeks under my watchful optic. Let’s keep it up, mm? I have such plans for you.”
Shadow Striker nods once with a low grunt of comprehension, scope wandering the room to keep track of entrances, exits, potential hazards, possible cover. It is an old habit. Her unmodified, natural optic remains steady and she keeps her bodily language calm. “Yes, Sir.”
“Wonderful! I’m so glad we understand each other.”
Flamewar is distracted by a shiny thing on the desk, optics wide as she peers at her own reflection. She pulls a face at herself, then hooks a claw under her scarred upper derma to peel the protoform flesh back and reveal more fang, stroking the cutting curve with the glossa’s tip, poking at the wicked point of it. She is thus sufficiently distracted when a huge palm settles fondly atop her helm.
“I’m so glad Megatron lets me keep you.”
“Like a pet?”
“Well, only if you’d prefer it that way, my dear.”
“Suits me just fine.”
“Very well then, pet. Will you perform tricks for treats, I wonder.”
Shadow Striker thinks Empress is wickedly desirable, but also wicked in general, and actually worries quite keenly for Thunderblast, Flamewar, and Shadow Striker herself. However, Megatron needs the help and is paying for it. Will Soundwave try his luck with a return? What of Hot Rod, who objects to it, and Ravage, who has no say besides?
“You’re always frowning, oh dark and handsome one.” Empress flutters her shutters over at the scowling Shadow Striker whilst fondly scratching Flamewar behind the audial until she leans into the wiggling digit with a throaty purr, Thunderblast helping herself to a sip out of Empress’ cup. “Don’t you tire of that same facial expression?”
“That’s just my default facial rigging, Sir.”
“Then be thankful it suits you.”
Shadow Striker flushes hot and mutters a soft curse.
Empress laughs.
“You forget this is a friendly sparring match,” Windblade says sternly, channelling her old combat instructor. “You’re bringing too much baggage into the ring and you’re unleashing it on your sparring partner. Chromia’s sturdy and strong, but she’s not indestructible. I’d prefer her returned to me intact.”
Ariel ducks her helm and flattens her sensory spires. “I’m sorry.”
“Say that to her, not to me.”
“It’s fine. I’m alright,” Chromia reassures the other femmes gruffly, sat on the floor in a sweaty, sore heap. “A lady can can let loose on me.” She manages a bruised grin, handsome. “I’m a warrior at Spark.”
“No, our instructor is right.” The Councillor shakes her bowed helm slowly, scattering droplets of perspired coolant. “I’m sorry. I was way too… into it, just now.”
“Hey, relax. I hardly hold a grudge for getting my aft handed to me by someone with such potential, considering I’m the more experienced fighter with more formal instruction.” The bike jerks up a thumb in a gesture of congratulation. “You did well.”
“She did too much,” the Cityspeaker intones, sighing. “Please don’t encourage the loss of temper, of self-control. You know how vicious I can be in battle.”
“Damn right. Consider yourself lucky, Ariel,” Chromia says with a scoff. “Talented as you are, if you tried that out on Windblade over there without prior warning, you would not be standing right now. She can take down anyone with an attitude real quick.”
“Understood.” Ariel winces, massaging her aching fist, the transfers of blue paint painfully obvious over her distended knuckles. “But I didn’t mean to hit so hard. It just came over me, it just got out.”
“You’ve been through a lot and you need to vent. You’re not the type for talk, you’re the type for action, and maybe retreating to tend to your organics just isn’t doing it for you right now. Perhaps this energy can be spent in sparring, but not at Chromia’s expense. My love is just too much of a gentlefemme to strike a respected elder with much force, and she respects you, but she isn’t quick enough to avoid every blow either. For your size, you manage to be quick, and you have considerable reach behind such strength.” Windblade purses her ruby dermas, big blue optics downcast thoughtfully. “Ariel, if you’re still feeling the weight of your frustration and anger, I am the best suited to take it in the sparring ring.”
“I disagree. She hits like a truck and you are in no condition to take such hits just yet, my blade. You’re quick, but still healing.” The bike flushes as the Cityspeaker tenderly lays a towel across her blue pauldrons and sets a canister of coolant in her servo, before kissing her sweaty cheek very softly, garnering a shy smile.
“Don’t fret, my shield. I can fight as I am, I’ve recovered enough. This blade isn’t dull.”
“Shields are built to take a hit. If she needs to smack me around some more to let off some steam-”
“No. Allow me.”
The Councillor does not argue. She is buzzing, blistering. She needs this.
“Strike first. Let me answer it.”
“Okay.”
Windblade takes position gracefully within the centre of the sparring ring, assuming a measured bow.
Ariel steps heavily before her opponent, returning that bow.
“This is dumb,” Chromia calls out to them. “Please reconsider.”
They do not oblige this request.
Hot Rod will feel betrayed when he finds out, but Ratchet and Wheeljack have yet to determine a safe, sure way to erase Deceptibrands from shells without cutting away entire sections from the protoform, and besides surgery, Shockwave’s corrupting code remains to be somehow purged from the CNA. With conventional employment prospects throttled and a family to consider in a burning Cybertron, Soundwave deems his options limited, following Shadow Striker’s example under her advisement that Megatron may yet be willing to show grace.
“Oh, look. Another one, come crawling back to us.”
“Losing you cost us dearly, Soundwave,” Megatron rumbles with a deeply unsettling narrowing of his hellish optics. “Your talents are exceptional. Your work was exceptional.”
“My talents are available. I need the work.”
“Oh, but we don’t need you.”
“Yes, you do.”
“No, we don’t.” Starscream smiles sweetly as he reaches over and flicks off a speck of something from Soundwave’s broad pauldron. “We’ve found a replacement for you.”
Soundwave tilts his helm, expression a mask. “Replacement.”
“Yes, the fellow even bears a striking resemblance. A shared frame type, you see. What’s his name again?”
“Soundblaster! The one and only!”
Soundwave turns sharply, his built-in speaker system emitting an irritable hiss of static as a lookalike saunters on over with nauseating overconfidence.
“Well, well, well.” Soundblaster stops just short of butting helms with his likeness, servos settling on hips, tilting his helm in an eerily similar fashion. “It’s like lookin’ in a mirror, ’cept my reflection’s less handsome than the real deal. Heh-heh-heh.”
Starscream has never liked Soundwave and thus smirks, relishing in his torment.
Megatron merely rolls his optics and turns away with a huff. “Soundwave, you may return, but you will share responsibilities with Soundblaster.”
“What,” echo Starscream and Soundblaster in unison, equally appalled.
“I accept those terms,” Soundwave utters resentfully, his melodic undertone heavy with distortion.
The world is flipped and Ariel falls, yet before her helm can smack against the floor she is caught and held, suspended inches above the puddle of sweat that drips from her hanging helm, powerful yet slender arms keeping her close. Before she can comprehend her position beyond the realisation that she is being held by someone who is fraction of her scale, Windblade gently but firmly sets the bigger femme down, then effortlessly pins her by the bend in her arm, the palm on her throat. The fight inside is gone, snuffed out humbly, and yet the fire still burns, licking at overheated circuits.
“Are you calm?”
“…Yes.”
“Do you yield?”
“…Y-yes.”
Slumped on the sidelines with a damp towel and depleted canister of refreshing coolant, Chromia whistles. “Damn, she could’ve broken you in half, just now.”
“But I didn’t,” the Cityspeaker intones lowly, big blue optics assessing carefully before she nods once and steps back, releasing the Councillor from the restraining hold, who can only lie there, staring up at the victor with awe and desire and fear.
The bike applauds. “Well done, Windblade!”
“Thanks, Chromia, but I’m not looking for praise right now. Ariel needed that.”
“But you didn’t so much as dent her a little bit. You exercised perfect poise and self-control the whole time she was hammering at you.”
“Yes, but I hope this teaches a particular lesson.”
“Something tells me she’s a quick learner.”
Ariel just lies there, lingering in her feelings, frame hot and tight and slick, throbbing with vigour in spite of her age and neglect. It really has been a long time, but parts of her body are wide awake and thrashing in her stillness, pants passing her vents as she realises that Windblade could have – should have – done some serious damage, if she had only wanted to, yet she did not, chose not to. The dominance is effortless and effective.
“Need a little help?” asks Chromia with a knowing smile, loping over to stand above, towel draped across her pauldrons. She tosses the canister over to Windblade, who pops it open and sips it with utter composure. “Nobody blames you for–”
“I deserve the blame.” The Councillor winces as she is grabbed and hefted up despite her mass.
“Oh, shut up.” The bike rolls her optics and manages to pick up the bigger femme, impressively strong and determined. “I’ll live. Just mind yourself next time and our Cityspeaker won’t resort to scaring the scrap out of either of us.”
“Duly noted.”
“Oof. Time to hit the showers. You stink, respectfully.”
Even as Chromia leads the way and Ariel follows, she dumbly stares after Windblade, whose back is enigmatically turned in meditative silence.
“She’s angry, but she likes you, so keep your helm down and let her diffuse,” the bike advises quietly, wisely.
“I really didn’t mean to hurt you.” The Councillor is forced to stop staring at the Cityspeaker due to the passing of a wall as a visual obstruction. “I’m so sorry. Thank the Primes you’re built durable.”
“It’s fine, I forgive you.”
“But she doesn’t.”
For a while, nothing more is said, as they step into a tiled space. The wash racks are modest and shared, but their assigned janitor, Cliffjumper, keeps things clean and tidy.
“Give her an hour,” Chromia grunts gruffly, taking her place under a spout. “If she remains angry, try fluttering your shutters a bit.”
Ariel slumps into a shower cubicle, sensory spires pressed flat against her helm. “Does that ever work for you?”
“I do my best not to anger her, but I have my ways of appeasing.”
“Do you… actually flutter your shutters at her, though?”
“Funny to imagine it, yes?”
“I can’t imagine it.”
“Imagine no more.” The bike turns to the Councillor, who looks over in return. “But tell no one anything of what you are about to see. This is a sacred secret.”
“What.”
Stoic as usual, Chromia proceeds to flutter her shutters in some approximation of an alluring distraction, which somehow surpasses all expectations and is actually quite effective.
Optics wide, ridges arched, Ariel’s sturdy jaw drops.
“See? I have discombobulated you. It works on her, too.”
“This is a whole lotta scrap! I gotta good gig goin’ and bam! You show up. Fine, whatever. Just gotta prove it to the big boss that I’m the superior model.”
“Stop talking. Start working.”
“Hey, now! You listen to me, not the other way ’round!” Soundblaster tosses a datapad carelessly aside, folding his burly arms with a huff. “This here’s my rodeo. I give the orders ’round here. You’re my assistant, goddit?”
A petty part of Soundwave already wants to quit and risk the mounting debt and maddening inactivity as he tries to find alternative work with a Deceptibrand on his bosom – the very brand that so strongly resembles his face, inciting fear and dread and suspicion in people he used to entertain for profit and pleasure in the party scene. The family mech side of him, however, is thinking up suave ways to smooth things over with Hot Rod later, with some financial incentives thrown in. A shiny new gift, perhaps. A dinner date some place nice, maybe. A month without the stress of making rent, absolutely.
“Don’t ignore me! I’m better than you! Everybody’s gonna know it, too!”
“Ugh. Would you stop.”
“You got some real attitude for a washed-up has-been. Gotta wonder what that pretty boy you got back home sees in–” Soundblaster grunts as he is suddenly pinned to the wall by the throat. “Whoa, whoa, whoa! Careful! Don’t do somethin’ you’ll regret, somethin’ stupid! You still wanna survive and see him again, don’tcha?”
“I hate you,” Soundwave utters through the fuzz of static.
“Right back atcha. Geddoff.”
When Arcee is not otherwise busy, she tends to find something to do, being a proactive sort of person. She makes time for all her friends, helping out with their missions for the Council and lesser tasks besides, known for her dependability and knack for making light of labour. As such, she frequently occupies herself tending to organic alien lifeforms as she has been taught to do in Ariel’s absence, catering for their needs when their usual caretaker is away on business.
On a slab, there is an open corpse of a chitinous creature, emptied of its organs, the rubbery pale guts individually extracted ever so neatly to stay intact and preserved in labelled jars, supplementary illustrations and paragraphs of purposeful prose scattered about, defining bodily functions. It is thorough and consistent. Every creature ends up this way, with the special exception of Captain Snuffles, the beloved pet.
Arcee prefers organics alive and whole, so that she may observe them and safely interact with them, and yet she honours her friend’s wishes, tending to the living and leaving the dead to their rest. Primus knows how hard it is to find support for this study on Cybertron, where academics sneer and civilians fear what they do not understand.
Ariel may be built like a dock worker, but hers is the enquiring mind of a scientist, tragically underfunded, uneducated, and unqualified, manners coarse and temperament challenging, yet bursting with passion for her projects. Sentinel finds the whole ordeal messy, Orion does his best to understand, and Megatron may be the villain, yet he is the one who had long ago used his sway and wealth to sponsor Ariel’s dream of escape and thus arrange her first voyage on a vessel, for which Sentinel will always hold resentment and Orion shall fail to peacekeep.
It is difficult, Arcee realises, and she hates the injustice of it all, so she does what she can to be a good friend. She is sure Captain Snuffles appreciates the supplementary mothering, as he has taken to following her about the office on his stubby little legs, in danger of being stepped on, or he will ride her pauldron and observe where she lays her servos, hopeful for treats or affection, and he chirps when she speaks to him in a silly voice. “Ooh, Captain Snuffles, the flowers are so bright today! Pretty colours, huh? Yeah, so bright and beautiful! Must be the extra minerals we’re adding to–”
The door opens and Ariel strides in, optics too bright, pauldrons too broad, her mighty pink frame pleasantly fragrant with solvent after a recent shower.
Captain Snuffles squeals and scampers to greet her, scooped up and held to her face, where she can press her dermas to his soft fur and endure the sharp nibbles along her olfactory sensor, the claws scrabbling over her chin, the shrill cries of adoration.
“Hi!”
“Hey.”
Arcee sets down a spray bottle, leaving the organic plants as she assesses her friend’s condition. “Okay, what’s wrong.”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“I’m fine.”
“You just lied, again!” Arcee folds her arms, huffing. “You’re clearly upset. I wanna help, if you’ll just let me.”
“You’re helping take care of my organics. You do more than enough.”
“Well, you’ve got me worried, so could you speak up, tell me what’s wrong?”
“Ugh. Okay, okay. It’s dumb, but…” Ariel sets Captain Snuffles gently upon her pauldron and lopes into her office, returning to the slab with her latest project, applying tweezers to the corpse to inspect the vessels that supply the organic equivalent of fuel to the organic equivalent of various subsystems. “I got rough with Chromia earlier, when we were sparring.”
“She’s a tough one. She likes a good fight. How rough we talking?”
“Too rough.”
“Did you… hurt her?”
“Yeah. I feel horrible. She let it go easily enough, with an apology on my end, but I hate myself for being such a big, dumb brute.”
“You’re not a big, dumb brute. You’re just big, but never a dumb brute. And big is beautiful.”
“Thanks. I feel ugly, most of the time.”
“You really shouldn’t, though.”
Ariel feels Arcee touch her – a palm settling upon a heavy wrist, grasping gently.
“And Chromia forgave you since you said sorry, right?”
“She did.”
“Well, then you girls are good, right?”
“I needed an outlet, Windblade said. I went into the sparring ring with all this scrap going on inside of me, and rather than beat up Chromia like some common thug, Windblade said she could take it from me.”
“And did you… hurt her?”
“No, thank Primus. She took what I dished out and kicked my aft with ease.”
“Did she… hurt you?”
“That’s the funny part. I’ve never had my aft kicked so easily, so gently.”
“Windblade is a phenomenal femme.”
“Damn right, she is.”
“And do you feel any better?’
“No. Less aggressive, sure, but I feel so much worse. Poor Chromia didn’t deserve that, and Windblade should’ve never had to step up to my plate. I’m her senior by millions and millions of years, for frag’s sake, I’m supposed to have a handle on my scrap. If anything, I oughta take care of her, not the other way around.”
“You’ll find it’s really difficult to take care of Windblade. She takes care of herself and prefers it that way. She’s everybody else’s hero, but insists on being her own hero, since nobody else will do. We love her for it, but it can be frustrating, as her friends.”
“She’s so cool, and clever, and calm, until she kicks aft like a… I don’t know, a calamity?”
Arcee knows a crush when she sees one. And she knows few femmes are quite as devastating to adore, as Windblade herself. Lovesickness is nothing new, there is an abundance of poetry and prose and performative arts dedicated to broken Sparks and minds lost to longing.
“Why didn’t she hurt me?” Ariel asks quietly, perhaps speaking to herself. “I would’ve deserved it.”
Windblade is capable of such terrific, terrible violence.
“Shuddup.” Arcee throws her arms around Ariel, then. “Don’t you ever dare talk about yourself like that again.”
Demolishor is thrown off his pedes. He hits the floor with a whimper.
“Oh, no! Sorry!” Clobber hurries over to help the old mech up, made difficult due in part to his cumbersome shape and her cumbersome pincers. “I’m still getting used to the upgraded punches. I’ll try tuning them down a little more.”
“Ohhh, it huuurts!”
“You need a medic? Lemme call you a medic. Knock Out’s real nice, he’ll fix you right up. Again, so sorry.”
Skywarp winces, turning to look up at Alpha Strike, supervising today’s sparring with a strange sort of interest.
“Mmm. I like these Energon-infused melee modifications. Very nice.”
Clobber helps Demolishor up and Skywarp quirks a curious brow at Alpha Strike.
“We had another fight,” Hot Rod says sadly, nursing his drink and gazing into space while Grimlock rubs his back and Arcee makes sisterly sounds. “I remember when we never fought about anything. It wasn’t that long ago. And his comm link’s been off all day, so he only gives me, like, a text every now and then to lemme know he’s okay, but no calls. And those texts are so dry. He sounds miserable and tired and we’re not really talking. I wish I could fix it.”
“Ugh. Seeing you sad sucks.” Bumblebee scowls, offended on a friend’s behalf. “Tch. Soundwave. That guy’s such a jerk, taking it out on you like that. I never liked him.”
“Bee,” Windblade says in gentle reprimand, cradling Hot Rod’s servo upon the tabletop. “That’s not helping.”
“You’re right, bestie. Sorry, Rod, forget what I said. Your guy’s, uh… an acquired taste.”
“Wow, real smooth.”
“Hey, I’m trying.”
Slipstream and Chromia are not in attendance, the prior still locked in study, the latter preferring a quiet evening at home.
Hot Rod sags where he sits, bottom derma trembling, optics already shimmering. “Pretty sure I’m gonna cry in public, you guys. Oh, no. It’s gonna get embarrassing.”
“That’s okay, Rod.” Arcee pulls the distressed mech into a hug. “Cry as much as you need to, sweet Spark.”
“We are here to lend all our love to the cause of cheering you up,” Grimlock intones whilst joining in the hug. “Or simply comforting you. There is no shame in this friendship circle.”
“I love you guys so m-much.” Hot Rod bursts into tears, sobbing between Arcee and Grimlock.
“Aw, dude, we love you too.” Bumblebee reaches over to tenderly brush away the tears as they scale those handsome cheeks.
Windblade sighs. “I’ll go get us another round. I think we need it.”
“H-hey, um, while you’re up, can you get me, uh, one of those, like… spicy ones, in the tall cups? I like them.”
“Of course, Rod.”
“Th-thanks, bro.”
As Windblade rises and departs for the bar, Ariel follows, leaving Hot Rod to cry in the company of friends.
“Can I just say something?”
“Sure.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You said that earlier.”
The femmes navigate the crowd, weaving between bodies, dialogue lost to the ambient noise of chatter, mounted holoscreens blaring Cube reruns, and background music.
“You’ve been mad at me all day. I deserve it, but I really, really hope you’ll accept that I meant it when I apologised. I’m sorry. Chromia believes me. Do you?”
“I do. I’m just a little protective. Overprotective, she’d say. Sparring is one thing, but you took it too far and you weren’t satisfied. Someone had to put you down. I would know.”
“You’re right. I needed that.”
The femmes settle together at the bar, their friends left behind, occupying the crowded booth.
“Ah, another round, ladies?”
“Yeah, Mac, please do.”
“And a tall, spicy drink for our Hot Rod?”
“That’s the one. Thank you, Mac. You’re good to us.”
“I try!” Maccadam attends to the drinks, leaving Windblade and Ariel to talk at his bar.
“You could’ve destroyed me today.”
“But I didn’t.”
“But you could’ve. And for whatever reason, I… I really… Primus, in the wake of everything - I had a go at Chromia before, and now Rod’s crying, and you’re mad at me, and I’m mad at the world, and our world’s on fire - this feels both trivial and fragged-up of me to admit, but…”
“I prefer honesty as a general policy.”
“Hard to lie to someone as intelligent and perceptive as you, besides.”
“Then speak freely with me.”
“I’m trying. I speak my mind as a general rule, but this is difficult to think about, let alone articulate.”
Windblade leans beautifully forward, elbows propped, watching Maccadam fix another round of various drinks as if she is not listening, but she actually listens very closely.
“Dammit. Vexing femme.” Ariel looms awkwardly behind, flushed and frowning. “Listen, you kicked my aft so easily, so gently, and I’m not used to it. Big glitch like me, I take charge, but you took me down like that and it was different, even after all our sparring. You took me on differently that time and I just… I really, really…”
The Cityspeaker feels a large palm settle upon her slender back strut, eliciting a pleasant little shiver throughout her spinal strut as the Councillor stoops to murmur more discretely against a keen audial feigning indifference, a pale cheek flooding with flushed surface-level Energon.
“I really liked it.”
There is a pause.
“Oh, okay.”
“Oh, okay? Oh, okay?!”
“It’ll take more than that to shock me. However…” Windblade turns to peer back at Ariel with some humour, winking. “Now I am intrigued.”
“Ahem. Drinks are ready, ladies.”
“Uhhh, thanks, Mac.” Ariel straightens out and directs a shy look at the bartender, as if she got caught doing something naughty. “Lemme grab those.”
“Enjoy.” Maccadam winks, then shuffles further down the bar to help someone else.
“So, anyway, um, where does that leave us, then?”
The Cityspeaker takes a fair share of the drinks, smiling slyly as she drifts through the crowd.
“Hello?” The Councillor follows somewhat more clumsily, struggling between keeping the drinks steady and avoiding bumping into people. “Okay, be mysterious, whatever.”
“You know what I want.”
“Ugh! I’m an old lady. And I’m an afthole.”
“An acquired taste, actually.”
“Apparently! What is it with you, and Arcee, and Cliff?”
“You’re big, and beautiful, and brawny, and you have that MILF energy.”
“Huh?”
Windblade pauses some steps away from the crowded booth, allowing her companion to catch up. “As in, Mentor I’d Like to-
“I know what it means,” Ariel mutters shyly, sensory spires quivering as she ducks her helm and pushes through. “Primus help me.”
“Hey, you brought it up.”
“Yeah, and I’d better put it down. Don’t need to give Orion a Spark attack, getting fresh with Bee’s friends.”
“Would Orion be so judgemental?”
That question goes unanswered.
The friends cheer for drinks.
“I missed you,” Shadow Striker mutters, bumping her helm affectionately against Soundwave’s. “I just hope my influence didn’t just frag you over.”
“Hot Rod will forgive me. I can support him and our Ravage better this way. You were right.”
“If you need anything, I’m right here for ya.”
“I know. Likewise.”
The best friends rest their brows together for several precious seconds.
“Aw, shucks. That’s real cute.”
They jerk apart, turning with shared sourness at the intruder.
“Been a hot minute, eh. Lookin’ fine as usual, Shadow Striker. I like the polish.”
“Frag off.”
“Charmin’ as ever,” Soundblaster mutters, then whistles musically through his speaker system. “Well, now, looky here. I don’t think we’ve been introduced yet, li’l lady.” He swaggers on over to Flamewar, who seems quite indifferent. “What’s your name, sweet Spark?”
“Touch her and I’ll kill you,” Shadow Striker answers in a low, unimpressed tone.
“Hmm. That’s a lot. Care to shorten it for me, maybe somethin’ that just rolls nice and smooth off my glossa?”
“Leave her alone, Soundblaster.”
“Butt outta it, Soundwave. I’m just bein’ friendly. Seriously, though, what can I call you?”
“Flamewar.”
“Damn! That’s one helluva distinction! Betcha live up to that name, eh.”
“Well, I try.”
“C’mere.” Shadow Striker gestures. “Let’s get you some chow.”
“I could eat.” Flamewar obediently trots over, unbothered.
“Go ahead. I’ll follow.” Soundwave watches the femmes go, then turns to Soundblaster. “Torment me all you want, but leave my people alone.”
“Aw, but I just love makin’ friends.”
“I’m serious, Soundblaster.”
“What’s the matter, Soundwave? Gotcha scared already? They’re gonna lose all interest in you, soon as they realise my full potential. Pretty soon, the whole world’s gonna forget your–”
Soundwave sighs and walks off, ambling after Shadow Striker and Flamewar.
“Hey! I’m talkin’ to you!” Soundblaster mutters a string of musical curses and stomps after them. “Rude!”
“That concludes the module. Ah, but look at the time. I’ve kept you a little too long.”
“I like our lessons. I really don’t mind.”
“How gracious of you, though I suspect the venerable Windblade and Chromia do mind.”
“It’s okay, they understand. This is a huge opportunity you’ve offered me so generously, giving me your time and your attention, and they’re almost as grateful as I am. I wanna make the most of it, with you.”
“You’ve done well, in that regard,” Red Alert intones with a subtle smile, cold optics twinkling with some pride as she keeps her posture erect and bodily language contained, though she allows for an affectionate pat to Slipstream’s bulky pauldron. “I foresee a bright future as a family femme, and a fulfilling career in medicine, for you.”
“I really have the urge to hug you sometimes, Doctor.”
“I do have that effect on people, I suppose. Try to refrain.”
The Seeker grins, fatigued as she may be, enjoying another pat on the pauldron.
“Now, then. I know it’s late, but if you can keep your optics open, do try to review the notes once before rest mode, then have a sip of cool Energon and be sure to recline comfortably.” The senior medic helps collect datapads and scattered notes, piling the lot neatly together to fit within the cockpit as a storage compartment when transformed. “It helps solidify the data, so there’s less lost upon reboot, and you’ll awaken refreshed for your day off tomorrow.”
“Oh? I get tomorrow off?”
“Yes, it’s on the schedule. As usual.”
“Oh, of course. Awesome.”
“How is it you sound disappointed?”
Soundwave is home late. He feels tired and is pondering his life choices as he lets himself into the shared habitation suite.
“Babe!” Hot Rod rushes him the moment the front door slides open, embracing with a whine. “I love you! I missed you! I’m sorry.”
“Hush. You’re perfect.”
“Don’t be sweet. You’re hurting and I’m not helping. I’m just making you feel bad about it.”
“No. You’ve supported this family on your own all this time. I must step up, be a mech.”
“You are a mech. A wonderful mech. My mech.”
“And so, you may understand why I did it.”
“Did what, babe?”
“I did it for us.”
“Babe…”
Ravage weaves in and out their ankles, meowing hello, but he smells the air change and flattens his pointed audials instinctively in response to it.
Lonely and sad, contemplating a retreat to Jetfire, Starscream is trying his luck and he knows it.
Sighing quietly, as if this is something of a chore, Megatron raises his mighty servo and extends a powerful arm.
The Commander tenses up in anticipation of rejection, and yet he is not rebuked or brushed off.
The old gladiator is not espousing poetry or praise tonight. He quietly and rather promptly lays his callused palm over his lover’s interface array, cupping the panels and squeezing until they release, sliding discretely aside to reveal a semi-erect spike and lukewarm valve. What follows is a systematic series of tugs and strokes, designed to get one off with efficiency, not hurried but not leisurely either, abundant in proficiency yet lacking in passion.
“You may penetrate me, if you wish.”
“Thank you.”
“Or you could apply your glossa.”
“This suits me fine.”
Being beautiful and charismatic at his best, Starscream knows he deserves better than this mechanical service, but he has missed Megatron. “Shall I touch you?”
“If it pleases you.”
Words can really hurt.
“Oh, you’re so good, so big and strong, so handsome!”
Chromia grunts low and masculine, strong servos tight upon a narrow waist, the glossy blue plating of her biceps bulging over muscular protoform with the exertion of bouncing the considerably bigger and heavier Slipstream atop her lap.
“Yes, I’m close, I’m so close!”
“’Load for me.”
“I’m gonna ’load for you!”
“Do it, slag.”
The straddling Seeker writhes as their valves collide, squealing in that surprisingly feminine way she sometimes does when fragged.
The bike feels the clench of the valve bouncing atop hers, the downpour of release, and she plummets over the edge of her own overload in response, lunging to pull the bigger femme into a tight embrace, smothering a groan into reinforced neck cables.
“Ohhh, Primus, I love you,” Slipstream moans huskily, running her palms along Chromia’s trembling back plates.
“Hmmmph.”
“You make me feel amazing, Chromia.”
Kissing those cables, the bike’s engine purrs as she is coaxed to lie back, pulling the Seeker atop like a blanket, unbothered by the weight.
“Can I eat you out? You taste divine. And your scent is just awesome.”
Chromia is silent save for her purring engine and whirring cooling fans, her thickset digits exploring Slipstream’s transformation seams as if this is their first time, idly plucking at the exposed wires and prodding at the shallow sensory nodes under the rim of armoured sheets, encountering firm protoform mass below which is pinched playfully.
“Mm, and when we make love, my taste and scent mingle together with yours, like, wow, and I love it so much.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Huh?”
“Love.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. Too much, too soon? I’m just like that. I can tone it down, or stop, or-”
“Don’t apologise. Never apologise for being your sweet, soft self, Slipstream. Be who you are, no compromise.”
“But if I’m making you uncomfortable–”
“You aren’t. You can taste me, yourself mingling together with me, to your Spark’s content – after I quench my thirst.”
The Seeker gasps as they roll over and she is pinned below, kisses rough enough to bruise littered over her neck, dentas gnawing almost uncomfortably on a primary fuel line. “Hnnngh!” She jerks as a large digit digs into the mesh of her valve, a thumb circling her anterior node. “Chromia, yes! Frag me up!”
The bike licks her way down, down, down.
“I left Ravage back home so Soundwave won’t be alone, but I just can’t be around him right now. Can I stay with you, tonight?”
“Of course you can, dude. We’ll put on a movie and stuff ourselves sick with snacks.”
“Thanks, Bee. That sound perfect.” Hot Rod does not let go, stood stooped over a fair bit to hug the shorter Bumblebee, who kindly invites a hurt friend into his humble habitation suite. “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
“Can we cuddle?”
“You bet your aft we’re gonna cuddle. Bah! Asking a dumbaft question like that…”
“Be my big spoon.”
“Anything for you, precious. Anything you need.”
Moving quietly so as not to disturb the other occupants of the habitation suite, Windblade pokes her helm into the berthroom and smiles at what – and whom – she sees.
Chromia and Slipstream are cuddled together under a synthetic blanket they share, pillows tossed to the floor and lights dimmed, the Seeker’s helm at rest on the bike’s bosom, a burly blue arm slung about boxy purple pauldrons, both femmes peacefully recharging. The scent of their lovemaking hangs heavy in the air like incense.
“Nice,” the Cityspeaker murmurs to herself, lecherous as usual, but she does not interrupt their rest. She readies herself for berth.
Chromia always looks very docile in recharge. Her generous, sturdy bosom serves as a comfortable pillow for Slipstream and Windblade to rest their helms alike as the latter slides into place with her lovers, ensuring sweet dreams and sound sleep.
Chapter 67
Notes:
Apologies for the late update, my new year has already been shit. Here's hoping your new year is much better off than mine. I wish you the best and I thank you for being here. Please enjoy this update.
Possible trigger warnings: reference to losing virginity (breaking the seal as a robot equivalent), old men in privileged positions of power deciding the future of young people (wow, so topical), reference to violence and death.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Do you mind watching him for a few hours, since you got today off? He’s trying to be brave, but he’s definitely not okay to do missions right now and I really don’t wanna leave the poor guy at home alone, so…”
“I’d be happy to look after him. We’ll make a day of it.”
“Aw, thanks, Slip. You’re the best.”
Hot Rod is sat on the couch, miserable, occupied with a hot meal, vaguely aware of the quiet voices discussing him.
“Kiss?”
Slipstream stoops until Bumblebee can reach her cheek, kissing her there. He buzzes as she captures him gently in her burly arms, giving him a muscular squeeze in return, but not too hard.
“Love you.”
“Love you too.”
“A storm’s coming,” Flamewar says in an eerily serene way, stood outside with her helm upturned, fascinated optics pondering the sky. “You can see it. I can smell it.”
“You strange little fragger,” Shadow Striker mutters, ruffling the shorter femme’s helm. “You like storms?”
“I love storms. I wanna get struck by lightning.”
“Why?”
“I dunno, just curious what it’d feel like.”
“The atmospheric shields won’t let that happen.”
“Oh, right.” The bike leans into the mercenary’s bigger side. “Imagine the carnage if we didn’t have those shields up. Forks of lightning, torrents of acid rain… I wonder if the planet feels pain. Those shields have gotta be failing in places, right? They can’t protect us forever.”
“And here I thought I could get morbid.”
Flamewar sniffs the air noisily, then turns and buries her face under Shadow Striker’s arm, nuzzling into the heat.
“Oi!”
“Mmm.”
“Get outta my pit.”
The bike withdraws with a fanged smile. “You smell great, by the way.”
“Girl, you ever do that again–” The mercenary huffs, shaking her helm. “Little freak. What am I gonna do with you, huh?” How can such an absurd thing be said so lovingly, by such a twisted soul so afraid of giving and getting love?
“Here’s an idea. We got some time left before the big meeting. Wanna fool around?”
“So long as you stop sniffing me, sure.”
“No promises, boss bot.”
“Ugh. C’mere.”
Flamewar giggles as she is picked up and slung over Shadow Striker’s ample bosom, then sighs as their brows come to rest together.
“Mine.”
“Yours.”
“No, we will not accept this strange mark,” One-of-Twelve declares with a slow shake of the featureless helm. “We have our own insignia and it is ordained. All we need is for you to share your knowledge, so that we may brand ourselves according to our sacred sign. Do not lend us your aid beyond the schematics, for we have our own surgeons and tools, equally ordained.”
“You sure?”
“Yes. We are certain. Primus thanks you.”
“Uh, okie-dokie, then.”
Ariel rolls her optics so far back into her helm, it is a wonder she cannot see her own aching brain module. She grunts when Orion gently elbows her to behave.
“Well, I think my design looks pretty nifty, even if it kinda gets lost on red guys like Windblade and Cliffjumper, like Arcee said it would. Looks good on me, though!” Wheeljack declares with a fond pat over his bosom, from which a fresh red symbol glows, and he does not wince in pain when touching it, unlike the eternally aching Deceptibrand counterpart. “Suit yourselves, I guess. I’ll send over the tech stuff right away, it’ll be easy enough to replicate since I cracked Shockwave’s code. If only I could figure out how to purge it, though…”
“You just shuddup. Goddit? I answer the questions, I give the reports. You just sit there, try to look pretty, do your best.” Soundblaster marches ahead, rudely shoving past lesser Decepticons who scowl hatefully after him. “You’ll just embarrass me otherwise. Lemme do the talkin’ for ya.”
Soundwave would roll his optics. He knows a shortcut to the meeting room, thus he stealthily opts to take a diverging path while his mirror image carries on alone, saying something unimportant as if apparently talking to himself, ignorant of the odd looks such a thing gets from people.
“Now, onto the matter of Sentinel’s reconstruction efforts.”
“You got my report, I assume you read it and understood it,” Ratchet grumbles irritably, sat old and cantankerous in his chair at the big table. “I really don’t need to be wasting my time telling you the same thing in person.”
Ariel bites her derma to avoid smiling at him. She likes the grizzled grouch.
“We read and understood your report. No need to repeat yourself, Doctor Ratchet. We are formally requesting that you transfer your plans for Sentinel’s reconstruction to us.”
“Why?”
“So that we may complete your work.”
“Oh, I see.” Ratchet narrows his bright blue optics at the attending Functionist representative. “Request denied.”
“Doctor, we implore you–”
“Request fragging denied!”
“You defy the will of our Maker!”
“The will of our Maker?! I’ve seen what became of those mechs and femmes you tore up and twisted into your Functionaries! I regret my part in it. I want no more part in it.”
Orion feels a swelling sadness for Ratchet, who is suddenly tearful, evasive.
“N-no, not again. Never again.”
“Sentinel gave you lot far too much freedom. You think you can have him, make him your tool more than he’s already compromised to keep peace with you, but he’d never want that,” Ariel intones dangerously, big and pink, almost bulging in her armoured plating, chair creaking under her weight as she shifts threateningly forward. “I won’t allow it.”
“Then I regret what is to follow.”
“What the frag does that mean!”
“Enough. The matter is at rest. Sentinel remains under the care of Doctor Ratchet and his team,” Orion interject, patience wearing thin. “Let us proceed to the next agenda of this meeting.”
Windblade is sometimes present for these meetings when not otherwise kept busy, as she is less likely to fidget or get bored than the other friends, to whom she will relay the highlights later on. She watches the Functionist for some moments, observing what little bodily language can be inferred from this saintly composure, then frowns down at the datapad in her servos, gripping the hard-light hologram tight, tighter.
“I like to greet storms,” Acid Storm says with a bizarrely bright, broad smile, arms open wide, powerful emerald physique trembling with excited energy that radiates within their field. “Oh, I wish I hadn’t left my weather generator behind. I could circumvent the atmospheric shielding and finally feel the rain.”
“Geoengineering is your… passion,” Shockwave surmises carefully, selecting that particular word with unusual delicateness. For one thing, his laboratory assistant is hardly passionate or impassioned at all, about anything. He can relate to that, though he has his own keen interests. He does not chastise this momentary lapse in calm. He is timid, but not repulsed by the field that brushes eagerly against his own quiet, still aura, radiating together as they stand below a tumultuous sky.
“Yes, and someday, perhaps you might help me realise my–” The Seeker stops, flushed, caught up in a rare display of strong feeling. “Oh, that was presumptuous of me, I apologise. Besides, we have so much work to do.”
“If resources permit…” The Decepticon lead scientist, a source of inspiration and almost akin to a mentor, steps forth to stand beside his assistant. “I am willing.”
Acid Storm swallows loudly, finds Shockwave’s multi-tool and holds onto the barrel of it, squeezing fondly. “Thank you.”
He turns to look at them with his singular optic wide, until it flutters shut coyly. He says nothing for some time, taking some sort of – what is it, pleasure? – out of the sensation of this strong grip, someone actually willingly touching him.
“It will be a glorious storm.”
“Affirmative.”
They will need to return inside soon, join with the others and discuss the coming battle. But for now, this peaceful scene is theirs.
“Aw, Slip, these look great! Mmm. They smell good, too.”
“I hope they taste okay. Have as many as you’d like.”
“Thanks!” Hot Rod helps himself to a silicon wafer, taking a bite out of it, chewing appreciatively. “Mmm!”
“Not bad?”
“S’good!”
“I’m glad to hear it.” Slipstream kisses him atop the helm in her motherly way, then takes a seat opposite him, plucking up a silicon wafer from the tray and turning it about with a smile of some pride at this accomplishment – baking is a science, as they say, and she is coming to accept that she is not nearly as stupid as she was led to believe all her life. “I’ve been trying to better myself not just professionally, but personally too. I’m a family femme, after all. Practice makes perfect. I hope to impress my loves with cookies.”
“Mmhm.” But the thought of family makes him tear up, reminded of his own family. Swallowing and sighing, he sets his partially consumed silicon wafer aside, suddenly without an appetite.
“Oh, Rod. I’m so sorry you’re hurting.”
“I’m okay. Well, no, I’m not okay, but I’ll survive this. I gotta. We’re at war.”
She finds his servo on the table and links their digits together.
“It’s real nice of you to spend the day mothering me while everybody else is busy doing stuff for the Council. I just can’t get my helm in the game, y’know, I can’t concentrate on anything but my family – I only think of him, and our poor little kitty, and everything this stupid war’s doing to hurt us.”
“Is there anything I can do that might help, even a little bit?”
“You’re doing it. Just being here, vibing with me, helps a bit.”
“If you wanna go out and do stuff together, or stay home and just chill, or…”
He ponders his options, looks up at her, smiles handsomely. “You wanna take a long drive, Slip? Like, I’ll drive, and you’ll fly over me, and we’ll go somewhere that doesn’t feel like everything’s on fire all the time.” He raises his free servo and sweeps it across the space between them, as if to paint a scene he imagines in his mind. “We’ll go beyond Iacon City’s limits, cross over the wasteland… I dunno, I don’t care where we go. I’ll go anywhere with you.”
“I’d love to, Rod.” She squeezes his digits in her own. “Just the two of us.”
“I think you need to relax.”
“I think I am sufficiently tense, all things considered.”
“Let me soothe you. I’ll make it therapeutic.”
“I was always suspicious of therapy. It costs too much to be honest.”
“My medicine is of a rather special sort, as you already know, and I offer it freely. Let me give you bliss.”
“Do not distract from my work. There is much to discuss as to General Alpha Strike’s plan of attack, and Commander Starscream is baying for bloodshed.”
“Just a moment of bliss, before our meeting starts. Let me be your remedy.”
“Fine. Only for a moment, mend me.”
Empress lays a palm upon Megatron’s Spark, then somehow reaches through him, wraps around him, devours him from the inside. His knees buckle and she catches him, cradles him, kisses his creased cheek.
“Haaahhh!”
“There, there, my darling. Doesn’t that feel better?”
“There’s supposed to be a wicked storm sometime today,” Hot Rod says with a lopsided, sad smile. “Soundwave hates storms. They frag with his signals or something, technobabble I’m not smart enough to understand. But I feel bad for him. Even after letting me down so hard, I feel for him.”
“You love him. When you don’t understand something he did, that’s all that you can do for him, I guess.”
“Do you ever find it kinda hard to understand Windblade? We all know how in love you are.”
Slipstream chuckles at that, surrounded by silicon wafers. She made too many and they are too delicious.
“I have never lost a battle. Our enemy will not withstand my heavies,” the old yet potent General Alpha Strike intones, her assistant Skywarp perched on a chair close beside, silently reviewing a datapad with key notes for the meeting. “My forces and I stand ready.”
“As are my Seekers and I.”
Megatron exhales shakily, though he keeps himself still and silent. He does not want to do this.
“Councillor Sentinel is their most experienced in matters of battle. Our spies confirm he is still undergoing repairs and currently inactive, yes?”
“Yes,” Soundwave echoes lowly. He stands rather than sits, arms folded, gaze averted, feigning cool indifference at his own betrayal even as horror for Hot Rod’s safety grips the spymaster’s guts in a clenched fist.
“And the Functionists grow restless with discontent, yes?”
“There is a divide that widens without Sentinel constantly compromising. Ariel is intolerant and Orion is preoccupied with peacekeeping. Morale is low.”
“I was gonna say that.” Soundblaster scoffs, sulking on the other end of the room. “Poser.”
“An opportunity presents itself.” Starscream snaps his digits. “Observe.”
Shadow Striker is watching Soundwave, concerned for him in her own way, until an eerie light basks his face, alerting her swivelling scope to a holographic projection as it rises from the centre of the table and solidifies into a three-dimensional recreation of the Council chambers.
“The Commander and I will attend to military strategy. I will lead the assault on the ground, with aerial assistance courtesy of the Seekers. We have identified structural weaknesses and overexposure here, here, here.” Alpha Strike manipulates the projection with surprisingly deft motions of her mighty servos, highlighting blips on the map. “We will exploit these weaknesses to gain entry to the inner sanctum. It is a simple matter of overwhelming the stationed security. The Functionaries will contend with my heavies, it is why they were chosen.”
“My Seekers will be unrelenting, a dizzying bombardment kept out of enemy reach. Enough units have been forged by now to supply waves of aerial support. This is the decisive assault. While the good General’s heavies make a mess below, keeping those rather large Functionaries at bay, my elite and I shall rain devastation from above, gaining access to the chambers. Shockwave, you have a few useful gadgets to lend to the effort, or so you said.”
“Affirmative. I have experimental combat drones in need of testing outside of laboratory conditions.”
“Wonderful! I do like how it all falls into place as I planned.”
Megatron’s heavy jaw churns. He is ostensibly in charge, but sometimes his second-in-command presumes too much authority, and sometimes it is too tiresome to correct him with the gentleness and respect a lover deserves, but a soldier does not. Right now, it is easiest just to simmer.
“By taking the battle to the Council chambers, we will subdue our enemy while they fight among themselves, paralysed with indecision, slow to retaliate, predictably pathetic,” Starscream adds smoothly, admiring his digits. “Oh, yes. It is a prime opportunity. One fell swoop and we win.”
“Yet you remain silent.”
“Errm. My love, what say you?”
“I want Orion and Ariel alive.”
Alpha Strike and Starscream exchange a look.
“Bring them to me, secured and submissive. I will make them face what they have done.” Megatron stares at something only he can see, quietly enraged, subtly distraught. “As for Sentinel and the rest of that lot, I care not.” Liar. The old mech cares very much. “Leave no resistance intact. This ends today.”
Soundwave tightens his arms defensively about himself, lowering his chin as Shadow Striker discretely rubs his back.
“I wish to take prisoners,” Empress speaks up, playing with a scar on her forearm.
“For the amusement of your concubine, I assume.”
“Companion. She’s my companion and you shall refer to her as such, lest you anger me.”
“Whatever. She has friends and she wants them alive, so you hope to appease her. Bah! You grow soft.”
“I ask so little, Megatron, my darling. I have a list of names, only a short list. Preserve these people, do it for me.”
“Empress, I leave it up to you to secure any souls you wish to keep. You assume the responsibility and the risk, though I will permit it.”
“Of course, dear. Thank you for being so reasonable. Unlike some people.”
Starscream sneers, rolling his optics. “Ugh. I do grow tired of how you try to appease and persuade with displays of personality, collecting people like pieces of a grand puzzle, these little portents of your ultimate plan,” he remarks snidely, leaning far back in his chair. “As if you mean to start a cult or something.”
“Well, be that as it may, I treat my people nicely enough.” Empress is relieved that she might reassure Thunderblast somewhat. “At least I have a personality persuasive enough that I might maintain a cult.”
“I could absolutely start a cult if I wanted to,” he snaps back, comically offended. “My cultists would be so loyal, they would die for me, as I will it.”
“What use does one have for a death cult?” she purrs with loathing that drips like venom off the edge of her bladed smile.
At this he smirks back at her. “How limited in imagination you are.”
“Enough,” Megatron rumbles, rubbing his brows tiredly. “I am too damn old for this.”
The meeting goes on for some hours more.
Tyres churning metallic flakes of dust in his wake, Hot Rod races Slipstream’s shadow.
She is glad to take his mind off of everything else.
It is difficult to convey an expression of the mounting panic Soundwave feels, having this stylistically static facial rigging, upon which the infamous Deceptibrand is presumably based. He is not the sort of mech to openly express fear. None would believe he could feel afraid of anything, or anyone.
Shadow Striker, as his best friend, knows him better than that. “No luck, still?”
“I can’t reach him.” The perspired coolant upon his brow rolls down his cheek as he fails for the umpteenth to secure a stable connection with Hot Rod’s comm link. No calls or texts are going through due to interference. His more powerful communications equipment is currently under Soundblaster’s jealous purview. The codes have all been changed, access has been denied. Breaking the security layers takes time, and enough of that has gone to waste.
Flamewar sits in a small heap on the floor, thinking about Slipstream, about Windblade, about what Starscream might do to them.
“The damn storm.”
“It’s beautiful out here.”
Indeed, it is, and by the time they have stopped to admire their surroundings, the tempest has come.
“Can I tell you something really, really, uh… intimate, Slip? Might gross you out.”
“Nothing about you could gross me out, Rod.” Slipstream wraps herself around Hot Rod from behind, chin atop his pauldron, palms splayed over his fiery bosom, where his Spark throbs with light and life. She feels it through the layers.
“It’s about my love life.”
“Oh, eew.”
He laughs.
She giggles.
The storm does not frighten them, as the atmospheric shield protects their living metallic bodies from the wrathful heavens, although storms play havoc with communications equipment and can make navigation difficult.
“Keep the details to a minimum and I think I’ll be okay.”
“This is pretty close to the spot where I got my seal broken,” he confesses with a smirk, leaning back against her.
She chuckles, gaze sweeping the horizon of the surrounding wastes, Iacon City’s gleaming spires and high walls in the distance. “Oh, yeah?”
“Yup. Guy fancied himself a racer. He challenged me, I won, he popped a tyre tryna ramp off that big rock over there, thinking I’d be impressed. See it?”
“That’s a bigaft rock.”
“I know, right. And since I don’t exactly have a tow-bar mounted on me, I offered to carry him home. Lemme tell ya, he thought it was super romantic.”
“Of course. You had him, there and then.”
“Totes did. My game was peak. One thing led to another and… I got laid.”
“Keeping details to a minimum, was he any good?”
“He was okay. I’ve had way better guys since. ’Course, at the time, I had nothing to compare him to.”
“Did you carry him home?”
“I tried, but he kept sliding off. We called for a pickup truck. He ghosted me after that, probably felt embarrassed.” He turns to smirk aside at her. “I cried for three days. Felt dumped.” The smirk fades. “I dunno why I told you any of that, or why you’re humouring my dumbaft by listening, besides being so nice to everyone, but yeah. There’s a little piece of me, my history, if you wanna hold onto it.”
“I’m grateful to get to know you that little bit better, Rod.”
“Dude, I’m so fragging glad Windblade finally got the girl in the end. You’re awesome and she loves you to bits. I ship you two so hard.”
Slipstream hugs Hot Rod just a little bit tighter.
“You’re rattled, old mech.” Ariel grasps her friend by the pauldrons, drawing close. “What was that?”
“An anonymous tip-off I cannot trace,” Orion intones with a grimace. “I do not doubt the veracity of this report.”
“What did it say?”
“That we must evacuate our people and vacate the Council chambers, immediately.”
“My first was a Minicon.”
Sat on a smooth, relatively flat mineral deposit, Hot Rod almost chokes on a silicon wafer, part of their picnic.
“Yeah, I expected that reaction.” Slipstream rubs her neck shyly, smiling aside.
Swallowing with a gulp, he shuffles closer to her, optics wide. “I need details, dude.”
“Well, uh, she was nice to me, and way less scary than most femmes because of how small Minicon femmes are compared to, say, Windblade, even smaller than Flamewar, and I liked the lingering looks, the smiling words, the gentle touches, the sheer patience when I clearly didn’t know what I was doing. I was worried I might hurt her, but she was so reassuring. She took control, taught me a lot, and I was happy to follow her lead, to learn. I’m still grateful to her. We dated a short while, one of the happiest periods of my life. I was crushed when she moved on without me, but we parted on good terms, I guess. So. Yeah. My first was a Minicon. You know that now, but I kept her a secret even from my Seekers to preserve her reputation, since most people think Seekers are big, dumb aftholes and that liking us is a flier fetish. Starscream found out about her, though.”
“Oh, nooo!”
“But he’s always been weirdly nice about Minicons. You’d expect him to sneer down at them as inferiors, like Thrust does, or to at least act indifferent, but Star was actually… supportive, if that’s the word? In his own way, he commended me for finally feeling safe with a femme.”
“Oh-kay. That’s a bit weird.”
“Yeah. He’s never explained his thing about Minicons, but it’s one of his quirks that proves he’s not all bad. Primus, he’s hurt me, but I remember those moments where he was like a brother. I love and miss my shining Star.”
“Slip… You’re crying.”
“Huh? Oh! Sorry.”
“It’s okay. Cry if you need to.” Hot Rod reaches over and cups Slipstream’s cheek, supporting her heavy helm. “I’ll cry too.”
She gazes lovingly at him, until a mass of darkness in motion draws her attention to the landscape beyond this friend. Her soft, sad smile fades. “Rod, we gotta go.”
He turns to look over his pauldron. “Oh, no.”
A plume of smoke rises from the gleaming mass of Iacon City.
“Alpha Trion, please, we do not have time for this! Bumblebee, Windblade and more are risking their lives to spare others, to spare us! Your life matters more than your records, leave those behind!”
“I am not concerned about my records, Orion, my love. I already know what is to happen. I am preparing for your ascension.”
“My ascension? Do not be cryptic! I beg of you, for once in your long life, dearest elder, speak plainly!”
“You know of the prophecy. A relic, ancient and powerful, kept in secret, secure, awaiting the Thirteenth reincarnate.”
“Uuugh!” Orion groans, attempting to hold the doors shut with his immense strength as swarming Decepticons try to break through. “Ariel is out there! Sentinel is out there! Megatron is out there!”
A passing Seeker, circling from outside, shoots at the glint of a viewing port, shattering it.
“We are not yet fully evacuated!” The crystalline shards fall, showering Orion’s bent back. “The Functionaries are not enough to aid our escape! Yet you deem this the appropriate moment!”
“Yes.”
“Teacher, I love you, but you are a vexing old mech, even to one such as I!”
“Forgive me, my darling son.” Alpha Trion returns from his personal archives, moving briskly for one so ancient, sealing the entryway after himself. A lifetime of mysterious records, ancient artifacts, and a few precious personal effects, seamlessly locked in a hidden, reinforced room. He brings with him a slender case, containing something surely precious. “I kept your destiny from you. I taught you those old stories in the abstract. It is all so awfully concrete for you, now. Those stories were about you.”
“You are mistaken!”
“I am never mistaken, dearest Orion. Now, this relic I will pass down unto you, as it is written, and you will be transformed.”
“I am unworthy!”
“You do not feel deserving of this great gift. In truth, you never will feel worthy.”
“I am not ready!”
“Lean on your allies and bolster your friends. It will be a burden for you to carry for a long, long time, but you will never be alone. When I am gone–”
Orion turns to press his back against the shuddering doors, thus turning to face his mentor with anguish. “Gone?!”
“Let others support you, be akin to a father to the future generations of citizens and soldiers. End this war, only for an enduring peace to be your ultimate end.” Alpha Trion sets the case on his desk, then beckons.
“No! I cannot!”
“Come to me.”
“I am confused! I am… frightened!”
“I know. Come to me, Orion Pax.”
“The doors! They will break it down!”
“Do you trust me?”
“That is unfair! That is… cruel!”
“Come.”
Orion bows his helm, his mighty frame trembling as he stumbles forward, abandoning his post at the doors which buckle and lurch without him.
Alpha Trion stands before his desk with arms open wide, receiving a mech that is akin to a son, a puppet of prophecy, a sacrifice to ensure the whims of ancients are appeased. “Forgive me.”
“I… I beg you…”
“The ways of the Senate are rotten with corruption, the Decepticons shelter a growing darkness, the prophecies of elders extend only so far, and it is only right that our future rests in the palms of the young. You must lead, like a father, and then surrender yourself and your authority when your time is over. The rest will be left to them to choose. I do not know what will happen beyond that point, but I have no right to dictate. In you, I place my faith. In the young, I have hope.”
“Please reconsider.”
“You will resent me, you will doubt my judgment, you will look for me to answer your questions and you will find my back turned, but you are enough. Within yourself there is an almighty Spark and the wisdom of the Primes who linger on, but you, my Orion, are more than enough.” Alpha Trion strokes his mentee’s trembling back strut, kissing his tear-stained cheek. “I am so proud of you. Remember to rely on others. Be patient and willing to negotiate with the enemy for peace. Megatron’s Decepticons are people, just as much as your Autobots. Arise, Optimus Prime.”
“I am not ready!”
The doors cave in.
“Be strong enough to be gentle.”*
“I have to go back. I must fight.”
“Bestie, please don’t be a hero.”
“What’s the point, otherwise?” Windblade wraps her arms around Bumblebee’s neck with the clumsiness of a femme in distress, kissing his forehelm messily. “I love you. Stay safe for me, okay. Protect these people.”
A mere scout, trying to lead evacuated people to safety. What a joke.
Yet the noble, esteemed Cityspeaker believes in him.
“Okay, but–”
She kisses him again, then withdraws in the fire of her thrusters, transforming and rising above his hiding place.
He can only watch her go.
“Skywarp, I need a live feed,” Alpha Strike intones, crushing a guard’s helm within her fist with a wet crunch. “Lend me your senses.”
As instructed, the Seeker remotely links her sensory network with the tank. On account of the storm, the imagery and sound are distorted, but the old General is able to parse the Seeker’s dizzying heights and rapid fire upon the cowering enemy units.
“Thank you, Skywarp. Maintain this broadcast for as long as you can.”
An internalised chirp answers that.
“Lead them away!” Slipstream shoves some random civilian into Hot Rod’s arms, as if he is somehow safe. “Take everyone you can, far away from here! Link up with Bee and the other scouts!”
“What about you?!”
The sounds of combat and destruction drown out voices.
“I need to face my Seekers. I have to stop Starscream.”
“Revive him.”
Red Alert finds Ratchet’s servo, squeezing reassuringly.
“Must I ask again?” Starscream sneers as he saunters about the periphery of the ward, encircling the body on the berth. “Revive him!”
Ratchet considers the Energon-infused spears, the rifles, the burly Decepticon frames, Red Alert tightening her grip.
“Megatron is coming. As soon as he is done with Orion and Ariel, our great leader will be here, to deal with this one.” Starscream runs a digit along the slumbering Sentinel’s gleaming pauldron in passing, sneering at the imagined dust this collects upon the tip of a digit. “It would do you good to wake Sentinel. I will not ask so nicely, next time.”
“Sentinel will hardly be cognisant. The medication–”
“I don’t care, butcher. Revive him at once, or else.”
Notes:
*As quoted by Peter Cullen (the original voice of Optimus Prime, who would later reprise the role) in reference to his brother, Larry Cullen, as to the makings of a real hero.
Chapter 68
Notes:
Possible trigger warnings: violence, death of an animal alt-mode, death of a pet, attempted murder of a main character, descriptions of gore, surgery, toxic relationship dynamics, abuse, assault (not sexual).
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Alpha Trion and Orion Pax are knocked off their pedes by the sheer force of whatever blast it took to throw the great doors open, sending the old mech and his ancient mentor tumbling across the innermost chamber, overthrowing the desk, the case containing the mysterious artifact sliding across the tiles.
Alpha Strike lumbers through the partially melted mess that remains of the once stately, ornate doors, followed by an entourage of subordinate Decepticons. She is massive, confident, dangerous.
Orion groans, disoriented and hurt.
Alpha Trion finds his mentee’s servo, squeezing reassuringly. “Be not afraid, Optimus Prime.”
“I do not know that name.” Alpha Strike lumbers closer, closer, closer. “I seek the archivist, Orion Pax.”
“You will not have him.”
“And who will stop me?”
Alpha Trion rises gracefully to his full height, ancient as he is, running a calm palm down the length of his beard. “You do not understand who – and what – you are fighting, General.”
“Is that so?” Alpha Strike seems to take amusement in this. “You challenge me, elder? I see but you, ancient one, and my primary objective, cowering in your shadow. Come, Orion Pax, and I will take you gently to Megatron. He desires you alive.”
Orion looks terrified, but he grits his dentas bravely and rises to his considerable height, still dwarfed by Alpha Strike. “Very well. If my surrender spares lives, then I–”
“No.”
“Alpha Trion, please, I do not wish to–”
“It is alright, my love. Your destiny is so much greater than my life.”
“What do you–?”
“Seize it. Open your Spark and let the Matrix dwell within your light.”
“Matrix?” Alpha Strike echoes, her nightmarish optics narrowing, an ominous hiss passing her vents.
“Embrace your transformation. Mingle together in the wisdom of our Primes. In time, all will be revealed.” Alpha Trion turns to smile back at Orion, wizened and serene. “The lock will open to you. I already know it.”
Orion takes a step toward his mentor, only to brush his ankle against the case containing the artifact of which the ancient speaks. It tingles upon contact. Compelled, he stoops to take up the case, running his digits across the lock. It clicks, hisses with depressurisation, and reveals a terrific glow.
“Until we meet again, my son.”
“Stand aside and I will do you no harm,” Alpha Strike intones, yet Alpha Trion approaches her, forming a barrier between herself and Orion. “Do not be a fool. You cannot best me in battle.”
“Teacher, no! I… I do not understand! I know not what to do! I only feel… a cosmic pull.” Orion’s bosom aches, unlatches, swings wide. “What is this? Teacher? Teacher!”
“Orion, I love you.”
Alpha Strike falls to her knees, twin cannons unfurling from her pauldrons. “Cease and desist or be destroyed!” She knows not what is happening, but hears Skywarp’s panicked chirps over their live link, the Seeker anxious for her General’s wellbeing.
With a roar, Alpha Trion collapses into his primordial alt-mode, a great beast of fang and claw that easily sidesteps the tank’s ranged blast, gallops across the circumference of the chamber and leaps onto the pauldrons of a lesser Decepticon, decapitating one of the heavies with a bite to the throat before pouncing upon the next, cleaving out the optics with a swipe of the paw that shears away most of the screaming face in passing.
Alpha Strike bellows as members of her personally appointed heavies are slaughtered around her, firing off blasts from her twin cannons that Alpha Trion’s feline shape evades, destroying the various fixtures, walls melted in ruin.
Desperate to save his beloved mentor, a mech akin to a teacher and a father figure, Orion bares his soul and essence to the artifact. “Please!” He abhors violence and does not bear weapons, but he must transform for the greater good. He is but a vessel to enact a greater will.
The Matrix judges him based on past, present and future, sees his thoughts and knows his deeds, and deems the humble archivist worthy.
Alpha Trion dodges another blast and leaps over the corpses of Decepticon heavy units he cleaved so effortlessly, throwing his feline weight at his greater foe, sinking fang and claw into Alpha Strike’s massive raised arm as she shields her facial vents from his swiping paws and snapping jaws, shearing layers of her armour apart to rend her tender protoform whilst she drives her free fist into his beastly belly and punches such deep dents that he spits up his inner Energon from internal injuries, spattering her helm.
Orion’s bosom closes, filled with such power, the Matrix consuming his Spark, rendering them seemingly inseparable. He is moments too late.
Megatron has come, and he seizes Alpha Trion’s feline alt-mode by the whip-like tail and pulls, wrenching out his entire spine with an anguished roar, inducing spasmodic paralysis, then seizing the rest of the weakened beast and prying him off of Alpha Strike’s mangled arm, tossing the ancient against a wall with a wet crunch and a mewl, dropping to the floor in a twitching heap.
The bellow of horror is not enough. Orion Pax is not enough.
Alpha Trion cannot command his body to obey him without a spine. He drools, rear legs kicking as if to run, front paws quivering in a growing puddle of waste.
“It would be cruel to spare you now,” Megatron tells himself out loud, raising his fusion cannon.
Orion Pax passes away the moment Alpha Trion’s feline face explodes.
Sentinel awakens with a whine, bright blue optics fluttering open, flickering online.
“Ah, there he is!”
“Huh?”
Starscream leans into view, offering a rather cute little wave.
Being drunk or high – the distinction between makes little difference on painkilling agents this strong – Sentinel groans theatrically and turns his handsome chin aside in melodramatic disgust. “Uuugh! Not you again.”
“Yes, me again! Your waking nightmare, come to get you!”
“Bah. Someone, take the Seeker away, he is loud and rude.”
“Oh, I’m afraid there’s been something of a…”
Ratchet and Red Alert stiffen simultaneously as Starscream reaches into a sterilised surgical tray, retrieving the hilt of an Energon-infused scalpel. With the press of a button, the blade erupts into life, hard-light humming hot.
“Hostile takeover. Your side lost, by the way.”
Sentinel’s optics follow the motions of the scalpel, his arrogance fading away into genuine terror. “Wait.”
“Did you know we Seekers like our games? Easily amused, we are. But there’s actually a purpose in our play. Predators use play to practice for the hunt.”
“Wait, wait, wait!”
“Our artificial intelligence is modelled after predatory avian creatures. Isn’t that interesting? We like shiny things to the point of seeking them out in the various organs. You could say we play with our food, if you observe how we Seekers like to pick prey apart, alive!* Muahahaha!”
Sentinel lets off a less than masculine scream of sheer intoxicated terror, writhing on the gurney, upsetting his modesty tarp and exposing his incomplete lower half.
“Leave him be!” Red Alert snaps, struggling against the Decepticon who easily holds her back. “He cannot defend himself! Have you no honour?”
Starscream forgoes his big bad guy act and maniacally cackles now, wings bouncing excitedly as Sentinel cowers upon the gurney, shrinking back from the waving scalpel, burly arms raised to shield himself.
“Not the face! Please, not my beautiful faaace!”
“I’ll carve you up like a tinfoil turkey roast!”
“Not if I carve you first, Starscream.”
“Cityspeaker,” Sentinel wails, flinching as his intoxicated optics find Windblade suddenly stood in the entryway with Decepticons turning their weapons upon her, tears and drool marring his beautifully reconstructed face, chin quivering. “Save me! Please! Stop the villain! Be my hero!”
“Something like that,” Windblade mutters, reaching back to extract the hilt of her sword from her kit. The blade extends with a hiss that sends a few Decepticons backtracking to make distance, intimidated by the weapon and the one who wields it. “It’s over for you, Commander. This time, you’re not getting away from me.”
“Kill her,” Starscream says through his maddened sneer. “Bring me the glitch’s helm! Now!”
A pair of Decepticons wielding Energon spears lunge, only for the bladed tips of their spears to fall to the floor, fizzling out.
Windblade gives Stormfall a casual twirl, having cleanly sliced the spears, then turns on her heel and delivers a devastating kick to one Decepticon’s throat, followed by punch to the other’s chin.
The two Decepticons are thrown against medical equipment, overturning tools and shattering something that sounds expensive.
“Windblade!” Ratchet exclaims, appalled. “I needed that!”
The Cityspeaker spares the medic a low bow of sincere apology, ostensibly rendering herself vulnerable.
A Decepticon lunges from behind, hoping to capitalise upon it, only for her to smoothly rise again to jab him with her elbow.
“I only want you, Starscream,” Windblade says with some irritation, grabbing her larger opponent and lifting the Decepticon off his pedes, hurling him at another. More Decepticons come and she dispatches each and every one of them with scary ease. “Call off your goons. Face me like real mech.”
“Kill her! Kill her! Kill her already! Would someone competent do their damn job!”
“Let the medics go.” She kicks the rifle out a Decepticon’s servos and strikes him across the helm with the butt end of his own weapon. Stormfall is mostly wielded for the intimidation factor, so as to avoid possibly lethal force. “Step away from Sentinel.”
“Useless fools! Must I do everything myself?!” Starscream proceeds to stab and slash Sentinel at random, the small but sharp, high-grade Energon blade of the scalpel sinking easily into gleaming metal with shrieks of terror more than pain due to the potent numbing agents. “Stop struggling! Hold still so I can end you! Then I’ll get her, and all her idiot friends!”
Ratchet and Red Alert, two combat medics stirred by their shared instinct to tend to their patients, both veterans of a past war with some experience of battle, move as one. They swing back their helms and shatter the olfactory sensors of the two Decepticons that restrain them, thus breaking free.
Starscream squawks as two angry combat medics come at him, Ratchet wielding an Energon saw used to amputate limbs, and Red Alert’s multi-tool bearing a scalpel of her own. The Seeker initially duels them, but outnumbered and in such a confined space with bodies of Decepticons laid out across the floor as obstacles, he quickly loses control of the situation. Avoiding being cut himself as he sprints around Sentinel’s bloody frame, Starscream swings the levitating gurney and the screaming patient as a makeshift shield.
“Coward!”
Windblade pauses bemusedly to watch for a moment, joined by a Decepticon.
“I don’t get paid enough to deal with that,” the Decepticon says, gesturing vaguely at the commotion.
“You should quit,” advises the Cityspeaker with some sympathy.
“You gonna shoot me with that thing?”
“Well, no. The launcher is mostly for show, but it is highly lethal. I actually wanna take you as my prisoner, so you don’t have to die at all, not even a little bit.”
“Prisoner? Why? I’m nobody important. Megatron wants Ariel and Orion, doesn’t he?”
“See, that’s the dumb part.” Thunderblast sighs, treading glistening lukewarm viscera wherever she goes, her long, shapely legs navigating the piled bodies with such grace. “I have this friend of yours, who’s a friend of mine, and since she likes you, and I like her…”
“Oh, you’re doing this for Slip.” Arcee drags an arm across her cheek, smearing Energon. “That’s kinda sweet, actually.”
“I know, right? And it’s just, like, so unlike me! I don’t normally do loyalty, especially not when it’s inconvenient for me, but wow.”
“I geddit, girlfriend. You caught feelings.”
“Yeeeaaah. Despite myself and everything I’ve done, everything I’ve been through getting here. There’s just something about a kind, hunky femme that makes a self-serving killer like me go kinda soft. So, here I am, supporting my big, bad warlord to get cozy with our boss, whilst also avoiding killing my sweet little Seeker’s friends – that includes you, honey.”
“Cool. I appreciate that, but I can’t let you take me prisoner.”
“Aw, really?”
“Yeah, sorry.”
“So sad! Are you gonna fight me? I’ll defend myself.”
“Nah, you’re cool. I think we can let this pass.”
Thunderblast hums, sauntering over to stand before Arcee, taller than her by a considerable margin, statuesque and devastatingly beautiful.
“You don’t wanna make me bust out my best moves. I’m dangerous.”
“And cute. I’ll let you go, but stay outta my way and don’t interfere with Empress. She’s mine and she’s taking me to the top.”
“Considering this is a battlefield, and your big girl’s a Decepticon, I can’t promise any of that.”
“Pity. I understand. But I really don’t wanna have to shoot you with this.” Thunderblast lifts her launcher to communicate the sheer extent of the threat, the massive weapon propped casually back against her pauldron, a lopsided smile on her flawless face spattered with fresh Energon. “Explaining that to my sugar glider would be icky.”
“How the frag can you carry that thing around so casually?”
“I’m wickedly strong. Run along, now, pretty in pink.”
Arcee chuckles, saluting the taller femme, then performing a series of pointless but impressive backflips out of the scene, thus making her escape.
“Damn, I gotta work on a cool exit like that.”
Starscream resorts to kicking the hovering gurney with all his might, vaulting it violently across the ward.
Sentinel clings on for dear life, drunkenly screaming as he collides with Red Alert and Ratchet, both medics pinned against a wall by the combined weight of their patient – a rather big mech, even if incomplete – and the gurney itself.
Cackling maniacally, the apertures of numerous missiles open, firing off a combined payload in a volley from Starscream’s chiselled torso. He does not seem to care for the very real risk that using explosive ordinance in such a confined space may pose to his own survival, never mind his subordinate Decepticons. Perhaps he is just too far gone.
“Get down!” Windblade shoves her way past Decepticons and leaps into action, whereupon she ejects her wings, bracing herself on embedded heel struts between the homing missiles and her helpless allies. She does not consider the possibility this might kill her. Her turbines spin as hard and fast as they can, tossing air in tunnels of sheer force, destabilising the trajectory of the missiles but failing to disarm them, scattering the payload, exploding on contact with fixtures and unfortunate Decepticons in a flurry of destruction and scattered bodily parts. She is thrown off her pedes, reaching for Starscream as if to wring his neck.
His cackling fades away as he tumbles too, reaching for her in similar fashion. In this moment, his maddened expression is vividly seared into her memory files, permanently a core part of her identity. He is beautiful like this, and terrible, and he is so close to her right now, yet so far away. Somehow, he smiles, assured of her destruction even if he fails to truly regard his own.
Her back strut collides with something, painfully. She tastes her inner Energon on her glossa, nauseous. Caught up in a whirlwind of light and heat and noise, as she sinks to the floor, everything is reduced to blinding static in the optics, a deafening humming in the audials, a fiery pain that encompasses everything, and then nothing at all.
“Back off, Decepticreep!” Bumblebee readies his stinger, guarding the terrified civilians who crouch in hiding. He had scouted out this warehouse as a safe place, after all, and linked up with Hot Rod to communicate the same thing, and so he takes personal responsibility.
“Relax.” The dark figure steps into the light. “I won’t hurt you or your people.”
“Shadow Striker!”
She looms over him, coming to a gentle stop close enough to reach out and pinch his sensory horn. “Hey.”
He deflates, retracting his stinger with a shaky exhale, then throwing himself forward to hug her. “Oh, frag me, I thought we were done for.”
She actually smiles down at him, but the expression is tired and unhappy. “How you holding up?”
“Not great. We’re trying to keep calm. I’m doing my best, but people are scared. Primus, of course they are. If Megatron discovers this safehouse, he - wait.” The scout steps away, looking up at the towering mercenary. “How’d you find us?”
“I’m a huntress. You can’t hide from me. Don’t worry, I won’t tell.”
“Even if he makes you?”
“What, you think he’ll torture me?”
“I think he’s lost his mind. You’re not safe with him. You gotta quit.”
“My options are… limited.”
“There’s gotta be something better for you than this.” Bumblebee lays his palm on the Deceptibrand.
Shadow Striker winces in pain, then huffs. “I can’t hang around long. Here, I snuck you some supplies.” She reaches into her primary storage compartment, withdrawing a tight bundle and passing it over. “Energon patches.”
“Oh, thank you! That’s awesome.”
“Be strategic, Bumblebee.” She spares the interior of the warehouse a glance. “There’s not enough for everyone.”
Many sets of terrified, confused, suspicious and hateful optics peer back at her from the huddled figures trying to stay warm and hidden.
“Yeah, uh… I’ll figure something out.”
“Attaboy. I gotta bounce. See you.”
“Shadow Striker, before you go.”
She allows him to take her servo.
“I’ll never forget this act of kindness. Someday, I wanna do something for you that makes up for it. Even if we’re on opposing sides, you’ll always be a friend of mine. You know what I’m like about my friends.”
“Oh, Primus, no need to get mushy about it.”
The little yellow scout giggles, then gasps as the mercenary stoops to kiss his forehelm.
“Just survive for now, yeah? You can be my sneaky link.”
“Dude. Seriously.”
“C’mon, honeybee.”
“Well, damn, okay!”
Just then, Hot Rod appears, panting and dripping sweat, followed by exhausted, miserable civilians. “Bee, I brought more – oh!”
Bumblebee and Shadow Striker pull apart.
“Decepticon,” one terrified mech exclaims, dropping to his knees and covering his helm. “Don’t h-hurt me! Please!”
“Hey, it’s okay, she’s not like them,” Bumblebee intones. “She’s one of the good ones.”
But murmurs of panic erupt into shouts.
“That’s my cue.” Shadow Striker dodges something that someone throws at her, departing quickly and quietly.
Hot Rod watches her go, thinking about Soundwave.
“Oh, Primus, Red…”
Windblade lifts her helm with a low moan of agony, optics flickering online to behold Ratchet laid out in the midst of devastation, embracing Red Alert’s crumpled, scorched form to his bosom.
“Don’t fade on me, Red.”
“I’m alive, I assure you,” Red Alert croaks with her peculiar sense of humour. “You can’t be rid of me so easily. Sorry.”
Ratchet does not comment on the visible entrails, the shrapnel embedded in her torn gut, in turn stifling her bleeding. How can he attend to such a grievous wound? All his precious medical instruments are destroyed or lost and the enemy is soon to investigate.
“Attend to the others. They need your help more than I do.” She winces, shakily running her palm along his bruised cheek. “Let me rest awhile.”
“I, uh, I’m stuck with you, I’m afraid, Red.”
“Oh, joy.”
“Heh. Yeah.”
Windblade stumbles upright, limps a step forward to help them, then yelps when someone collides with her, tackling her down again. Before she can find it in her aching, damaged body to fight back, Starscream stabs her in the neck with the scalpel. She cries out but can only choke wetly.
Ratchet sees this happen and roars, yet his crumpled legs are trapped beneath rubble and his bloody arms cling to Red Alert’s enfeebled frame, her entrails pooled in his palms, trying to keep it all contained inside her. He cannot move, especially as she shivers like she is cold, but it is the shock.
Starscream hugs Windblade tight from behind, pinned against himself as she struggles, sputtering. Their kind need not breathe, but the brain module depends on fuel flow and without it, she feels tired, so tired, and she wants to go to sleep, to lose herself in hopeless recovery mode, as if her body might conserve energy whilst her life-force sprays from the pressurised cable he has pierced, the scalpel jutting from her throat. If anything, the obstruction of the scalpel slows down the bleeding, and miraculously, it is not a primary fuel line that he struck, but should she faint, or become so enfeebled as to be unable to defend herself, he will easily kill her.
Red Alert says something that makes very little sense, mumbling as she shudders.
Starscream loosens his grip, letting go of the scalpel, pawing at Windlade’s pauldron as if to make her turn back and look at him. “Let me see the light leave your optics,” he murmurs in a low rasp, like a lover.
Ratchet sees it, then – the light of a sword, Stormfall, dropped to the floor within his reach. He stretches for it, carefully as he can to avoid disturbing Red Alert, and drags his digits over the hilt, seizing salvation. “Windblade!”
She looks up.
“Kill the fragger!”
Stormfall sails through the air, truly an unwise way to pass a sword.
Red Alert’s optics follow the light like a beacon.
A femme embracing her destiny, Windblade extends her arm and opens her palm, the hilt familiar in her grip as she catches her sword, twists in Starscream’s arms to face him like he asked, and slices him through his wing, shearing off a chunk in a clumsy yet precise stroke of lacerating heat.
Ratchet and Red Alert derive some satisfaction in Starscream’s agonised cry.
Windblade kicks Starscream off, to which he crawls away from her, weeping, severed wing spasmodic and sputtering, and she rises to follow, seizing him by the ruff of his neck as she sits upon his lower back, shell sizzling in the finite spot that is pinned beneath the tip of her sword, raised by the hilt above her helm like a ceremonial rite, blade pointed downward with the intention of lethally piercing him.
“W-wait, please! Don’t kill me! Have mercy!”
Slipstream hefts aside another chunk of deformed metal and affords just enough room to squeeze her large self into the ruined ward. She is just in time to watch Windblade run Starscream through, sword sinking into his shell with a shriek.
Windblade’s ghastly expression of rage is something truly frightful. She only stops because she hears her lover’s voice bellow for reprieve.
“NO!”
Starscream gasps as the blade stops, suspended in the back of his helm, deep enough that the heat of it aches in his brain module, the weaponised Energon poised just short of killing him. It is the most peculiar sensation. He has never been so utterly at someone else’s mercy.
Big blue optics widen, then narrow, and Windblade does not immediately withdraw her sword.
With an expression of anguish and terror and confusion and something else, Slipstream stands with her null-rays aimed at her lover’s pale face, the barrels humming with charge upon burly arms that tremble. “N-no,” she repeats in such a small voice, barely above a whisper. An internal war with the self - Seeker instincts and familial bonds, versus the villain’s comeuppance in murder, versus the horror of being in love with someone capable of killing in vengeance.
“Do it!” Ratchet bellows. “He’s too damn dangerous!” To insist that a life be taken, goes against the old medic’s oath.
“I agree,” adds Sentinel, in a crumpled heap under his overturned gurney.
Slipstream looks so very frightened. So very confused. So very hurt. And there is something more, something too difficult to ascribe a name too.
Windblade cannot bear to be looked at in this way ever again. Not by the femme she loves. A friend. It breaks her Spark.
The blade withdraws, yanked out with a wet hiss, and Starscream vomits.
“Brave girl,” Red Alert murmurs, not entirely present.
Windblade rises, scalpel buried in her bloody neck, Energon gushing about the wound in the torn cable. She sags, visibly tired, and shakily holsters Stormfall, then stumbles closer to the null-rays, arms open, pleading for affection and acceptance and an embrace.
Slipstream yanks back her weapons, offering instead her palms, catching her lover and pulling them both together with a nuzzle. “Thank you.”
Starscream watches them with big, tearful optics and vomit dripping from his trembling chin.
“Your neck,” comes out low and husky. “I’ll stop the bleeding. I’ll fix you.”
Windblade manages to gesture insistently at Red Alert, who is more urgently in need of help.
At the sight of her mentor in such a state, Slipstream dismisses Starscream without a second look.
“I gotta head back. More people are trapped in the chambers. They need to be led to safety. And besides…” Hot Rod kisses Bumblebee’s cheek, giving the little mech a tight hug, then letting him go. “If Shadow Striker’s lurking anywhere around Megatron, Soundwave’s probably there, too. Besties, y’know. Maybe I can… I dunno. Damn. I dunno what I can do. I just gotta try.”
“Be safe, okay.”
“I’ll come back to you, Bee.”
“Ugh! This sucks! I hate hanging back while everyone else–”
“Bee, these people are helpless. They need someone strong looking out for them while the world burns. You’re that someone. Strength isn’t all about big, bold acts, dude. Taking care of people – scared, confused, hurt people – is way stronger than anything you’ve seen in the heroics of our favourite holocomics.”
“Yeah, Rod. I’ll try to keep that in mind.”
Red Alert is unconscious, but alive. With great effort and haste, the shrapnel has been extracted, the wound vacuumed to improve visibility and avoid bloating, and the perforation is soldered shut with the guts reinserted within the torso cavity. A sterilised panel of unliving metal has been closely welded over her wound, sealing her from contaminants and containing her rubbery organs, thus sparing her life.
“It’s crude, but it’ll do in a pinch,” Ratchet says with a huff, clapping a wet palm over Slipstream’s pauldron. “Well done. You’ve put your learning to practice and you held your mettle the whole time. She’ll be damn proud of you.”
“She’ll need more care,” Slipstream says softly, stroking her mentor’s cheek with a bloodied thumb.
“And we’ll give her the best care we can, soon as we’ve put all the fires out.” Ratchet offers a gruff little grunt for comfort, a ruggedly reassuring smile. “Don’t worry. She’s tough as they come, a real old soldier. She lost her arm in the war and she survived the fevers of the trenches while running on fumes, so I’m confident the old glitch is unkillable.” So he says, but he is still frightened. He just pretends he is not afraid. “Primus will have a trial to overcome when it’s finally time to reunite her with the AllSpark. That time’s not come to pass and it won’t for a long while yet.”
Slipstream nods once, then turns to Windblade, who is standing guard even with a scalpel jutting out of her neck. How someone can be so beautiful, so monstrous, so in need of help yet fiercely reluctant to accept help.
“Take care of her,” Ratchet intones discretely, finding Slipstream’s servo and squeezing her bigger digits. “You’ve done what you can for Red. I’ll take it from here.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
“No. Thank you.”
With a mingling roar, two large femmes collide, wrestling each other viciously. Lesser frames hurry to get out of the way, for in the push and pull of this tryst, they crash together into various fixtures and scrape against walls, leaving terrible dents and smears of Energon.
“Megatron wants you alive, my dear,” Empress rumbles as she slams her forehelm aggressively against Ariel’s, bringing their optics level. “Yet you seem dedicated to my murder! I like it! I like you!”
“I won’t kill you if I can help it, but dammit, you’re not making it easy on me!”
“Exciting, isn’t it? Not just the thrill of battle, but the thrill of us!”
“Big glitch!” Ariel stumbles back, heels skidding over metallic tiles with sparks and paint transfers as she tries desperately not to collapse. “Grrrmph!”
“My allure doesn’t seem to work on you!” Empress surges forth, panting and spurting steam from her vents, joints creaking with titanic effort. “So I must resort to more brutish tactics, but you’re strong enough to take it, a rarity among femmes! Ohhh, yes! You, my darling, are a delightful challenge!”
“Are you getting off on this?”
“Aren’t you?! Hurt me!”
“I don’t like hitting femmes, but for you, I’ll make an exception!” Ariel yanks back her helm, only to throw it forward, slamming hard against Empress’ own, denting her dull ornamental crest.
“Oomph!”
“I don’t have time to entertain you! Orion needs me, Sentinel needs me! Get outta my way! Please!”
“My orders are to capture you, not kill you,” Empress intones with Energon drooling from her flared enstrils, optics positively electric, lenses swollen with intent. “I cannot let you go! Megatron loves you! He will have you, and Orion too! Your resistance is over!”
“Raaargh!” With a bellow that scatters perspired coolant and spittle, Ariel hooks an ankle behind Empress’ own, sacrificing stability to force this leg into a bend, throwing them both into a partial collapse, buckling in an entangled heap.
“You’ve got skill,” Empress says with the parody of a mother’s smile, fond and proud and ultimately quite indulgent. “You’ve been practising!”
Ariel huffs, managing a smirk, albeit frustrated. Those lessons with Chromia and Windblade are paying off. But is it enough to win?
“I’m a gladiator, dear! You have me at an advantage!”
The smirk fades.
Empress leans in again, then twists aside, pressing in cheek-to-cheek, emulating something akin to a hug. The intimacy of it is distracting, but only momentarily, as she soon drags herself upward, smearing sweat, and bites savagely at the sensory spire projected from the helm, bared dentas sinking into living metal.
Ariel screams, panic surging in her hot circuits. Her struggles to escape only worsen the pinch on her sensory spire, intended to help her navigate in harsh weather conditions, now rendered an instrument of torture. Although it is non-lethal, the agony itself makes her wish for death, as disorientation and weakness begin to set in, the urge to faint throbbing on the edges of her perception. New warnings pop up on the periphery of her HUD, taking place among prior damage reports.
Cunning and cruel enough to seize this crude advantage, Empress tries to pin her opponent, only for a pink fist, in a final fit of desperation it would seem, to slip free of her grip and lash out with astounding reserves of might, leaving ugly dents in gunmetal grey in a frantic flurry. She groans, endures it, until a pink thumb somehow digs into a gap between warped armour sheets and stabs into an exposed nerve cluster.
It is clear that Ariel is made of stronger stuff than most femmes.
Snarling, having finally grown tired of the allure of this play, Empress yanks back, dentas shearing metal, snapping the sensory spire at the very root and biting off the rest. Pressurised inner Energon spews from the severed appendage, sparks sputtering from the open wound, bathing her in the blood of her foe.
Ariel makes a guttural sound, struggling to stay conscious. She is now missing most of her right sensory spire, but at least she gets to keep her left spire intact.
Indeed, Megatron wants his old friend brought to him alive. However, he did not say she should be returned to him unharmed.
“Goodness gracious, such a fighting spirit in you,” Empress intones with pink chips of paint caught in her dentas, bared by the breadth of her motherly smile. “You could have made a halfway decent gladiator, dear.”
“Eat... my... aft,” Ariel manages to get out, shuddering in sheer pain.
“Keep that bleeding under control,” Ratchet says from his place beside Red Alert. “Maintain wound visibility.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
Starscream does not know what to do with himself. He sits in a heap with a helm wound weeping Energon down the back of his neck, yet he is ignored. Is he so unloved? Is he so unwanted?
Only Windblade glares his way, daring him to try something, satisfied that he dares not.
Slipstream looks up at her patient and says in a very gentle, patient undertone, “I’ve redirected fuel flow, so you won’t bleed too much when I take the scalpel out. You might feel a bit weak, but don’t worry, we’ve got fortified Energon reserves the Decepticons haven’t touched. I’ll refuel you. You’ll be okay.”
Windblade manages a soft grunt, but holds very still and maintains a strong, stoic countenance as the scalpel is carefully extracted. Indeed, with her fuel flow redirected to other extremities, she does not spray Slipstream in the face with pressurised Energon, under Ratchet’s watchful supervision while he focuses much of his attention on tending to his crushed legs and keeping Red Alert stable.
“You’re doing such a good job,” Slipstream reassures her lover, leaning in closely to work on soldering shut the neck wound. “Almost done.” A strip of durable, sterile tape is laid over the sealant, ensuring it keeps the rubber of the cable sealed. “There. All better.” No, not really. Some wounds never heal, those wounds on the inside. This outer wound will scar over, a blemish on an otherwise flawless, slender neck. But inner wounds tend to fester with time.
“Thank you,” Windblade says wetly, then swallows back her discomfort.
“Drink this,” Slipstream murmurs, setting a canister in her lover’s lap with a kiss to the cheek.
Starscream reaches for his severed wing, whimpers, and this draws his Seeker’s attention. “Oh, please, never mind me, I’ll be just fine, sitting here, bleeding out, in agony.”
“Don’t even start.”
Windblade bristles protectively as Slipstream shuffles over to Starscream. “One wrong move and I lop that helm off.”
“Hear that? She threatens my life.”
“Hush. Hold still.”
Whimpering, Starscream recoils when Slipstream attempts to examine his wing, but he permits her to gently cradle his wounded helm, assessing the injury. He resorts to nuzzling her servos, pushing against her bosom, and she permits it, holding him upright whilst gently probing the wound with large, square digits.
“It’s partially cauterised. The bleeding is minimal.”
“She stabbed me with a hot sword, so I’m hardly surprised. I felt it sizzling rather close to my brain module. I have a helmache and I purged my digestive tank all over myself. Now, I stink and I hate her.”
“You’ll live.”
“How do you know that?”
“I’ve been studying this sort of thing, Star, as I’ve tried to move on with my life and find happiness being alive. I just wish you’d move on with yours and find some happiness of your own.”
Windblade rolls her optics, but she feels bad.
“I can apply sterile plating to your helm to cover the injury site. Any cosmetic procedures you need to like yourself,” Slipstream grumbles tenderly as she cradles Starscream to her bosom, kissing him atop his bloodied helm, “I leave to the cosmetic surgeons. I’m only concerned with keeping you alive.”
“Oh, so chivalrous of you, my dear.”
“You’ll need extensive reconstruction to fix that wing, Star. I can sterilise and seal the wound, which will hurt like the Pits, even through the numbing agents I can dispense to dull the pain, but I can’t reattach a wing. Too many sensory nodes have been severed.”
“Ah, excellent. I’ll just suffer, same as usual.”
“Star, I’m not in the mood.”
“Have some sympathy. She butchered me.”
“You stabbed me.” Windblade scoffs, folding her arms and scowling aside. “I defended myself.”
“You chopped my wing off! My beautiful, beloved wing! I cannot fly, I cannot transform, I’m hardly a Seeker when wingless!”
“I left the other wing intact.”
“Frag you, glitch!”
“Frag you too, afthole.”
“Stop it,” Slipstream snaps with such maternal ferocity, Starscream and Windblade both flinch.
“Attagirl,” Ratchet surmises grumpily, wiping Red Alert’s brow with a damp textile.
“You left me,” Megatron says, speaking in his distinctly soft rumble of an undertone, but there is wrath in his optics and hurt in the way he lays his palm on Orion’s cheek. “You saw my fall and you left me there. That pit, the Pit itself, I saw no difference. In my dreams, I am still there, broken and dying without you, without her, and all because he sent me there.”
Alpha Trion is dead, laid out faceless in his beastly alt-mode and seeping fluids.
A pool of Energon, oil, and waste byproducts spreads beneath Orion’s pedes as he stares at the mangled remains of his mentor and father figure, then the fusion cannon on a best friend’s arm, then the corpse, then the weapon, stare swapping back and forth with this great light locked away in the breast, the Matrix so domineering, as if devouring his Spark whole. What does it say? He does not know, but it is speaking to him. Will he ever learn to discern the dizzying voices, define a divine message?
“The pit was dark, my love. It was cold. I rotted alone, with their ghosts for company, haunting those corpses strewn about my own, gladiators denied proper funeral rites. Or perhaps that was just my imagination, concocting company as I rotted down there. I know not. Yet despite Sentinel’s best efforts, I came back, Orion – I came back changed by the experience. I am returned to you, and I am changed.”
Alpha Strike is tense, stood over her killed heavies, arm torn and vents hissing with actually anxious ventilation.
“I do regret taking your beloved offline. However, I do not apologise. You have yet to say you are sorry. Are you sorry, old friend? Did you mourn me enough to ignore me, to prioritise your feelings over finding me barely alive? You could have saved me, Orion, you could have spared me this.” Megatron points at Alpha Trion’s corpse with the fusion cannon. “And yet it was Empress who staged a rescue, collaborating with Shockwave’s drones and Starscream’s Seekers. Why did you not send someone down there to retrieve my body? I would have climbed down that pit myself if it were to retrieve something left of you, or Ariel, or even Sentinel, something I could keep as a treasure. Yet you left me. All of you. My… old… friends.”
Orion gasps as he is suddenly slapped across the face, snapping him out of his dazed stare.
“Speak!” Megatron bellows now. “Say something!”
Alpha Strike actually takes a step away. It takes much to intimidate one such as herself.
“Here I am, alive, rebuilt, re-traumatised, changed for the worst! You made me this way and yet you are silent!”
“Leave.”
“What?!”
“Leave,” Orion repeats, and somehow, he seems bigger, stronger, and furious in such a quiet, gentle way, reluctant to hurt even a vile enemy yet quite capable of terrible violence when provoked. “You have hurt me more than I can comprehend. Take your vengeance upon my soul and go in peace.”
“Peace!” Megatron throws his mighty arms above. “There is no peace within me!” He brings his fists back down toward himself, slamming dents into his broad grey bosom. “There can be no peace without!”
“I do not desire conflict. I do not want to fight.”
“Apologise!”
“I am sorry.”
“I am unsatisfied!”
“You do not owe me forgiveness. I can only hope to someday earn it, through your grace.”
“Pathetic old fool! Do not do that! You… patronise! You… preach! You tired, enfeebled old patriarch! Gone are your old ways!”
Orion quietly walks past Megatron.
“Do not turn your back on me!”
“Teacher. Father.” Orion kneels in filth.
Alpha Trion is silent and still as he is gently stroked along what mangled mass remains of his feline brow, the central spire of his curious horn shattered.
“I do not understand.”
Megatron grits his dentas in tears.
“What do you command?” Alpha Strike intones quietly, evidently quite unsure of herself.
“As I already demand.”
Orion shudders as he sobs.
“We are taking him, alive, General.”
“Orion,” Ariel hisses through gritted dentas, barely able to get the words out. She is sat hunched over, immobilised by the stasis cuffs locking her bound wrists, optics darting about, burning yet cold. “Sentinel.”
“Yes, well, one of them will survive,” Empress says sweetly. “Megatron only has use for one. No prize for guessing which.”
“Please. Let me go. Let me save them.”
“You’re not going anywhere, dear. Begging will do you no good.”
“They need me. My friends, they need me!”
“Megatron needed you. Is he not a friend, too? Where were you when he festered in that pit, among the corpses of gladiators past? They only clean that place out when the smell is noticeable from the viewing stands, you know.”
“Eew,” Thunderblast mutters, pulling a pretty expression of disgust as she saunters into view. “That’s just nasty. Too much info.”
“Ah, my cyberswan! Any luck? I see no willing prisoners, but I see the signs of fresh kills on you.”
“Meh. Unfortunately, I couldn’t convince anybody important to surrender, but I didn’t have to kill anyone on our list. I tried.”
“Well, that is something, at least. Good of you to try. I hope Slipstream appreciates you.”
“Oh, don’t worry, handsome. She will. As for you.”
“As for me? Oh!” Empress giggles girlishly as the much smaller Thunderblast grabs the gladiator by her heavy hip and pulls her in for a hug, the boat nuzzling below and kissing her breastplate.
“You made it possible for me to try. Mommy is very, very happy with you, big girl, and I do appreciate that. I appreciate you. Know what I mean, sweetie?”
“Ah-ah-ah! My darling femme, do behave! You can’t ravish me out in the open like this, it’s terribly naughty.”
“Please.” Ariel strains to look up. “If you have a Spark, you know this is wrong. Let me go!”
“Oh, hush, you. It shall only hurt for a moment. Just think of the bigger picture. The future is bright, dear. Be happy!”
Ariel winces as Empress offers a patronising pat on the bloody helm, a bit too close to the mangled sensory spire.
“The Decepticon dream is to be your waking reality. There is still a place for you in Megatron’s vision. He truly does love you, dear.”
Thunderblast impatiently shifts her weight, lugging her launcher with ease despite the sheer scale of the weapon, tipped casually back to rest across a pauldron. “This party sucks. We done here, or…?”
“Almost, my cyberswan. I must load her into the secured transport, then reconvene with Megatron and take things from there.”
Ariel makes scary sounds of struggle, but she simply cannot move, drooling with the effort at fighting the stasis cuffs. She finds herself surrounded by Decepticons and utterly at their mercy.
“Actually, let me delegate tasks. You, there! Watch her with your life. Await the inbound transport and ensure she is taken away for processing. Keep her comfortable, but do not – under any circumstances – set her free. Megatron demands it. I have other matters to attend to.”
“Wait. Wait! Please!”
“Enough of that. Begging doesn’t suit you, dear.”
“Grrrmph! When I get outta these cuffs, I’m gonna–”
“Someone slap a muzzle on her.” Empress trudges heavily past, gesturing at a random attending Decepticon, who looks absolutely terrified of the notion of approaching Ariel. “Cyberswan, let’s go and assist Megatron. We might rescue your adorable little friends along the way, with any luck.”
Thunderblast spares Ariel a pitying look as a Decepticon timidly forces a muzzle on the snarling femme, then saunters off haughtily with a huff. “This dent is gonna be a glitch to buffer out. Somebody punched me right in the tits. My big, beautiful tits, dented! Can you believe it?”
“The nerve! Knock Out is a talented surgeon, my sweet. He will buffer it out. After all, he made me beautiful. ”
“You’ve always been beautiful, silly.”
“You tell such pretty lies, my delicate cyberswan. I was in terrible condition when Megatron found me.”
Ariel watches Empress go with such fury, if looks could kill, Thunderblast would probably explode due to proximity.
“Take them and go! I’ll cover your escape!”
“You’re handsome and brave! Good luck!”
“Damn right I am.” That said, Chromia takes up her shield and draws back her poleaxe, alternating between blocking enemy fire and thrusting at her foes with her extended range, thus clearing a path and holding back the Decepticon horde as fleeing civilians are led to safety by Cliffjumper, who blows her a kiss on his way out.
“My hero! Mwah!”
She flushes a bit, puffs out proudly, and casts a silent prayer for the survival of her friends and allies and the innocents, but she cannot hold the horde for long on her own. Just long enough to save some lives.
“Hope ya don’t mind the imposition, ma’am,” comes an abrasively masculine voice close by, as if in answer of that prayer. “Ladies first, but I’m just doin’ my job.”
“Not much of a lady, truth be told. Glad for the assist,” the burly blue femme intones with a subtle smile. She thus finds herself stood back-to-back with an imposing ally in this large, red, robust older mech. “Ironhide, was it? You’re a new addition to the security staff.”
“You goddit, ma’am.”
“Stop that. Call me Chromia.”
“Pardon me, Chromia,” he grunts lowly, a tinge of amusement in his gravelly undertone. “Or do ya prefer to go by hero?” The ornery old security mech cracks his reinforced knuckles, wet with enemy Energon. “I can switch.”
“Oh, can you, now.”
“Sure can.” Ironhide transferred recently to the Chambers so as to bolster the ranks and offer some sort of senior leadership with Sentinel in recovery, which involves yelling at the generally lazy and incompetent elite guard, whose standards have dropped dramatically. “Dependin’ on your mood.”
“I might enjoy that.” Chromia readies her shield and poleaxe.
Together, they stand united, surrounded on all sides by leering Decepticons, and together they fight, they fall.
“How could you?”
“This has been a long time coming, old friend!”
“Teacher. Father.”
“You have had your time to mourn! Come!”
“I cannot. Please, just go. Leave me behind.”
“You will not deny me this, Orion! I am not asking!” Megatron seizes Orion by the pauldrons and drags him to his pedes, away from Alpha Trion’s corpse, through the melted doors of the innermost sanctum, onward through the Council chambers. “I need you! You need me! Our love is still alive, leave the dead to tend to the dead! Let us meet our destiny, together, old friend, as I forge a better world for you, like we once dreamed!” In this fit of madness, Megatron fails to realise the physical changes occurring in Orion, how the old archivist grows and reshapes himself into a reluctant warrior through some strange higher power.
Alpha Strike, however, does notice, grimacing in passing. She ponders the possibility that Megatron may be somewhat senile whilst discretely reconnecting comms with Skywarp. “Yes, I am fine, little helper, do not fret. Meet me as soon as it is safe for you to land.” The answering chirp of relief makes the old General smile behind her facial vents. “You may tend to my wounds later, if you wish.” And yet her optics follow the transforming figure of Orion, Megatron yet unaware.
Orion stumbles heavily, the traumatised yet blossoming behemoth of a mech, shoved into yet another chamber, wherein he trips over bodies of friend and foe alike, sees his people bedraggled by battle in the droves, overrun and pinned down by Decepticons who vandalise and destroy in their sheer frustration in the midst of this lofty decadence.
“Behold, my Decepticons!” Megatron cries out, drawing every optic. “I have him! We are victorious!”
Decepticons cheer, raising their rifles and their spears and whatever other weapons cobbled together.
Chromia and Ironhide turn their helms in combined horror, crushed together by the reinvigorated waves upon waves, held captive.
Empress applauds, stood aside with Thunderblast, looking pretty. “Well done, oh mighty one! And I am happy to report that Ariel is secured for transit, alive, as you asked of me. The shuttle is due to depart in mere minutes, they’re just rounding up a few other captives first.”
Megatron dares to laugh, but it is not a happy laugh, it is a hurtful, hateful sound.
Orion does not anticipate it, but a battle mask slides into place, transforming over the lower half of his face to guard his gritted dentas and tightened jaw.
“Excellent! Then all that remains, is Sentinel and his Functionist cronies. Why has Starscream yet to report back?”
“Perhaps Windblade cut him down,” Chromia snarls as she is wrested of her weaponry. “One can only hope!”
“Silence her,” Megatron rumbles, yanking on Orion’s arm to pull him closer. “Scum shall speak when spoken to!”
“Yeah, CZ, you heard the boss!”
“Oh, I dunno, Ransack, I don’t like hitting girls.”
A Decepticon punches Chromia hard enough to toss her helm aside with a spatter of Energon and spittle.
Ironhide’s protests are silenced similarly.
Orion’s optics narrow, pauldrons squaring as he feels the Matrix ripple throughout his body, swelling in the fibrous muscles of his protoform, adding mass to his shell.
“Uh, you guys seeing this?” asks a random Decepticon of another. “Is it me, or is the old fragger getting… bigger?”
Megatron is about to contact Starscream when Empress interrupts.
“Orion, what in the name of Primus is happening to you?”
Megatron turns sharply to look at Orion and actually sees him through the fugue of madness, finally granted clarity. Hellish optics widen in dawning horror.
“Abnormality detected,” Shockwave surmises from his attending surveillance drone. Whatever next he might have said, goes unsaid in the chaos that follows.
Imbued with strength and reflexes that do not reflect this age, large enough to rival even the new and improved Megatron for the first time in their long lives, the remnants of Orion Pax are disfigured into a mech who only vaguely resembles himself, divinely appointed.
“Megatron!” Empress gawks in astonishment as the one they called Orion bursts free from the oppressive, possessive hold, breaking Megatron’s digits to do so and dislocating both of his arms. She rushes to defend him, only to find herself slower and less agile, her brutish swipes dodged until she roars her rage, then chokes on the fist embedded in her throat.
General Alpha Strike cradles her mangled arm to her side, throwing her full weight against Orion, crushing him against a wall, yet he pushes back, grips her helm in one huge palm and her wrist in the other, then steers her until he has enough room to drive up his knee into her gut.
Thunderblast is fretting over the kneeling Empress who claws at her own neck cables, Megatron’s dislocated arms hang uselessly at his sides with sparks erupting from his broken digits, and through some miracle Orion raises Alpha Strike above his helm and throws her into the crowd of Decepticons, scattering the lot in a panic.
“Oh, no! The nice old guy’s scary now!” Crumplezone says aloud what all the other Decepticons are thinking, their leadership disposed of before them, morale in tatters.
“Scrap this!” Ransack grabs his best friend, pulling the bigger mech into a sprint. “We’re outta here!”
Grimlock sees the tide of battle changing in his favour and roars, inspiring his allies, in turn inspired by the awesome, awful figure of Orion Pax, this new mech he has become.
The hatch to the shuttle is forcibly unsealed.
Bodily restrained, only Ariel’s optics flicker, rolling upward. Those optics widen.
A mighty figure bears some resemblance to a mech she loves, slick with perspired coolant and Energon.
“Orion?”
“Megatron will rescue me, Cityspeaker.”
“Not if I can help it. You’re not going anywhere, Commander.”
“Ugh. Don’t you have anything better to do?” Starscream sneers at the sword, but shrinks when Windblade tightens her grip on the hilt. “Besides guarding me, I mean. You might save the lives of your idiot friends, or spare them from capture as prisoners of war.”
“I’ll return to the battle, as soon as I’ve incapacitated you.”
“You’re bluffing. Slipstream will never allow it.”
The wounded need tending to. That is what Slipstream focuses on, her warlike construction lending medical attention instead of combat. With Starscream’s comm link removed and his every move under watch, the Seekers are less organised and thus less dangerous.
“Slipstream.”
“Primus! Orion? What happened to you? You’re all… different!”
“I do not know. But I need your help. He needs your help.”
Megatron is dumped on the slab, unconscious.
Slipstream exhales shakily at the sight of the Decepticon leader, disposed of.
“Please, do for him whatever you can. He will pose no threat to you or your fellow medical staff. I swear it.”
“Oh-kay, then.”
Orion turns his massive back, striding away with such power, such poise.
“Is it over?” Slipstream calls after him.
He pauses, sighs. “For now.”
She watches him go. An influx of patients, ally and enemy alike, will consume her attention over the coming hours.
“Most Decepticons have evaded capture and escaped. Orion only dragged Megatron away, and I hear Starscream is under Windblade’s watch. Effectively, your side won.”
“So, it’s over?”
“Until someone else takes up Megatron’s mantle, or he rises up stronger as a consequence of failure.”
Hot Rod looks at the sky, the ruined tower cutting a shattered silhouette. “So much damage. We’re never gonna recover from this.”
Soundwave draws closer, only to have a palm stop him just short of an embrace.
“Don’t.”
“Why?”
“Just don’t, dude. I love you, but I’m so mad at you I can barely even think around you.”
“I sent Orion that warning. If I hadn’t, your losses would be far, far worse.”
“Thank you. You saved lives. I respect that.”
“Yes, and I haven’t killed anyone. I haven’t taken prisoners back to the compound. I’m not your enemy. I just wear the Deceptibrand and it looks like me, but it isn’t all I am.”
“I know that.”
“Then forgive me.”
“After all of that?” Hot Rod gestures at the devastation. “You got out. You should’ve stayed with me. Instead, you did your secret spy stuff and played the other side, now you think it’s just so easy for me, like I can just overlook everything else? How much info have you fed to the Decepticon higher ups, babe? How many secrets did I tell you in confidence, that you went ahead and told to Megatron?”
Soundwave looks aside, silent.
“You’ve been lying the whole time, haven’t you.”
“Not about everything. I do love you. That much has always been true.”
“Dude, we’ve got a cat together. How could you do this to him, to me, to us?”
“Hot Rod, I–”
“I gotta reassess the whole situation, Soundwave. I gotta do my best here, for my friends. You’re the mech I love, I wanna spend my whole life with you, but you’re still playing spymaster with the Decepticons. Even if Megatron’s shtick is over, you and I have gotta work this thing out between us, but right now, I have other stuff to focus on.”
Smoke billows from the ruined tower, a shattered silhouette echoing hollowly with voices.
“It’s all destroyed,” Arcee says quietly, running her digits back and forth over Captain Snuffles’ fluffy little corpse. “Her life’s work, gone in a few hours.”
“Such senseless violence.” Grimlock sighs heavily, stood in the centre of Ariel’s ruined office, defiled by the Decepticon invaders. All her organics are dead – burning, torn to bits, crushed under rubble. “These creatures did no harm. Why ruin everything?”
Ariel is in the medical bay. She will have so little to return to.
Notes:
*Inspired by a panel depicting the Seeker trine of Starscream, Thundercracker and Skywarp playing with dismembered Autobot body parts, which I've taken out of context for fun because it looks badass (Transformers: Generation One Vol. 1: “Prime Directive” issue #3 via Dreamwave Productions, 2002).
Chapter 69
Notes:
Possible trigger warnings: reference to virginity, discussion of consent, depiction of a dead animal and animal alt-mode.
Last chapter was really intense. This chapter is still intense, but mostly emotionally intense, relenting on the violence and abuse.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Megatron’s arms are popped back into place within their sockets, his broken digits are reset at the joints, and he is submitted unconscious into police custody without further ceremony. His Decepticons are desolate, but not dead. The dreamer yet dreams. He has lost, yet his departure has dealt a more grievous blow to the enemy.
“Don’t let them take me,” Starscream hisses against Slipstream’s neck, clinging to her as if terrified. “Help me, please, I – wait! No, no, no!” He is torn away with streaks of paint transfer and screeching metal, struggles ceasing as he is forced into stasis cuffs. “Fools! Release me at once! Do you know who I am?! I am Commander Starscream! How dare you treat me like some common criminal! Filthy ground-pounders, just you wait, I’ll put an end to–” Someone forces a muzzle on him, his voice gurgling into a pain-filled whine, and only his optics plead with his subordinate Seeker to do her duty as disgraced Captain and rescue her humiliated Commander, to do what a sister must to save her brother.
She trembles, as if to restrain herself, then lunges, like she might swoop in and spare him this captivity, only for a servo to seize her wrist and hold her back with astonishing strength.
“Grrrmph! Hmmmph-mmmph!”
“Let him go,” Windblade intones with a sort of tender severity, willing to discard a mech who has more than justified her abhorrence, yet trying to comfort a femme she loves. “It’s finished. You’re free.”
Starscream never takes his optics off Slipstream. Not for a second of this humiliation does he look away. As he is dragged out, immobilised, wounded, he stares at her, and she stares at him, until the doors seal shut between them, breaking optic-contact.
Windblade holds fast the entire time.
Only then, with the physical obstacle serving as a barrier of sight, the Seeker averts her gaze, condemning her Commander to captivity.
The Cityspeaker rubs her cheek against a pauldron that trembles, still. Her grip is unrelenting.
Alpha Trion is cold and greyscale by now, his immortal Spark having departed from this mortal shell, returning to the source – the AllSpark itself.
Kneeling in stagnant, stinking filth, Orion’s larger, stronger digits are painted in bodily fluids as he tries to gently pluck out and scoop up whatever bits of his mentor’s destroyed facial rigging that can be found, assembling a wet pile of gore beside the corpse. It will take hours of silent labour and it will amount ultimately to nothing but catharsis, which is everything.
Ariel does not stop this ritualistic motion, instead lending her rugged aid, scooping up the severed spinal strut and laying it beside Alpha Trion’s beastly body. There, she kneels, stroking the ancient. She remembers how he used to purr, half asleep curled up on his mentee’s desk, knocking off stationary with his overflowing feline bulk and utterly unaffected by any complaints, more akin to a gigantic glorified pet cybercat than a beast of war.
A sob echoes in the ruin of the inner sanctum.
Slipstream applies a cold compress to Chromia’s cheek with a motherly kiss to her forehelm to soothe the wincing, garnering a soft, sore smile, before proceeding to tend to a wound in Ironhide’s thigh that weeps where he was stabbed, fortunately not deeply enough to do much damage to his mighty frame.
Windblade stands guard a short distance off, glare sweeping rubble, on high alert and in a foul mood. Something crunches under a careful step and she turns sharply, optics fierce and focused on some spot in particular that alerts her to an intruder, reaching for her sword seemingly unprovoked to anyone else. “Who goes there? Show yourself!”
“Just me, Wimbles.”
“Flamewar?”
“Yup.”
“Careful! You startled me.”
“Sorry.” Flamewar materialises with a shimmer and a smile. “I was cloaked, so I could get close. ” Her Deceptibrand glows as bright as her optics. “Didn’t wanna spook anyone. Just checking in on Slippy.”
“Yes, well, it’s been a day.”
“Tell me about it.”
Windblade relents with a huff. “I’m in my protector mode and easily spooked, for what little good that does anyone.”
“You did plenty good today. You stopped Starscream, right? Got the Decepticons talking. They’re scared of you.”
“So they should be. With Starscream locked up, Slip can finally move on, with me. I will never let anyone impede on our happiness like that, ever again.”
“You’re dreamy when you get tough,” Flamewar says with a peculiar sort of sincerity that is actually quite endearing. “I was right to trust Slippy to you in the end. I knew you’d fight for her, so I don’t gotta worry about her all the time. Besides, boss bot needs me. A girl can only spread herself so thin, you know?”
“I know.” Windblade swallows thickly, optics welling with emotion. “Thank you. Um. Can I…?”
“Whatcha need, Wimbles?”
“Can I ask for a hug?”
“Sure. No harm in asking.”
Slipstream looks up and sees Flamewar step into Windblade’s embrace.
Chromia and Ironhide pass a lukewarm canteen between them, conversing in low, masculine grunts.
“I’m so sorry.”
Ariel’s digits tremble as she scoops up Captain Snuffles’ broken little body and holds him to her cheek, grimacing deeply with pain.
“He was already gone by the time I found him,” Arcee says softly, sifting through the crystalline shards of a shattered terrarium to salvage what little organic material she can, but everything is dead.
“Those damned Decepticons did this.”
“They didn’t know any better. They’re ignorant, scared, like you’ve always said.”
“I have no empathy to spare tonight.”
“That’s… okay. It’s okay to feel your feelings, think your thoughts.”
“I should’ve stayed out there. I never would’ve come back to Cybertron, if I’d known this was coming.”
Arcee is deeply hurt to hear that. After all, meeting Ariel has been a wonderful experience, sharing in their fascination over organic alien life has been a beautiful bond.
For a while, nothing more is said.
“I’m going to destroy the leftovers I can’t preserve.”
“Destroy?”
“Disposing of them, I mean, as safely as I can. Dead organics spread rot.”
“Rot’s harmless to us. We don’t rot.”
“You haven’t seen them rot. These beautiful little things aren’t built like we are. Their lifespans tend to be so brief, a blink. Captain Snuffles is actually a sample taken from unusually long-lived species. I kept a whole colony, once, and he’s all I had left.” Ariel’s broad pink pauldrons buckle. “I don’t want to see Captain Snuffles decay like that.”
Arcee is silenced.
Ravage searches the habitation suite, but he cannot find Hot Rod. A mewl of panic proceeds a mad dash under the berth, as if to hide.
Soundwave follows the cry, kneels on the synthetic carpet, and tries to coax out the unhappy cybercat. “Come to me, my Ravage.”
Meow.
“He’s alright.”
Ravage crawls out from under the berth, allowing himself to be scooped up and held against the firm, warm breadth of a familiar cassette compartment, a safe refuge he recognises by sight and smell and sensation.
“Dad’s spending the night with a friend,” Soundwave says, his synthesised undertone tuned down into a gentle melody. “I made him mad. Don’t blame him, blame me.”
An intelligent creature, the cybercat swipes at his handler, hissing, but the claws are kept sheathed. This is character development. This is trauma, tentatively mended, yet far from overcome.
The harmless attack breaks Soundwave’s spark. He hugs Ravage just a little tighter, enduring another punishing swipe. “I’m sorry.”
Windblade stands under the downpour of hot oil and foamy solvent, washing off the bodily filth, yet the dirty thoughts and feelings inside her cannot be scrubbed away. Her movements are slow and numb despite how much it hurts.
As the shower cubicle is rather large and luxuriant, afforded by a Cityspeaker’s privileged position, the larger Chromia is able to bathe herself without waiting her turn. Her handsome cheek blooms with Energon below the surface of her synthetic skin, forming an ugly bruise. She moves stiffly, mechanically lathering herself.
Slipstream rests her forehelm against the tiles and just lingers in still silence.
Orion is so large now that his modest, practical berth cannot comfortably accommodate himself and another large body, when he used to be able to barely squeeze a sizeable partner in place beside himself before. It has never been an issue, as he rarely takes anyone else to berth, but now he cannot, even though he wants to. The slab makes painful sounds under his weight and he fears it may collapse under himself, laid with someone else, even if space would permit.
Ariel does not complain, laid out on the floor beside the recharge slab, wrapped in an anti-scratch blanket, helm at rest on a synthetic pillow, staring at the ceiling, guarding him rather than recharging. Despite his protestations, she insisted he take the berth and she take the floor, so that she might react quickly to any threat and he might find some rest.
With a creak and a sad sigh he rolls over and dangles his massive, reconfigured forearm over the edge, digits reaching. “Ariel?”
She quickly captures his servo in her own, squeezing him in reassurance. “I’m here, Orion.”
“Do not go. Please.”
“I won’t leave you, old mech.”
“Thank you,” he says, voice deepened, borne from a bigger source than before, majestic yet fragile with such pain.
“It’s okay. You’re just dreaming.”
Stormfall cuts ancient designs into Starscream, whose face is a gurgling wet blur devoured within Windblade’s sacred shadow.
“Hear my voice, Slip. Wake up.”
Slipstream revives in a cold sweat, yelping aloud, sitting up in berth and thrashing with panic.
Chromia absorbs a reflexive kick with her stoic endurance, seizing the ankle and pinning it calmly to the berth.
Windblade grieves as a burly arm is raised against her, not to attack, but to defend, as if she is the aggressor in this nest they made together. The sorrow she feels, the shame.
“Calm yourself, Slipstream. You’re safe. It’s only a nightmare.”
The Seeker’s optics are on the Cityspeaker, wide and burning.
“Look at me,” the bike intones firmly, but not unkindly.
After some frantic staring, under which Windblade dies a little more inside, Slipstream drags her optics over to Chromia.
“The battle is over. You are safe.”
“I… I am safe.”
“We love you, we will protect you from harm, we are not your enemy. Starscream cannot hurt you here. Megatron cannot hurt you here. Here, you are home, with us.”
The Seeker nods rapidly, forcing herself to relax, lowering her guard with a little whimper.
“Come,” the bike instructs, opening her arms and baring her breastplate, drawing the bigger femme into an embrace.
The Cityspeaker slumps, sagging elegantly upon their berth. All her friends consider her their hero, yet here, at her most intimate, at her most vulnerable, at home, she is the villain.
Chromia reclines once more, pulling Slipstream down with her, and gives Windblade a gentle look of invitation.
“I’ll be right back,” the Cityspeaker says, leaving their berth instead.
“Where are you going?”
“Out. Just a quick flight, to clear my helm. Don’t wait up for me. Get some sleep.”
The bike sighs, nodding once, cradling the Seeker to her armoured breasts.
“I love you,” Windblade says like it is an apology, then slinks out with her helm down and gaze forlorn.
“Love you too,” Slipstream mumbles, then buries her face plate in Chromia’s firm, warm bosom.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“Alright, then.”
“Do you?”
“Not particularly.”
“Okay.”
The bike nuzzles the Seeker’s helm, large blue servos stroking boxy purple pauldrons.
The Cityspeaker lets herself out of her habitation suite and transforms into the starry sky, ascending on aching rotors.
“You do not need to watch over me all night. ”
Skywarp chirps lowly at that, adorably serious. She is not a serious Seeker, she does not give way to sombre moods. She is the resident prankster. And yet she is an excellent assistant and dutiful to her General. Besides, losing Starscream has killed any laughter.
“Though, I cannot complain. Your company is pleasant.” Alpha Strike’s optics twinkle as she rubs her arm, recently attended to by Knock Out. “Other femmes, they talk, talk, talk, talk too much. Not you. Your speech is not grating, to me.”
Another chirp, enquiring.
“I am fine.” A rumbling chuckle, surprisingly relaxed, intended to reassure. “I have survived worse.”
Skywarp’s frown deepens. She remains perched on the edge of the recharge slab, naturally graceful as befitting a flier, her optics burning in the dim as she watches Alpha Strike rub her wounded arm, the great old femme firmly refusing sedation upon insisting that the medicine be dispensed to those who cannot bear it otherwise, as if the shell had not been ripped away, baring tender protoform flesh.
“Come closer.” The General extends her unimpeded servo. “I wish to commend you, young one.”
The Seeker shuffles along on her aft, then leans in a bit, laying her palm over that far larger servo.
“You were excellent. I find no fault in your service. Be proud, as your Commander would be proud. It grieves me that I must take pride for you, in his place.”
Skywarp finds herself flopping over, collapsing atop Alpha Strike’s bulk, playing with her massive digits for comfort, helm at rest on the ample breastplate.
“Your purpose is more precious, now. My ranks have thinned more than I predicted. My heavies fell in battle, my strategies failed, and I must mourn. To die in combat is a glorious death, yet…” The General’s thumb brushes over the Seeker’s palm. “I failed the dead. Young lives, wasted. Never before have I lost a battle. If I had lost you…”
Skywarp silences Alpha Strike with a smile.
“Mommy, I hurt.”
“Oh, I know, sweetie. I’m sorry.”
Empress rubs at her throat as she mutters darkly, “Pour me another, won’t you?”
“But it hurts to swallow. Mommy doesn’t wanna hurt you, not like this.”
“The high-grade will leave me delightfully numb, in due time. Please, pour me another, cyberswan.”
Thunderblast sighs, but relents. She pours out another measure, passes over the crystalline flute, then almost swoons as she is pulled into that ample lap.
“This is a wicked thing to admit, but seeing you so genuinely sorry for me, so worried over me…”
The boat leans into the thumb that traces her pretty jawline.
The gladiator inhales deeply, exhales shakily. “I’ve seduced a countless multitude of femmes. But that’s just the thing – they’re bewitched, but it’s insincere, they can’t be helped. I see how you fret over me and you care about me. Oh, how I’ve ached for companionship with someone sincere and–”
A soft chuckle interrupts.
“My dear, why is that amusing?”
“I’m just not used to being called sincere. Manipulative, deceitful, treacherous, sure. But sincere? That’s almost like being called honest.”
“You’re honest with me.”
“Aw, sweetie. You say that, even though you know I got big plans for you.”
“See? I knew that from the start. There was your profile on the database with hints about your unsavoury character and bloodied past, but you never hid those intentions when we were getting to know each other. From the start, you craved power, you craved my power, you craved power through me, and you craved the ultimate power, Megatron’s power. You desire me, you find me appealing, yet I’m a tool for you, not the other way around. Do you know why I like you so much?”
“I got perky tits and a fat aft and legs that go on forever?”
“Well, those too, but I like you because you’re refreshing. You’re different from all those other girls.”
Thunderblast flushes, posing prettily on Empress’ lap.
“Compare yourself to Nova Storm. I am fond of the poor thing, but she pales compared to you. She would do almost anything I ask, not because she cares sincerely about me, but because of my allure. But you, cyberswan, you obey me because you want to, you like to, since making me happy pleases you, and in turn you boss me around so effortlessly. Well, after some initial resistance, on my part. I had to get used to it, being challenged, dominated, and I surrendered as I grew to appreciate it. Now, it isn’t about finding entertainment in you, or using you to my own ends. No, my dear. You just might have exactly what I’ve been missing.”
“Wow. We’re both really toxic and kinda romantic at the same time, huh.”
“Mmhm. I want you, cyberswan, but only if you choose me,” the gladiator intones in all seriousness, now. “I want a sincere companion, not another thrall.”
The boat’s golden optics narrow in thought, downcast. “Is that why you won’t frag me?”
“It’s why I’ve been hesitant, yes.”
“Have you ever laid with a femme, before?”
“No.”
“A mech?”
“No.”
“Anyone?”
“No one.”
“Oh, Primus.” Thunderblast lays a palm over her own bosom, dent buffered out. “You’re still sealed.”
“I want my first time to be with an equal,” Empress says softly, turning her queenly helm aside, hellish optics pondering the contents of her cup. “The few femmes who could resist me, I’ve never had the opportunity to take to my berth, for whatever reasons. For example, Ariel is among the enemy.”
“Mm. She’s really hot. For an old lady, I mean.”
“Yes, well, one can’t be faulted for admiring her. She seems immune to my allure, bold enough to beat me up. I like her for that.”
The boat draws shapes over the gladiator’s breastplate. “Sweetie, can we–?”
Empress pulls her plump, dark dermas into a thin, lopsided line.
“Okay. No worries. I’ll wait.”
“I’m not sure how long I’ll keep you waiting.”
“However long it takes until you can trust me.”
“You say that, when it’s I who has this awful allure.”
“I think you’re beautiful, I’d bend you over and break your seal right now if you asked me to, but I can control myself. You don’t gotta worry. You’re not irresistible.”
The gladiator gives the boat a sidelong look.
“I’ve seduced loads of people. Maybe I don’t have, like, quite the influence you do, but I can get most people to do what I want. If anything, I was figuring I could use you to brainwash the femme Cybertronian populace, so they’ll all bow to me.”
“Oh, yes, I know that.”
“But I’m being sincere. Does that sound like something a hapless thrall would say?”
Empress heaves a soft sigh as Thunderblast quirks an optic ridge.
“Mommy asked you a question.”
“No, mommy, you don’t sound like a thrall. You sound like you have your faculties intact.”
“That’s better. Though, truth be told, I have been called insane before, but I killed that guy anyway, so who cares what he thinks?”
Hot Rod cuddles Bumblebee like a toy, huddled together on the couch, watching old Cube reruns on the holoscreen.
“Dude. That was totally a foul.”
“I know, right. The ref was sleeping on that one.”
“For real.”
All of a sudden, Hot Rod bursts into another onset of tears.
Bumblebee wriggles in his friend’s arms, shifting so as to cup his handsome cheeks and kiss his forehelm.
“This s-sucks, bro.”
“I gotcha, sweet Spark.”
Windblade lets herself in without bothering to knock at this hour. She finds the mechs and silently joins them, drawing them both against herself and leaving her wings unsheathed so as to envelop them with avian protectiveness.
Bumblebee keeps one palm pressed to Hot Rod’s tear-stained cheek, stroking slow circles with a thumb. The spare servo finds Windblade’s helm, blunt digits rubbing affectionately behind her audial.
As she bends her neck and tilts herself to better facilitate the affection with a soft metallic coo, Hot Rod cannot resist a wet giggle.
The storm passed hours ago, yet Acid Storm throws their tools aside in a fit of passion, as if still riled by the burning rain.
Shockwave is too stunned to offer a reprimand.
“Star, you idiot. You fragging fool.”
The scientist’s singular optic follows the Seeker as they leave their workstation.
“I didn’t do enough. Slip was right. I should’ve done more, said something. The two of us might’ve made a difference. Now she’s gone, and he’s gone, and my idiot Seekers pay the price. And for what? Failure.”
“It is not all lost.”
“You’re right. At the very least, I guess Starscream solved our repopulation crisis, until we run out of frozen Sparks to thaw, so we won’t go extinct quite so soon, but the end is nigh for Seeker kind anyway.”
“It is of no consequence. We will solve every problem through scientific enquiry.”
“Well, great. All that being said, I just want my family back.”
The emotional matrix is not entirely unfeeling. Logic dictates, but it does not dominate. Something stirs within.
“I just can’t concentrate on any of that. Not now, not like this.”
“Acknowledged. Permission granted to partake in recreation or recharge. I will continue my work unassisted.”
“That’s hardly fair to you.”
“You are distressed. I am not so cruel. Seek rest and distraction. Leave me to my labour.”
“And you have had even less rest than I have. You never let yourself get distracted.”
“False,” Shockwave says under his vents, admiring Acid Storm’s emerald green shell, such a handsome contrast to their ruby optics.
The Seeker stares at nothing for some moments, then turns to look back at the scientist. “False?”
Once again, Shockwave is too late to look away. “False.”
“I see.”
He feels perspired coolant running down his spinal seam.
“You do tend to stare.” It is said so matter-of-factly as to border on being insubordinate, but it is simply the truthful observation.
“Affirmative,” he mumbles, fiddling absently with whatever.
Acid Storm approaches on powerful strides, drawing close enough to brush their field against his. Normally, they are unerringly calm, as if emotionally restrained, preferring intellect over sentiment, a perfect accompaniment to himself. Now, however, their field radiates something akin to agitation and excitement.
The scientist timidly looks up, finials flattening against his featureless helm. “Do you… require something?” he drones with a shiver, his own field shy, almost coy.
“A distraction,” the Seeker utters, forgetting their station, neglecting protocol and duty. “The way the light hits your shell and draws out those hues of purple…”
“Do you observe that I am… aesthetically pleasing?”
“Yes. You’re pretty.”
Starscream is gone. Slipstream is gone.
Acid Storm does have feelings, after all.
Shockwave’s optic follows a big, strong servo as it traces his multi-tool, stroking the tube of it.
“Is this okay?” the Seeker asks quietly, their touch very light, very gentle.
After a moment of contemplation, the scientist murmurs a demure, “Affirmative.”
“Are you sure?”
“Affirmative.”
“If you change your mind–”
“I will communicate. Affirmative.”
They lick their dermas to wet them, then scoop up his arm bearing the multi-tool, drawing the tube upward into their soft, moist kisses, maintaining electrifying optic-contact the entire time their dermas navigate his multi-tool.
His finials jerk upward, erect atop his helm.
“Does that feel nice?”
“Affirmative.”
“Good.” They kiss their way from base to tip, going slowly and softly, smearing wet marks over his polish. Upon encountering the opening of the tube, they nibble at the rim of the aperture, then dip their glossa shallowly inside his multi-tool.
He gasps, squirming in his seat.
They worm their glossa about, then blow air into the moistened tube.
“Is this… a sufficient distraction?”
“For now. Though I’d like more.”
“Acknowledged. You may… proceed, as you wish.”
“The moment I make you feel uncomfortable–”
“I will inform you of such, and you will immediately cease and desist.”
Acid Storm nods, then covers the tip of the multi-tool with their entire intake, hollowing their cheeks and suckling hard, moaning a little theatrically, but their optics are twinkling with genuine desire.
Shockwave’s optic rolls back with a low drone of sheer pleasure.
“Are you ready to try going back to sleep?”
Slipstream sucks on Chromia’s breastplate, grunting reluctantly in affirmative.
“I can’t promise to keep the bad dreams away. That’s just not how trauma works. Nobody can promise that.” The bike kisses the Seeker’s helm, rubbing the back of her neck soothingly, speaking to her in a soft voice. “But I can promise you, I’ll be right here the whole time you’re dreaming, and I’ll still be here when you wake up.”
This is better than nothing.
Acid Storm finally withdraws, popping off the multi-tool with a strand of oral lubricant bridging the gap. Flushed and visibly aroused, they pant over the glistening appendage, wringing it between their palms.
“Query.”
“Yes?”
Shockwave indicates their emerald frame, sat on his workstation in a most unprofessional manner, scattering his tools. “How may I reciprocate?”
This makes them smile fondly at him, as they sometimes do, one of the few individuals to ever smile at him at all.
He aches deliciously whenever this happens.
“I don’t usually use my interface array. I prefer to go with cables.”
He sags with relief.
They quirk a brow. “You, too?”
“Affirmative. Though so few understand. Wheeljack understood.”
“He’s a lovely mech.”
A slow nod.
The Seeker still smiles fondly at the scientist.
“Will this be a mutual feed?”
“Yes, please. Give and take, for the both of us. Don’t worry, my anti-malware and anti-virus are fully updated and complex.”
“I trust you.”
Acid Storm’s flush deepens, as does their beautiful smile.
Shockwave transforms his torso plating aside, baring his ports and plugs with a deep sigh.
They follow suit, eagerly grasping a plug and pulling out the attached cable, extended toward his port.
He gently intercepts before they can plug into him, taking the length of cable that unspools from their body and caressing it.
“Ah, frag,” the Seeker utters with a lurch of desire, wings ejecting to quiver at their back. “Please!”
The scientist lets out a low, seductively analytical, “Hmm, curious response,” as if this is actually unexpected. “A proper analysis requires the acquisition of further… data.” He proceeds to rub that cable back and forth, squeezing the rubber binding softly in his fist, pinching at the plug on the end. “You seem to be running hot. Fascinating.”
“Ohhh!”
“Do you want to sample my data?”
“Yes!”
“Do you want to siphon your data?”
“Yes, yes, yes!” Acid Storm throws their helm aside, clawing at their own chassis, rubbing their thighs together. “Give it to me! Take it from me!” It has been ages for them.
“Then let us begin the data transfer.” Teasingly, Shockwave attempts to plug in, only to feign missing the port, brushing against it instead. “Connection failed.” He tries again, pretending to miss, poking and prodding ineffectually as he shudders, cooling fans whirring alive. “Error. Reattempting entry.” By the third attempt, he simply drags the plug around his port, as if he might solidify their connection at any moment, his optic narrowed with satisfaction. His port is hot, tender, receptive to this plug, but such an opportunity to feel something with someone is so very rare, and so he intends to savour it. “Hmm. Perhaps your plug is too… large, for entry.”
“Gahhh! You slag!” They huff and puff, squirming. “At least let me plug you in!”
“Go slowly,” the scientist says, unspooling his own plug and extending the cable from his torso, trustingly offering it to the Seeker, dangling temptingly from his slick multi-tool. “Tease me.”
“With pleasure,” the Seeker mutters, seizing the cable tightly enough to make him wince, only to make him gasp as they press his plug against the flat of their glossa, tasting the bittersweet tang.
“Hrrrgh!” As they set to licking his plug, he wraps an arm around them, pulling both bodies together, nuzzling into their muscular neck.
They throw open their thighs and ensnare him from below in turn, modesty panels remaining sealed, a burly green arm wrapped about his chassis so digits may play with his trembling back strut, seeking transformation seams.
“Plug me in,” Shockwave moans, actually moans.
“Let’s both do it,” Acid Storm purrs huskily back, “at the same time.”
Thus the scientist and the Seeker’s smouldering plugs find one another’s aching ports, forming a connection between them, a transfer of data back and forth mutually in an endless loop, a stream of shared sensation, permitting only pleasure.
Data transfers can be used at their most basic level to transplant information from donor to receiver, though more advanced uses include procedures undergone between patients and medics. Data transfers can also be used to do harm, such as the transfer of viruses or malware, and even pain can be transferred. When specific impulses are sent, the data that is transferred is informational sensation.
In their case, it is ecstasy.
Windblade returns to find Chromia and Slipstream asleep, intertwined, beautiful and beloved, but this picture is incomplete, it has to be, one cannot bear contemplating removing oneself to better this scene, to benefit this family. No, such thinking is unconscionable.
They will just have to figure things out and somehow solve this, together. Altogether.
The first few hours of captivity, Starscream curses loudly and beats his fists against the Energon forcefield until they bleed, as if to demand someone release him, or break himself free. When this does not work, he spends the following few hours pacing, poking and prodding as he explores the confines of his cell, plotting to no effect. He then finds himself laid out on the cot and finds it cold, hard, lonely. At last, he thinks of his own prisoner back at the Decepticon compound.
Jetfire. Did he curse loudly and beat his fists until they bled? Did he pace, poke, prod, plot to no effect? Did he lay himself out on his cot and find it cold, hard lonely?
Starscream curls in on himself.
Notes:
I've been alluding to a blossoming romance between Acid Storm and Shockwave. As this is Chapter 69, they got their freak on, sensual-style.
Thank you for reading, and an extra thank you for the feedback thus far - I’m working toward the end of Synchronicity and I really appreciate the generosity. As always, constructive criticism, suggestions and questions are welcome.
Chapter 70
Notes:
This chapter is quite depressing. Please take care of yourself.
Possible trigger warnings: use of small electrical shocks to elicit pleasure, depression, suicidal ideation, body horror and the shame of being perceived, manipulative and abusive family dynamics with mention of grooming an adult to fulfill a predestined role, the robot equivalent of consuming alcohol to avoid grief (not to the extent of alcoholism).
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Good morning,” Acid Storm greets pleasantly, already seated with a tray of rations, awaiting their constant companion and superior.
Shockwave offers a shy nod in reply, taking his seat opposite at the small, sterile table. As he has his drones, he only needs one laboratory assistant, thus the two are virtually alone together almost all the time. He is curious to see how things between them develop, now that they have sampled one another’s sensory data. “Greetings.”
The Seeker nonchalantly extends a leg under the table, brushing their ankle joint against the scientist’s own, initiating contact with a placid smile.
He flushes hotly, fumbles for an Energon cube, and does not tell them to stop because he likes it, it is new and exciting after being sterile and solitary for so long. As he lacks a conventional face and a conventional intake to go with it, he extracts a feeding tube tipped with a proboscis from his torso, usually tucked discretely below a rib plate, inserting it to begin consumption. It is very disconcerting to most people.
“Did you recharge well?” they ask mildly as they hike their leg up, tracing his metal with the tip of a pede until stopping at his knee, tucked behind to nuzzle into the vulnerable backside of the joint itself, keenly sensitive, erogenous.
“Affirmative.”
“Good.”
“Was your recharge sufficient?”
“Yes, thank you. For the most part.”
“You were not too cold? Too hot?”
“Perfectly temperate. Although…”
“…Although?”
“I did think of you,” Acid Storm confesses with a demure tilt of the helm, drawing shapes over the edge of their Energon cube, partially depleted. It is the fortified, artificially produced blend and it tastes foul even with some modification. “I did dream of you.”
“Query.”
“Ask me anything.”
“Were these thoughts and dreams… pleasant?”
“Pleasurable.”
“Acknowledged.” Shockwave hums lowly, finials quivering atop his featureless helm, punished as he is by the empurata process that removed his face, though he had been permitted to keep his servos as the old Senate deemed him brilliant enough to be useful to them, albeit dangerous enough to shun. Out of spite, he removed one of his servos himself, replacing it with the multi-tool and turning the severed servo into a drone. The Senate is now gone, yet he persists to do his work. “Then I have been a sufficient distraction.”
The Seeker drags their glossa over the edge of their Energon cube, optics narrowed, lenses overblown, flushed with keen interest. Depression, manifesting as the urge to frag, the urge to feel good.
“Query.” The scientist closes his legs, trapping the other’s exploratory pede between his knee joints, hugged snugly and pinned in place. “Do you desire to interface?” He would like to feel good for once, too.
“Yes, please.”
“Affirmative. Let us consume our rations prior to commencement. We have some time.”
They smile at him with such affection.
“It is… logical that we fuel first.”
“Do you find yourself tempted to fuel after?”
He looks down, looks up, sets his tray aside and reaches across the table to cup their handsome, beautiful, interchangeable face. He leans in with a gust of heat from his vents as if to kiss that smile, but he lacks an intake, and can only bump his muzzle against their dermas. “Insufficient,” he says quietly, heavily, his low drone actually quite sad.
“No. It is enough.”
“I do not know this mech,” Orion says to his reflection, stooped over the sink with solvent dripping from his chin, in the process of scrubbing his dentas.
“You’re still my guy,” Ariel replies, running a soft textile over herself to administer polish and hopefully minimise the scuffs and scrapes from the battle. Her severed stump of a sensory spire hurts less severely now thanks to administered painkilling protocols, the wound sealed courtesy of a medic last night. The sensory nodes will atrophy and die without harming the rest of her helm’s inner workings or overall sensation, which suits her fine, as she has no intention of reconstructing and thus replacing the spire. No. She will keep this ugly battle-scar in sympathy with her best friend, who feels disfigured. “You’ll always be my guy.”
His optics are still the same, he supposes with a vague nod intended to comfort her, more than himself.
Shockwave grasps Acid Storm’s firm, tight little aft with the one servo he still has attached to himself, thumbing at their rear port with his low, analytical humming sounds of intense study.
“Your multi-tool can send electrical impulses, which you normally use on your drones. However…” Leaning over the table, trays pushed aside to avoid the waste of spillage, the Seeker turns to smirk back at the scientist from over a broad pauldron. “I want you to use that on me, back there, if you’re comfortable trying it out.”
“I am willing. I will keep the charge low.”
“I trust you.”
Energon pumps through the tube that feeds additional fuel to the mangled arm bearing his multi-tool. He feels the throbbing as he carefully presses the unyielding tube to the rim of their waste port, then pushes in slowly, shallowly, only so that his tip penetrates the stretched mesh.
Their moan is soft and sweet. They are not riled by any storm this morning. The weather is pleasant and so they are returned to their typically calm self. It is endlessly fascinating.
“I wish to… study you.”
“Oh, yes. Treat me like an experiment.”
“I will determine…” He leans over them from behind, resting his helm on their broad back strut, nuzzling into the bend in their neck. “What makes you tick.” His embedded multi-tool hums, vibrates.
“Haaahhh…”
“Mm.”
“Oh, Primus, oh, oh, oh…”
He releases charge, a small burst of energy within their aft.
They jerk, jolted with a soft cry, wings ejecting to flutter erect, digits scraping over the table.
“Status?”
“Aroused.”
“Proceed?”
“More.”
Shockwave nods, recharges, and releases another small burst, rippling within muscular protoform fibres that jostle and flex, afthole tightening about the nozzle of his buried multi-tool.
Acid Storm laughs breathily as drool drips from their hanging jaw, optics rolled back, hips stiffly twitching for friction, aft impaled and stung.
The scientist reaches around, running his intact servo slowly, sensually up and down the Seeker’s potent physique, cupping the flat and broad swell of their breastplate, the knotted tapering of their belly, back and forth, avoiding their modesty panels.
They cry out as he sends more energy into them, muscles distending with the rippling charge that sears through their protoform and stings their neural net, sensory nodes engorged and lubricant production automatically increasing, oozing down the cleft of their stuffed aft despite the obstruction of his penetrating multi-tool. Again, and again, and again, to the chorus of giggles and yelps and whimpers.
He eventually closes his optic and rests his helm on their shuddering back strut, contentedly quiet, reassured by how solid and strong they are, withstanding his weight and electrical impulses with orgasmic delight that grants him pleasure too. They are such an excellent laboratory assistant and companion. He does like them. He does want them.
“Shockwave… I’m close…”
“You may overload when ready, Acid Storm.”
All in all, not a bad way to start this new day.
Ariel strides out the habitation suite, pausing when she realises she is not being followed. She turns back, tries to smile reassuringly. “Ready to go?”
Orion shakes his helm and his battle mask slides into place, concealing his grimace. Instantly irritated, he paws at his own face as if to pry it off, growling deeply.
“Hey. Hey! Hey, hey, hey…”
“This is not… me! I am not…”
“Easy, big guy. You’ll hurt yourself.” She pries his clawing digits aside with force, then gently cups his jaw, suddenly pressed against him, gazing up into his anguished optics. “We’ll figure it out, together. Okay. There are some changes to process, sure, but we’ll work on them. It’ll be okay.”
“I do not want to go out there. I do not want them to see me, like… this.”
“You gotta go out there, you gotta face the world you’re trying to save.”
“Go on without me.”
“No way. We’re going this thing, together. We’re a team. I suck with people. You’re good at speeches and making public appearances. Sentinel can’t do this with just my grumpy aft. He needs you just as much as I do.”
“It is hard, Ariel! It is so difficult. I…”
She sucks in air, lets it out shakily. “I know, sweet Spark.”
He sniffles, muffled by the armoured plate that conceals the lower half of his face.
“You’re hurting.”
“I want my dad,” the old mech says in his big voice.
“I miss him too,” the old femme intones, stroking the face guard until, somehow, it retracts and her callused thumbs find soft dermas. “After all we’ve been through, you can’t just give up and hide yourself away. Alpha Trion entrusted you with that… thing, in your chest. You’re vital, Orion. I dunno what any of it means, what you said last night made frag all sense to me, but I’m here for you and you’ve gotta push through and be here for Cybertron. It’s what your dad would’ve wanted.”
Orion blinks rapidly, but the tears fall freely. “How could he do this to me?”
“It’s unfair. But it’s done. We’ll just have to make do. Don’t drive yourself crazy wondering why he did it. Just focus on the path ahead. We’ll walk it, run it, fall down and pick ourselves back up, together.” Ariel has no answer better than that. “Listen, Orion, you know what my pep talks are like.” An attempt at a grin. “They’re the worst, just the worst.”
“Yes, I recall your pep talks fondly.” A wet chuckle.
“But I promise you, I’ll help you carry the weight of this burden.” She presses her fist to his bosom, very gently. “And when you find that inward strength, I’ll be right here to cheer you on. And stuff.”
“And… stuff.”
“Yeah. All the stuff. Whatever you need, I got it locked down.”
“I will be in dire need of your stuff, old friend.”
Acid Storm turns around, halfway laid over the table, thighs open wide. “Frag me.”
“With this?” Shockwave inspects his slick multi-tool, glistening about the barrel and dripping from the opening.
“With that.”
“Affirmative.”
The Seeker sighs as the scientist steps between their thighs, feels for their afthole, and squeezes his multi-tool within the puckered port. “Go deeper.”
“I will exercise caution.”
“Am I too tight?”
“That is up to you to ascertain. However, caution on my part is advised.”
“You can be a little rough with me. I’m sturdy enough.”
“Our interfacing is… unconventional. I lack empirical data to reliably–”
The kiss him. Somehow, despite lacking a true face, they kiss him with passion, even for one so placid.
He is hushed, swooning into their arms, falling against their emerald breast.
“Then consider this the testing phase. We’ll assemble the data, together, over and over again until neither of us can walk.”
“That is…” His optic widens adorably as his logic centre tries to calculate a response. “Error.”
They giggle softly. His typically robotic stoicism is appealing to them, not off-putting.
Where logic fails, he closes the small gap between their helms, leaning in for another kiss.
They sigh into it, wrapping burly arms about his neck and pauldrons, thighs slung around his hips. In the midst of kissing him senseless, they murmur, “Deeper, remember?” As he obliges them, they moan. “Yes, like that. Slowly.”
He silently gropes for their belly plates, coaxing them to transform aside, obligingly baring their port and plug. His digits explore here.
They whine, squirming already. They allow him to pull out their plug, optics warm and kind as he drags it all over himself, everywhere except his own port. “Tease.”
He laughs deeply, quietly, and finally plugs them into himself, jerking at the sensory overload. If not for their support, he might collapse.
“Mm, that’s delightful, thank you.”
He seeks more kisses whilst allowing them to pump their data into him, fogging up his systems with pleasurable feedback. He feels strong digits pluck at his own plug, flicking it, pinching it until he shudders, then finally unspooling the cable from his belly and plugging him into their port.
They mewl, wings aflutter, spinal seam arching away from him, necessitating that he pursues them through the pleasure, chasing their kisses, nestling within their muscular arms and thighs. They hug him tightly as they ride out his data surge.
Shockwave’s internal components rumble when his insistent, needy nuzzles are rewarded and he is kissed and nibbled all over his featureless face. He does not protest when a glossa swipes across his optic, smearing oral lubricant over the sensitive lens, shutters fluttering. “Oh, Acid Storm…”
“Shockwave, I feel you, I’m so full of your data… I feel you, fragging my tight little aft…”
“Do not stop – repeat – do not stop…”
The rations are entirely forgotten.
His swollen plug is snug within their tight, hot port, and in turn the Seeker’s own hungry plug throbs within the scientist’s neglected port. Between the two, data passes back and forth in and endless loop of pleasure. Their servos are upon him as he thrusts his multi-tool in their aft, his digits at play with a wing, and they kiss him whilst murmuring positive affirmations he is too clumsy to reciprocate, but he tries, and they appreciate him for it.
However, though the morning is still young, time is running out. There is much work to be done.
“I understand if you refuse. It is an inconvenient thing to ask of you. You work so hard and he has hurt you. Yet, if you could spare an hour or two, I would accompany you to the cells and you would accompany me, as in truth, I… I do not wish to go alone,” Orion says deeply, slowly, in his pleasantly ponderous way, rubbing his huge bicep and ducking his stately helm self-consciously, aware of the stares. “Please do not feel you must appease an old mech. It is… merely a humble request.” He easily stands above the crowd due to his newfound statute. He stands out, and he does not like it.
Slipstream’s big, gooey Spark aches for him. She throws herself into his larger frame, hugging him tight.
He gazes down at her with soft, sad optics, his fatherly arms enveloping her with warmth, yet it is she who reassures him.
“I gotta go. But I don’t wanna go alone, either.”
“Well, this is a surprise.”
Roulette retracts her visor to expose her bright blue optics, narrowed.
“Good morning, sis.” Shadow Striker heaves a sigh, opening her arms for a hug. “Pity you’re not here ’cause you missed me so bad.”
“Indeed. Such a pity.”
“Reel it in, you mean old glitch.”
The sisters embrace, lingering like this in silence for some time.
“Hi.”
“Oh, it’s you.”
“Yeah, sorry. I’m kinda a permanent fixture of her life now.”
“Yes, I suppose so. Hello.”
“Nice to see ya, at least from my side.” Flamewar offers a fist to bump. “We chill?”
Roulette huffs, but accepts, gently bringing her larger knuckles against hers. “Assuming she didn’t rejoin because of you, yes, we’ll be fine.”
“Don’t you dare,” Shadow Striker intones dangerously now. “You go blaming her for my idiocy and we’re gonna cut this family reunion real short, sis.”
“Did she convince you?”
“No, actually, I kinda had no choice.”
“There’s always a choice.”
“Bah. Load of scrap.”
“Guys, can we do this over wheel-nuts? I’m hungy.”
“You’re… hungy.”
“Yeah, hungy.”
The bounty hunter gives the bike a tired look.
“What?”
“You’re so strange.”
“Uh, yeah. So?”
“Shuddup, sis. She’s mine and she’s perfect,” the mercenary mutters, scowling. “That settles it. We’re gonna get some grub for my girl and you’re gonna like it. You can berate me over breakfast.”
“Fine. Let’s go.”
Slipstream’s Deceptibrand – seemingly unerasable, an indelible stain upon her bosom that burns over her Spark, Shockwave’s enigmatic code apparently somehow incorporated within her CNA – renders her frightening in addition to merely existing as a Seeker. She has the red sign painted on her wings, a friendlier distinction which brings her patients some comfort, but it is a temporary measure until Wheeljack and Ratchet can solve the problem of permanently removing the Deceptibrand, which devours all attempts at similarly rebranding her. As if she is forever owned by Megatron through Starscream. As if she will never be free, never her own femme. And that is why she has come here, but she does not come alone.
Orion moves awkwardly, unused to his new size and shape and the sheer strength in his reconfigured body. He is miserable, but composed. He keeps his fatherly palm pressed into the muscular curve of Slipstream’s back strut, their difference in size greater now that he is physically transformed by the light inside his ample breast, thus he overshadows her as they walk side-by-side, following Strongarm some paces ahead who leads the way toward the occupied cells.
“You’ve got a visitor,” Strongarm mutters with disdain, stopping before an Energon forcefield and pressing her digit to a buzzer that produces such an irritating sound, demanding attention.
Starscream huffs, sat on his uncomfortable little cot, one wing shorter than the other. He has had medical attention and thus no longer bleeds, but the sensory network in that wing has been temporarily disabled, thus there is a sensationless void at his back that irks him endlessly, judging by his twitching and fidgeting.
“Ah, wide awake, I see.”
“Ugh. As if I could sleep on this torture device you call a berth.”
“Pardon me, princess. Sad to hear the accommodations aren’t to your liking.” Strongarm turns to Slipstream with a firm nod. “He’s all yours. Officially, you’ve got an hour for visitation as is standard, but considering the special circumstances, my senior officer and Chief of police, Prowl, said take two. You’ve been through a lot, so take that time if you need it.”
“Thank you, Officer.”
“You’re welcome. In case the forcefield’s not enough, the panic button is right over there and patrols are regular in addition to my fellow officers who’ll be standing guard, so he should know better than to try something stupid.”
“Understood.”
Strongarm claps Slipstream on the pauldron as if to bolster her, then carries on, intending for Orion to follow.
“Will you be alright?”
“I’ll be okay. I hope.”
Strongarm pauses some paces ahead, turning to look back. She softens at the scene. Older mechs with younger femmes tend to remind her of herself with Prowl.
Slipstream smiles as that fatherly palm rises to ruffle her helm ever so gently. “Thanks, Orion.”
“No, my friend. After all you have done for me and mine, it is I who must give my gratitude to you. I wish you luck.”
“Yeah, I’ll need it. All the best with, um, him.”
Orion winces, clearing his vents and squaring his posture, trying to look brave whilst departing on his mighty pedes. He leaves Slipstream at Starscream’s cell, loping over to join Strongarm, who resumes leading the way to Megatron.
“You idiot. This is serious. Stop stuffing your face and look at me when I’m talking to you.”
Shadow Striker takes a grumpy bite out of her breakfast wheel-nut, chews, swallows. “No.”
“Brat.”
“I’m not a kid any more, sis. Spare me the lecture. I already know what a huge disappointment I am to you.”
“You’re my little one. I lecture you because I love you.”
“Love you too.”
“Then listen.”
“Hey!” She scowls as her wheel-nut is slapped sharply out of her servo and sent sailing through the air.
“I fear for your life. Primus, sis. Why are you so difficult.”
“Damn. That’s wasteful. Jerk.”
“I told you to get out. You were supposed to stay far away from this Decepticon nonsense, get back into mercenary work or find something else you could settle into, and here you are, right back in the thick of this mess.”
“You gonna buy me a new wheel-nut, sis?”
“Right. That’s it.” Roulette grabs her younger sister’s audial and pulls, much to the femme’s discomfort.
“Ow! Geddoff!”
“Behave like a spoilt protoform, get treated like one.”
“You can’t bully me! I’m as big as you are!”
“Everything I’ve ever done to tick you off, I did to protect you. I’m the only family you have, let me keep you safe.”
Flamewar watches the siblings scuffle bemusedly, then turns to gaze down at the discarded, partially consumed wheel-nut.
“I tried to get out, sis.” The old mercenary shoves the old bounty hunter away, then rubs at her aching audial. “Nobody’s hiring. Funny thing, but turns out, it’s kinda hard to get any contracts with a Deceptibrand big and bold on my tits. My old contacts want nothing to do with me now. Even the colonies are spooked. Bad for business.”
“You shot yourself in the pede, dumbaft.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”
“I’m so mad at you, I could explode.”
“Well, I want another wheel-nut and it’s gotta have sprinkles on it this time.”
“Then you’re not gonna eat that, right?” The bike points at the discarded wheel-nut.
“Nah.”
“Suit yourself.”
“Flamewar!” Shadow Striker exclaims in horror. “Spit that out!”
“Mm?”
“It’s been on the floor!”
“S’fine.”
“That’s unsanitary!
Roulette rubs her brows, seething.
“Hello.”
“Hey.”
Starscream clearly has not recharged much since his detainment, but he finds the energy to rise and swagger on over with his typical arrogance, leaning against the Energon barrier with a soft scoff. “My darling, you look like scrap.”
“Thanks, so do you,” Slipstream levels back with a tired frown, shadows of stress and fatigue bringing darkness to her searing red optics.
“Not much sleep, I assume - even in that comfy berth, shared with those lovely ladies?”
“Leave them out of it.”
“Ah, but your ball-bearings are bigger now. Astonishing what love can do. Or something. I don’t know. How would I know? I used to believe love came with certain assured benefits, such as loyalty. You proved me wrong.”
“Do you want me to hate you?”
“Of course not.”
“Then stop torturing me. All you’ve done is teach me to fear you instead.”
He rolls his gemstone optics, tilting his helm.
She folds her arms, wings twitching with irritation. “I don’t have to visit. I probably shouldn’t. You’re not good for me. I could be helping someone right now, tending to the wounded, but Orion asked and so I came with him.”
“Well, that’s rich.”
“Please, Star. Can we just make the most of this?”
“No. Considering how you left me, abandoned me just like Jetfire abandoned us all, you now admit that your objective here isn’t even to see me, specifically. You’re keeping that freak company.”
“I didn’t abandon you. Orion isn’t a freak.”
“Oh, but you did. And he is. One would think after Jetfire that you’d know better than to abandon family to pursue your personal happiness, but alas, the cycle repeats. Now, you prefer the companionship of that freak to your own kind.”
“You pushed me away. Don’t you see that?”
“Whatever.” The Commander juts out a hip and inspects his digits with a pretty sneer, optics narrowed with a simmering combination of fury and hurt as he pretends to be fine. “What do you want? Are you here to moralise with me, again? Because that worked so well last time. Go on, tell me how misguided I am, tell me how Megatron has twisted me into his service.”
“Star, I love you. I just want my brother back and I want my Seekers back.”
“Again, the love sermon! Ugh. Get some fresh material. I’m sooo bored.”
The Seeker bristles, muscular frame expanding. “I’m trying.”
“Try harder, sweetie.”
Silence.
“Oh, are you finished? Already? Really?”
Slipstream blinks rapidly against the urge to cry, laying her palm against the Energon barrier, as if to somehow reach through and touch Starscream.
“At least try to preach for the full hour, if you cannot find it in your Spark to care about me for two. A passing cop on patrol might be moved to tears.”
She curls her digits, scraping over the forcefield with frustration, raking downward. It ripples when agitated, shimmering after the passage of her digits, and still the barrier holds, resisting her advances, keeping them apart.
“I suppose you’ve saved the greater extent of your passion for her. I’m just an afterthought, an echo. I can’t really expect you to keep trying to, what was it again, save me?”
“I just want you back.”
“Ah, well. You tried, right? You came, you showed up, you shall soon leave. That’s all that matters. I’m left behind, lost and alone. Console yourself, feel good about yourself, wash your palms of me, give up and go, all of that good stuff for good people like yourself, not bad people like I. Bad people deserve to be locked in little boxes like this one. I have all the dimensions mentally mapped and measured already. Making myself at home, not for much longer.” The Commander leans in, resting his cheek against the barrier, peering at his Seeker with one optic squinting, the other open wide. “You get to go away from here, to go back to your femmes with whom you may frolic and frag altogether. I shall rot without you, until they inevitably execute me for my crimes.”
She shakes her helm, withdraws, and turns away. “No. I won’t let that happen.”
“Sentinel will make it so. The Functionists will demand a sacrifice, though the fools forget such is how martyrs are made.”
“Orion and Ariel won’t let that happen. You’re gonna live. You’ll get better, or you won’t. But you’ll be alive.”
“Sometimes living is worse than dying,” he says, and there is an edge to his voice that indicates desperation.
“Yes. I know. But being alive is what it takes to try to do better, be better.”
“I did everything for you, for my Seekers, for myself, for Jetfire. Yet here I stand, in this box, and you cannot even appeal to me with much enthusiasm. Will I get better, or am I truly not good enough? Where have I stooped too low? Why do you see such fault in me? What debt to you has led me to this deficit in your Spark?”
“I’m not doing this with you.”
“Why not?”
“You’re pinning the guilt on me.”
“You should feel guilty, traitor.”
Slipstream flinches, shakes her helm and hastily departs from Starscream’s cell, opting to find some place to sit and wait for Orion to finish with Megatron. Paces away, she is stopped.
“You would’ve shot her for me.”
The Seeker grits her dentas, jaw churning as she turns to glare back at the Commander.
“Your null-rays were fully charged. I could tell by the distinct hum. You would’ve done worse than disable her systems. You were ready to shoot, to kill, to spare my life over hers.” Starscream draws shapes over the barrier, his sultry optics heavily lidded and seared over with mania. “Maybe I should give you more credit. Clearly, some part of you, be it instinct or personality, loves me more than the rest of you could ever love her. And because of that, in some small way, I win.” He sneers as Slipstream marches back to him.
“I can never just walk away. I can’t go anywhere without you. My life is yours. You’re my world, my whole world, trapped in this fragging box.” The Seeker petulantly kicks at the barrier, but her pede bounces off.
“You put me in here. You get to go freely. We already established that.” The Commander huffs.
“Freely? You think I’m free, this is freedom to you?” she implores, aching. “If I was free, Star, I would turn my back on you and stay away. But all our lives together, you made sure I can never leave you. I came here for Orion, but I’ll come back here for you, and you won’t die.”
His smile is cutting and cruel, but the cut is shallow and the cruelty is enfeebled. “Because you love me, like you should,” he says lowly, mournfully.
“Yes! I love you, I love you like mad! I hate it, I hate the control you have, I hate that it hurts to love and lose you!” Slipstream roars so harsh and sudden, her big, commanding voice echoing against the cold, hard walls of the cell block. “I hate what you’ve turned me into! This frightened, angry, suicidal killer! I hate that I can never be happy with you, or without you!”
Starscream flinches with fright, all decorum gone, unused to having her express such fierce emotion at him, or at all.
She punches the forcefield with a reverberating thud. It splinters under her knuckles, then reconstitutes itself, ultimately unfazed by this great show of impotent strength.
“Stop that,” he utters, his rasp weird now, almost a whine.
Over, and over, and over again, she pummels the forcefield until her fists split and she smears inner Energon over the hard-light barrier, sizzling, evaporating.
He scrambles backward, getting as far from her as he can, climbing onto his cot and cowering, cornered.
Seeing him like that makes her sob. It hurts more than her bloody knuckles.
“You wanna step outside?” Strongarm interrupts with a sort of gruffness, indicating that she has seen this sort of thing before.
Slipstream finally stops, staring at Starscream. He will not look at her, now.
“You’re joking.”
“Do I look like I’m joking?” Roulette asks with such a stern expression, it is unintentionally funny.
Shadow Striker cannot resist a fond smile.
“I’ll take care of you. I can manage.”
“Frag off, sis. I’m already an emotional and mental burden. I don’t gotta be a financial burden too.”
“You’re my family. You’re the only family I have. Let me take you with me, far away. You can even bring her along.”
“Thanks,” Flamewar says with scoff. “I’m travel-sized for your convenience.”
“Don’t get cute right now,” the bounty hunter intones lowly.
“I’m not cute,” the bike mutters with the most adorable frown.
“Sis, I’ll manage,” the mercenary interjects before another fight can break out. “She’ll be okay with me. Flames and I are gonna make it.”
“Even as Decepticons?”
“I’ll figure something out. She’ll support me. You fret too damn much, sis.”
“It’s my job,” is all Roulette says, her visor down, hiding her downcast optics.
Shadow Striker heaves a sigh, contemplating what remains of her fresh wheel-nut.
“…Can I have that?”
She chuckles, passing it over. “Sure, Flames. I’m not hungry any more.”
“Thanks, boss bot.”
“But you’re a little guzzler, aren’t ya.”
Flamewar munches, somewhat insane.
“Ah, you have come to see me, old friend.”
Orion quietly lingers before the Energon barrier, his optics downcast, pauldrons buckled, fists tight at his sides. His noble jaw quivers and he sucks in air reflexively as an ominous shadow approaches, unable to cross the threshold between.
“Tell me.” Megatron narrows his hellish optics, scanning the other mech up and down. “What happened to you? I sense a great power within you, yet I did not see the signs until it was too late.”
“I do not know.”
“Nonsense. He taught you well. You had access to those old archives for millennia under his tutelage. You know all the legends, the mythology ascribed to all the ancient artifacts. What are you not telling me? Or perhaps you are not divulging the truth to anyone, mm? Is the truth so terrible, you must burden yourself, alone?”
The old archivist bites his derma anxiously, unable to look at the old gladiator.
“Your silence insinuates that I am right. Tell me I am wrong.”
“There is… a divide.”
“Do you refer to the fact that I am in a cell, yet you are free?”
“No. The divide between what I know, what I comprehend, and what I can accept.”
“Ah.”
“In truth, I do not understand it. I do not wish to believe it. Those legends, that mythology, I never imagined intended for one such as I.”
“So humble, yet it would appear you are chosen. Do you suppose that all-knowing ancient had selected you from the start?”
“Please, do not say that.”
“He raised you as his own, uplifted you from the brutal labour of the docks and led you into the pampered study of the archives, always with a plan he never proclaimed until the very end.”
“Stop.”
“Always, he loved you merely to use you, nurtured you with the intention of grooming you into… this. Am I right? Say I am wrong. Say it.”
Orion covers his face with his fists, grimacing into his knuckles.
Megatron scoffs softly. “I see. And now, you shall see, all of Cybertron will see the new and improved… What was that name he gave you? In all the commotion of the battle, I barely overheard something that sounded like…”
The old archivist turns his back, pressed against the barrier, and slowly slides down until collapsing on his aft.
“Arise, Optimus Prime.” The gladiator turns too, back pressed to the barrier, slowly sliding down. “That stance is unbefitting of one such as you. You, who bested I. Yes, I have much to think about you, now.”
“I do not want this. I want to go home, to that happiness in which I dwelled in the past. Let me return there, where my beloved Alpha Trion will be, and Ariel, and Sentinel, and you.”
“Mm. That does sound nice.”
“Shuddup! You have no right, not after leaving us!”
Jetfire cringes as Nova Storm seizes a chair and turfs it across the room in her anger.
“Star did it for us, all of us! Even you, especially you! And here you are, sowing dissent, distrust, trying to turn us against our Commander!”
“Nova, my love, I only mean to protect–”
“I said shuddup! He’s the one out to save us! Not you! I don’t wanna hear you speak bad of him again, or I just won’t visit you any more!”
Thundercracker shuffles over to Thrust, the mechs huddled together like freezing fledglings.
Nova Storm is tearful, trembling, impressively powerful yet ultimately impotent.
For all of Starscream’s manic paranoia, it would seem Jetfire cannot persuade the senior Seekers to leave him. The original batch is simply too loyal. In turn, the little ones shall follow their elders, as that is the nature of a flock. Doomed, altogether.
“There’s only one thing for it. We need our leader back, and soon, before morale drops to levels even my charms can’t cure. I know they joke that I’m the new Megatron, but we need his image, his drive, his energy, his vibe, as it were. Megatron is integral to the Decepticon identity, at least until I can supersede it. Besides, though the femmes are loyal to me, the mechs do prefer him, and I need him to maintain overall control, for which he will be useful. And… I do miss him, my poor old mentor. We are rather fond of one another, you know.”
“Yeah, I guess. So, what’s the plan?”
“A trade. Their people, in exchange for our people”
“Huh.” Thunderblast perches prettily on Empress’ lap, and for a change, does not sit idly by like decoration. Not generally one to do datawork, the boat is trying her best to be helpful, which means lightening the gladiator’s workload. Like a good girlfriend, or whatever. “One problem.”
“What is it, my cyberswan?”
“If you give Jetfire away, only to get Starscream back, he’ll lose his precious prisoner and you’ll make even more of an enemy outta the psycho.”
“Starscream is terrified of me and not half as clever as he thinks he is. I’ll always watch my back, but it soothes me to know you’ll watch it for me.”
“Yeah, so I can admire that aft.”
“If there’s anything I can do to help, I wanna do it,” Clobber intones with such sweet, innocent sincerity, utterly lacking in any ulterior motive. “Just let me know what you need, Sir, and I’ll do my very best for you, always.”
“Thank you.” Alpha Strike does not normally like to be coddled or patronised, being proud and powerful, but she takes surprisingly very little offence to it just now. “Between yourself and Skywarp, I shall make a full recovery with haste.”
“Okay, great. She takes good care of you. Well, she takes good care of everything.”
“That she does. She is a great benefit to this unit, and especially to me.”
Skywarp preens, but she tries to be subtle about it, marching past with a stack of datapads and a raised chin. Everyone assumes she is dumb and lazy, as most of her brethren tend to be, but she finds keeping busy quite helpful not only to her superior and the heavies, but to herself as well. The work proves a sufficient distraction from mourning Starscream, until another errant thought of him returns.
“I really like her, Sir.”
“Oh, do you?”
“Yeah. She’s fun, a good friend.”
“I am fond of my assistant, myself.”
Clobber watches Skywarp with a smile, until a huge palm settles upon a massive forearm, tracing scuffed paint and a stain of some description. “Sir?”
Alpha Strike’s optics are very expressive, as they should be, due to the facial obstruction caused by the ventilation system supporting her life, rendering her expressions otherwise difficult to discern. Right now, her optics seem to be appraising her subordinate. She does not know what to say, so she just offers a heavy pat on the younger femme’s arm, then lumbers off, leaving her confused.
“Oh, okay.”
“Did you punch him?”
“No. I think I tried to.”
Chromia kisses the split knuckles, which Slipstream washed and sanitized hours ago.
“She left me with a kiss goodbye this morning. Normally, she’d give my aft a little squeeze and murmur something naughty into my neck, telling me about all the dirty things she plans to do to me when she gets back home, just to get me riled up before she goes, you know, little things to keep the fire burning. But this morning, it was lukewarm, just a kiss goodbye.”
Arcee sits in silence, patiently listening.
“After that nightmare, I can’t lie to myself about it. She’s… afraid of me. Not because I’m a femme and femmes are scary, no, but because I… I almost did it. I could’ve done it. I’m capable. I would’ve done it. I wanted to.”
“But you didn’t. That’s what matters.”
“No, my love. What matters is she found me in that position, she saw a monster wearing my shell, and I don’t know how to make myself safe again.”
“You’re not a monster. You’re absolutely safe. The only person blaming you for what happened, is you, blaming yourself.”
“You can say that, but what if I put my blade to Grim’s neck with lethal intent? Could you say that, then?”
“Oh.”
“Exactly. I looked monstrous to Slip, in that moment I had Starscream under my sword. She saw me for who I really am, not just the cute, cuddly stuff I share with the few people I feel totally safe to love. She saw the warrior, trained to kill if I have to, the bot who wields this ancient sword, aspiring for some justice in this sick, sad world.”
“Don’t let her fear you, girl.” Arcee draws Windblade’s digits upward like a gentlefemme, kissing the delicate knuckles. “She doesn’t mean to. She doesn’t want to.”
“I know, but… I got so close to doing it. I’ve justified her fear.” Windblade sighs into her cup, resting her helm on Arcee’s pauldron. “Can I really blame her? Of course not. I was about to murder him. If she hadn’t been there, hadn’t begged me not to, he’d be dead right now and any regret that would make me feel, I could somehow justify with all the reasons why. He owes her his life and the arrogant monster will never repay that debt, but I do pay for it. I’ll pay for the rest of my life, loving her. It’s so unfair. He ruins everything he touches.”
“Nothing’s ruined, sweetie. You need to talk to her about it.”
“How do I even start? It’s a lot. It’s too much. So here I am, with a good friend I trust, and I wanna get hammered with you,” Windblade says in a very tired undertone. “And maybe get laid with you, while we’re still sober. Because I love you and you love me and we always have fun together. Just make it hurt less for a little while.”
“I’m with you, girlfriend,” answers Arcee, unable to summon her usual courageous cheer and energetic enthusiasm. “I’m with you all the way.”
“I wanna get so hammered, I get sick, sick enough to puke out all the bad inside of me, so I’m left pure and worthy.”
“Sweetie, I know this hurts, but by Primus, I’ll smack you if you talk bad about yourself like that. There’s nothing impure or unworthy about you. You are a bit of a kinky freak, sure, but so am I, so there.”
“It’s just the way I’m feeling. Unlovable.”
“Of course you’re worthy of love, dumbaft. Everybody loves you.”
“Then maybe I hate myself right now.”
“I’m sorry.” Arcee sighs, finding Windblade’s slender servo again and threading their feminine digits together. “Hard to imagine you so… like, judgmental, but it’s all redirected at yourself. Your confidence, your assertiveness… I guess we all just assume you never have doubts about who you are, where you’re going, what you’re doing, everything you’re all about.”
“I like to pretend I’m invincible, but this war has really humbled me.”
“Yeah. I’m starting to feel it, too. I can’t bounce back like everybody expects me to. Not today, at least.”
“Ariel?”
“Yeah. I caught feelings for her. She said something really hurtful recently, something that makes me wonder if I’m someone she could ever commit to. She could leave Cybertron sometime in the future and she intends to go alone, but that breaks me, you know?”
“Oh, sweet Spark. I’m so sorry.”
“I just assumed she’d take me with. She could take me, if she only wanted to, but it seems like she doesn’t, so I’ll have to reconcile with letting her go eventually, when this stupid war is over. But still, I think about us, and I can imagine the two of us, exploring alien worlds together, struggling and striving and studying the organic life, having a grand adventure. Grim could come too, Primus knows I never go anywhere adventurous without my guy at my side. But my girl clearly doesn’t imagine the two of us, or the three of us, like I do. She wishes she’d never come back to Cybertron anyway, which is pretty close to admitting she wishes she hadn’t met me at all.”
“She definitely didn’t mean that last bit. She has such a crush on you. Everybody sees it.”
“I’m not worth all of the trauma and the terror. I don’t blame her. I just wish she hadn’t said the quiet part out loud.”
“Hey. She didn’t mean–”
“Maybe, maybe not. A girl has to vent, I guess. Like, I geddit. Girls say mean things sometimes without even realising it.”
“Take your own advice, Arcee. You need to talk to her about it. If she’s hurt you, she should know about it.”
“Ugh. Eventually. Right?”
“Right. Eventually.”
“Windblade, let’s order some shots.”
“Can I take a shot or two off your tits?”
“Duh. That’s just standard gal pal stuff for us.”
“Hi, buddy.”
Ravage weaves in and out of Hot Rod’s ankles, purring and meowing in greeting, tail raised and quivering with feline excitement.
“Hi, dude.”
Soundwave does not appreciate this term of endearment. It is too akin to friendship, too distanced from the intimacy he has grown used to. He realises he is dependant on this other young mech. “Hey.”
Hot Rod stoops to pick up their cybercat, lifting Ravage into a cradling hug and a kiss to his little olfactory sensor. “Dad missed you.”
Meow.
“Aw, baby boy. I’m sorry. I just needed a minute. I’m doing much better now.”
Ravage narrows his feline optics. He has his suspicions that his dad is lying.
Soundwave shuffles awkwardly. “May I have a hug?”
“Oh! Yeah, sure. Sorry. I’m all over the place.” Hot Rod cradles their cybercat between them, leaning in to rest his chin on the firm, broad pauldron of his boyfriend – or ex-boyfriend, perhaps – whilst gently pinning Ravage between their bosoms, meowing. “Is he going squish, dad?”
“He is.”
Meow.
“With much protestations.” Soundwave chuckles musically, running his palms up and down his lover’s body, never straying anywhere indecent, recognising that this is a break of some sort and trying to honour it without letting go completely. “I missed you.”
“I missed you too.”
Meow.
“And I missed the boy. Yes, I did!”
The mechs ease apart, the cybercat held between them, gazing up at his dads, purring yet anxious.
“It’s good to have you home,” Soundwave intones softly, with feeling.
“Yeah, I, uh…” Hot Rod flushes, sighs, scratches his helm with his free servo whilst cradling Ravage in the crook on his other arm. “I didn’t wanna impose on Bee, even if he doesn’t mind. He’s such a sweetie.”
“He’s got a good Spark, yes.”
“All my friends are good people. I’m blessed, having them as my crew.”
“Mm.”
“Anyway, I brought take-out. You haven’t eaten yet, right?”
“No, I waited for you. But our Ravage was fed.”
Meow.
Windblade and Arcee support each other, stumbling inside the luxurious habitation suite with girlish giggles.
“Wooow. Y’know, I’ve been here a billion times by now, but everything is somehow, like, shinier when I’m trashed. I keep forgetting just how loaded you really are. Giiirl, this place is nice.”
“You’re such a ditz. I love you so much.”
“Hey, I love me too!”
The femmes pause to hug each other, swaying back and forth, giggles muffled in nuzzles and kisses.
“You’re drunk,” Chromia declares bluntly, suddenly standing there, tall and muscular and unimpressed, but not unsympathetic. She worries, in her stoic way.
“Yup,” Arcee replies, prying herself apart from Windblade to slap a sloppy kiss to Chromia’s stern cheek, making the bigger femme blush. “Hiya, handsome.”
“She’s so handsome.”
“Right? So, so handsome!”
“What can I say? I’m a lucky girl. I pulled.”
“You always pull. Glitch. Leave some for the rest of us, eh.”
Chromia narrows her optics. “I hope you didn’t try transforming like that.”
“Nope. We walked. She’s too drunk to fly and I’m too drunk to drive, but we’re juuust not quite drunk enough to end up that stupid.” Arcee snaps her digits. “Safety first, yeah?”
“Thank Solus Prime for that.” Chromia accepts another sloppy kiss courtesy of Windblade, who hangs off her neck with a low hum.
“You wanna make out?”
“Not right now, thank you.”
Slipstream happens to step into view just then, her smile soft with concern.
Arcee totters over, stretching to reach the bigger femme’s cheek, kissing her with a loud smack of impact. “Hey, girl. How’s it goin’?”
“Hi. Um, I’m managing, I guess. You?”
“Hammered.”
“Oh, okay, well dinner’s still warm if you’re hungry. Maybe we should sit down, have a detox, and–”
“Don’t leave me.”
Arcee winces drunkenly as Windblade hangs off Chromia’s neck, imploring Slipstream with those big blue optics.
“What?”
“Don’t leave me.”
“I could never leave.”
“Promise. Be mine forever, and ever, and–”
“This conversation is something to have when everyone is sober,” Chromia interjects with a hug, easily steering Windblade along.
Slipstream pales, giving Arcee a look.
“It’s okay. She’s just… going through it.”
“I did that to her.”
“Nuh-uh. You did nothing wrong. You’re traumatised and so’s she and really, so’s everybody else. But you do suck at communication. Might wanna work on that.”
“I’m sorry. You’re right. I bottle up anything too personal to me and I keep secrets. I need to have some difficult conversations. I’m so stupid.”
“Hey, stoppit.”
Slipstream smiles as Arcee presses a digit to her cheek with a shushing sound, intending to aim for those dark, plump dermas and missing entirely.
“Listen. Beating yourself up about it just isn’t helpful, handsome. M’kay.”
“Okay. If you say so.”
“Good girl. If you wanna help, lemme borrow your pauldron real quick. I’mma fall on my own. That’d be real embarrassing, huh.”
“Yeah, but nobody’s gonna laugh at you.”
“’Cause I got good friends.”
As Chromia instructs Windblade to flop down on the couch and await a detox solution, Slipstream helps Arcee navigate the habitation suite and thus sits her close beside her equally intoxicated friend, then hurries after Chromia.
“I have a helmache,” the bike mutters, preparing two potent doses of detox. “Solus Prime, and after you saw him earlier today, you really don’t need this either. I feel so… impotent. I am a protector, a shield. I should keep everyone calm, and collected, and composed. I should keep everyone I love safe, but I can’t, especially not tonight since I happen to be a bit of a wreck right now, myself.” Her pauldrons slump as a large palm caresses her back strut intimately.
“Let me hold you. I could use a hug, too.”
“Oh, Slipstream.”
The Seeker draws the smaller femme close, kissing her. “I did that to her. I did it to you. Forgive me.”
“Hush. You did nothing wrong.”
“I need to do right by you girls.”
Chromia grumbles something, muffled by Slipstream’s muscular neck.
Notes:
According to my plans, Synchronicity (as a first volume of a bigger story, to be told in the subsequent sequels) is almost finished. This fic has had such a lovely outpouring of support along the way and I just wanna say thank you for making my effort feel appreciated! Thank you also for your patience and endurance, as it's been a long haul and there's still the final stretch to go, so I hope I'll see you at the end of this venture together.
Chapter 71
Notes:
Sorry about the wait, I've been busy with work stuff and family stuff, leaving me exhausted. I hope you'll enjoy this update. Feedback is welcomed. Thanks for reading.
Possible trigger warnings: depressing tone, mention of execution as a form of punishment, allusions to the fear of being perceived and a sensation of discomfort/disconnection in one's body/bodily changes, mention of sterility/infertility by design (for more info on reproduction, please see the series notes by clicking the associated link - note that reproduction is not a primary concern of this story and the sequels).
Chapter Text
Shockwave’s singular optic flickers online and he grunts lowly as he stretches out in the somewhat alien comfort of an actual berth. Typically, he recharges at his desk, or one of the strategically located pods scattered throughout his laboratory, but such a prospect would not please Acid Storm, always concerned for his posture and any lingering discomfort dealt by poor recharging habits, requesting a cuddle. He complied last night. He has actually been quite compliant in general, of late, permitting them luxuries and devoting much of his attention to their more unprofessional needs.
“Good morning,” Acid Storm rumbles in their eternally placid voice, deliciously rough with recent recharge. “Did you sleep well?”
He would smile, if his disfigured face could permit such a tender expression. “Affirmative.” As their digits drag over the breadth of his breastplate, he is reminded of the weight and warmth settled against him, the glossy emerald arm that ensnares him tightening as that touch wanders over his buxom pectoral plating, eliciting a shiver. “Query…” He reaches for them in return, his touches experimental, curious, cupping at the musculature of his laboratory assistant here, there, everywhere to see what might happen. “Did you sleep well?”
“I did, thank you. Can we stay like this a while? Please.”
“It is sufficiently early. There is no rush to rise to our work.”
“Mmm.”
No, this arrangement is far more comfortable than recharging at some silly desk.
“That Matrix your body holds as host is a holy relic,” the Functionist says serenely, speaking through a far larger and more imposing Functionary. “Rightfully, it is ours.”
“No.”
“No?”
“Alpha Trion intended for me to hold this Matrix. For what purpose exactly, I am unsure, and the archives have failed to educate me for the first time in my long life. Yet I was chosen and entrusted. I reason that I must determine why, on my own.”
“You received the Matrix due to an unfortunate error, for which you hold no blame. We understand that this is a difficult time, as you are in mourning. Rest assured, you are unworthy, but this is not your fault.”
“He would never mislead me.”
“Venerable ancient, though he was only a mech, flawed as we all are. We are willing to free you of this power that exceeds you, burdens you. It is only right that we should keep it safe and set you free.”
Orion steps away as ordained digits creep toward his breastplate, as if intending to pry his bosom apart and seize the light within. “Do not touch me!”
“Be not afraid.”
“I do not wish to hurt you!”
“Hush, now.”
The door slides aside and Ariel happens to stride into the office just then, datapad in servo and a frown on her face. She finds Orion pinned against his desk by the encroaching Functionary.
Orion fears his newfound strength. He overpowered Megatron’s best, even Megatron himself. This Functionary would fall. And yet acquiescing to such violence is tantamount to embracing the Matrix that consumes the archivist from the inside, erasing that old identity to be replaced with the majesty and power of a living Prime, embodied unwillingly. A terrible burden indeed.
Ariel has no such compunctions, lunging with a roar, her pink fist embedding itself in the Functionary’s cheek.
“Ariel, no!”
“Fragger!”
“Arrrgh!” The Functionary stumbles, a fresh dent within his ornamental helm, jaw buckled at the joint. “You dare strike one of the anointed?”
“Get the frag out.”
“We only desire the–”
“Out. Now.”
“Pitiable fool. This will bear consequences for you.” The Functionary departs with a sanctimonious huff.
Orion casts his gaze aside, shivering within his huge framework.
Ariel gradually relaxes, turning to her best friend with a soft, sad look.
“You… should not have done that.”
“I’m an idiot. For you, I’d do it again.”
Their day has only just begun.
“Perhaps I am being premature, however I may have a proposal in mind for a solution to our impending Seeker shortage.”
“Oh, yes?”
“I was pondering the possibility last night, when I felt your Sparkbeat thrum steadily against mine. I felt it – the synchronicity between ourselves as divided living beings sharing a singular instance, the commonality between our power sources despite the differences in our bodies as separate vessels.”
Acid Storm finds that notion rather romantic, but does not confess such.
“I am reluctant to report to Empress that we are soon to run out of stored Sparks to thaw for further cold construction of Seeker units.”
“She would not appreciate the unfortunate news.”
“Agreed. Though I am always watching the Well, we cannot afford to waste time awaiting the emergence of fresh Sparks within malleable protoforms, nor is it prudent to scour the Cybertronian landmass for hotspots so that we might safely acquire a steady supply of replacement Seekers. Emergence is too infrequent to be reliable in this age. Furthermore, Seekers cannot customarily reproduce due to engineered pre-limitations. Therefore, an artificial solution is logical.”
“What do you propose?”
“It is entirely theoretical, of course, as it has not been achieved before,” Shockwave intones over his first ration, fiddling with his terminal whilst sipping from an Energon cube using his custom feeding tube, a disturbing sight to most. “Many studies have been performed in an effort to better understand the form and function of the Spark. I propose that we create the archetype for an artificial Spark, a false replica capable of animating a body whilst providing sentience.”
The Seeker exhales harshly. “That would be… extreme.”
“Extraordinary.”
“Some things just shouldn’t be done.”
The scientist turns his singular gaze upon his assistant with an indiscernible expression for some seconds, then quietly returns to his work.
“Did you just say… Prime?”
“Yes. He called me Optimus Prime.”
“Prime?!” Sentinel sits up in berth with a drunken gasp. “He made you Prime?! He can just do that?!”
“Uh–”
“And he chose you?!”
Ariel rubs her brows, seething quietly in the background.
“That is so very unfair!”
“Please, calm yourself. You are in no condition to–”
“It should have been me! I mean, after all my sacrifice, considering how hard I have strived for the benefit of everyone except myself, how can I – worthiest among us – be denied the title of utmost veneration and empowerment?! Why do I rot in this damned berth, incomplete and barely lucid, while you are transformed into a bigger, better mech, buxom and beautiful?!”
Orion sighs quietly. Never mind that Alpha Trion is dead. Clearly this unexpected, unwanted promotion is of far more importance at this instance.
“Oh, shut up, you old glitch. So tired of your tantrums, by Primus.”
“Don’t goad me, femme! My objections are perfectly reasonable!”
“It’s not his fault, dumbaft! He didn’t ask for this, nobody saw it coming, so give the guy a break already!”
“Fine, fine, fine! Ugh. Fine. This is a great injustice done unto me, but, be that as it may, I believe we can make this Prime thing work. I can make it work.”
“Well, do you think you could spare him a little sympathy first, before you start scheming?” Ariel mutters through bared dentas in a dangerous undertone, as if Orion is not standing close enough to hear her as she bears threateningly down on Sentinel, laid out in his gurney with a petulant expression. “He’s in mourning, afthole. Or have you forgotten that? His dad died back there, so act the part of a caring friend, or else.”
“Oh. Of course. Alpha Trion’s passing. Yes. Terrible, most terrible! I extend my sympathies, indeed. What a terrible thing to have happen, truly terrible.”
“Tell him that, not me.”
“Right, yes, of course, hrrm-hrrm-hrrm. Orion, dear? A brief word, if I may.”
“Yes, Sentinel.”
“The loss to our cause is immeasurable. A good, wise mech, one worthy of respect and acclaim, taken from us in a vile, villainous act. The Decepticon menace is to be held entirely responsible, but Megatron himself will answer for every crime of his nefarious collective. Oh, beloved Alpha Trion! I shall miss him, we all will, but you…” Sentinel sucks in air, rendered awake as per his insistence, foggy with painkillers. “I can only imagine your loss, Orion. Mine is surely but a shadow of yours. I am so very sorry.”
Orion lingers quietly at the end of the berth, Ariel stood close beside, rubbing his back strut.
“If there’s anything I can do–”
“Do not. Please.”
Sentinel nods slowly, his handsome, reconstructed features soft with a rare display of care and consideration for someone other than himself and his own ends. “Understood. Another time, perhaps. Then we must speak of the light in your chest and your transformation because of it. I must understand, if I am to use it to my - as in our - advantage.”
“Can this not wait until I am better composed?”
“We have the Decepticons at a disadvantage. This is an ideal moment for us to win this damn war.”
“I only ask for reprieve. I am unwell.”
“Oh, darling, of course you must be hurting. You’ll have your opportunity to mourn, my friend, but we must ensure our survival. Whatever Alpha Trion bestowed upon you must be a source of great power, to be kept secret for so long, locked for safekeeping within his personal collection, sequestered away from the rest of the archives. This artefact has transformed you.”
“I do not want this.”
“I will take this burden from you, but first, explain it to me. How does this thing work?”
Ariel feels Orion stiffen, registering his discomfort. She frowns, instantly defensive. “C’mon, Sentinel, seriously? You’re hopped up on meds and he’s hurting enough just trying to figure scrap out for himself. Give it a little more time, Primus’ sake.”
“Look at him! The artefact has transformed him, improved him! It could restore me!”
“Stop thinking about yourself for once!”
“I am thinking of us all! The Decepticons are terrified by how our old friend has been changed into this… this…” An airy, drunken gesture. “Well, just look at him! I need that power for my own, so that I might lead us unto victory, but power isn’t to be wielded with ignorance! Teach me like Alpha Trion taught you, Orion!”
“I was not taught-”
“He taught you everything!”
“I do not know, I do not understand.” Orion is so much bigger now, more stately and imposing. Yet he somehow manages to shrink into himself, as if hoping to disappear. “You do not want this burden.”
“Burden! You tore your way through the mightiest Decepticons, and you consider this a burden! Of course you’d say that! You aren’t a natural leader, a warrior, but I am! I wasn’t strong enough before, but I can use that artefact to end this war and lead us unto a new era of peace, prosperity, and politics! Help me grapple with this power, and let me take the burden from you!”
“Watch it,” Ariel growls, jabbing a digit at Sentinel, who raises his palms peaceably. “He’s not happy about it, he didn’t ask for this, he’s confused and hurting, but that’s no excuse for you to get greedy and make a grab for power you don’t even comprehend.”
“Then make me comprehend it! I am ready, I am willing, I have sacrificed so much, strived so hard, and yet you act like I am unjustified in believing that it should have been me who was appointed!”
“His dad died, you afthole!”
“Yes, and I will avenge Alpha Trion, mark my words! Orion, surrender that burden to me, let me be transformed as you are! Why, I would make a most handsome and impressive Prime, a pristine beautification of a divine mech whose very image etched in statues erected in my honour would inspire loyalty, nay, devotion to my image! Imagine all the order I could instil! An obedient Cybertron, happy to serve their perfect Prime! None would follow Megatron ever again, his influence would fade into distant memory, and Alpha Trion would rest assured knowing the successor would be worthy!”
“Sentinel, babe, you’re drunk.”
“Oh, Ariel, you’re no fun! You doubt me! Even the Functionists agree with me, they think I’d make a marvellous Prime!”
“We gotta leave you in stasis from now on, so you can heal properly. These interruptions aren’t good for you.”
“Nooo! I hate it! I hate this stupid surgery, after surgery, after surgery! Torture, under the scalpels of those butchers! Just give me the Matrix and teach me how to change!”
“Calm down. I know this sucks for you, okay, it sucks for us too. The medical team’s doing the best they can. Just behave yourself and don’t make their jobs harder. Be grateful that your stupid wings are still being worked on, because if it was up to me, I’d scrap them for useful spare metal.”
“You’re so mean!”
Ariel has heard it all before. So why does it really sting, all of a sudden?
“The loss of your organic, errm, pets,” Sentinel intones with oozing disdain for the dirty things, throwing an accusatory digit at her, “has really brought out the ornery old lady in you! As for my recovery, I hardly need the bumbling about of volunteers! I will only need that Matrix!”
“I lost everything I worked for, a lifetime of research I never got the chance to publish because I got stuck fighting your war. Does that even matter to you?”
“Don’t be mad at me, blame Megatron! If you lot would just listen to me for once and give me what I need, I could destroy him!”
“You’re not destroying anybody!”
“And what am I to tell the Functionists, breathing down my neck?”
“To frag off, that’s what!”
“We need them!”
“Enough!” Orion intones in a voice imbued with the weight of leadership, the power of this overflowing light in his Spark.
Ariel and Sentinel abruptly shut up, stunned and staring.
“This is a place of healing. We will not bring our squabbles here. Please. Let us just talk about this. That is why we are gathered together today.”
And that settles it. At least momentarily.
“Very well, then. Let us get back on track. The artefact. This Matrix of Something.”
“The Matrix of Leadership.”
“Mmmhmm. Oh, yes. Sentinel Prime does bear a noble ring to it.”
“Oh, please. Orion, don’t indulge him.”
“I must have it as my own. Destiny, I do believe.” Sentinel rubs his distinguished chin. “Now, then. What does this Matrix do, exactly? You are physically changed, clearly, but you have a certain inward potency about you. A more daring mech, such as myself, could rather utilise that to full effect.”
“I do not know.”
“Orion, my dear, I understand that you were sworn to some secrecy when you began your studies under Alpha Trion, and in honouring his memory you of course wish to obey him even in death, but I implore you to be transparent and tell me all, considering that the fate of our world may very well depend on whatever powers imbued upon you by this artefact he bestowed on you according to whatever ancient myth. Alpha Trion taught you everything.”
“I… do not know. Truly.”
“Orion, though you anguish and I sympathise, rest assured, you need not lie to save face by disguising the truth, however awesome or awful it may be. I can handle it.”
“Knock it off, Sentinel. Give the mech some time to adjust. He can figure it out, given the chance.”
“The Functionists grow impatient, as do I! I have them paying me visits more frequently now and whispering their plans in my audials, plans that I could control. Truly, the opportunities presented to me are great, and greater still should I possess the Matrix! You might think we as a Council can do without them, but you are wrong. We need those Functionists, we need their resources and their sway over the public. I can use them for our benefit.”
“You know how that makes me feel, Sentinel.”
“Regrettably, yes, I do. Deal with it. The Decepticons are surely vengeful and Cybertron as a whole is aflame, for this struggle stretches far beyond Iacon City and consumes our whole wide world in the fire of goading gossip and social unrest and open conflict. Decepticons are everywhere, rising up against their old masters, and the Functionists are preparing to mobilise again and in greater force against the riptide yet overthrowing the old systems and destabilising our established way of life in every sector. I, as a beloved and well-established authority, must take command of this Matrix and direct the Functionist forces, along with our own, unto the future.”
“Well, the Matrix is kinda stuck in Orion’s chest right now, so good luck with that.”
“I’ll figure something out. What is given, is taken away. Now, then. Orion, my dear friend. This Matrix. Tell me what it does and how it works.”
“I have told you. I do not know. From the records within the archives, I infer that the Matrix is an accord of the wisdom of ancients past, recording some essence of the Primes themselves to commune in troubled times. Furthermore, the power source within the core of the Matrix manifests in transformation, so that the host body may better suit whatever purpose. Beyond that, the Matrix is something sacred, to be experienced and not defined, as the totality is beyond description.”
“Well. That hardly helps me understand it any better. Did Alpha Trion really not tell you anything useful himself, to prepare you to receive the Matrix?”
Orion turns aside, tearful.
“Right. That’s enough.” Ariel wraps an arm around him and steers him away from the gurney. “Easy, old mech. Steady on.”
“Wait! We have so much to discuss!”
“Nah, we’re done. Go back to sleep.”
“What am I to tell the Functionists when they return?”
“To go frag themselves. One tried to assault Orion first thing this morning. I’m done with the whole lot.”
“My servos are tied! My options are limited! Please, help me!”
“We’re trying to.”
“Rotting away in this damn berth, incomplete, too weak to win, and it all takes too long-” In some drunken, desperate fit, Sentinel reaches for them, then squeals as his modesty tarp almost slides off of his hips, at risk of baring his incomplete lower half. “Whatever happens to me, is all your fault, as much as Megatron’s!”
“Can you put him back under, please?”
“Yes, though I’d prefer my patient calm before inducing stasis.”
“Just do your best, okay. Give him five minutes to rant and rave to himself, he’s high enough already, he’ll tire out quick. See me outside as soon as you’re done dealing with him - I wanna touch sides with you real quick.”
Slipstream winces as a large pink servo pats her on the pauldron in passing, abrasively motherly.
“Good luck, kid.”
Eventually, Sentinel is sedated and forcibly induced under stasis, as he is at risk of hurting himself.
Slipstream looks a million years older when she steps out the private ward and encounters Ariel waiting for her outside, though Orion has left by himself.
“Hey. Sorry about that.”
“He’s my patient. I just wish I had the experience and education to do more. Without Doctors Ratchet and Red Alert, I feel so lost.”
“Got some new docs coming in, though, don’t you?”
“Yes, thankfully, help is coming soon.”
“Great. You’re a hero. You and all the others running the place, all heroes of the unsung sort.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t spread yourself too thin. You’re so young. You’ve got too much potential to go burning yourself out this soon. Be good to yourself.”
“I’ll do my best to cope.”
“Attagirl.”
There is a pause, somewhat uncomfortable.
“So, uh, I’ll be heading over to see Megatron for a bit. Wanna tag along, maybe pay Starscream a visit?”
“Uh, no, thank you. I think I’ll sit this one out.”
Ariel is a grumpy old femme with a tendency to be abrasive, lacking in some social sensitivity and customary niceties. Now that all her organics are dead, she has no purpose beyond being useful, lending her aid so that this war might end soon. She would never consider herself nice, not even as she asks in a low, discrete tone, “You sure you’re doing okay, kid?”
Slipstream smiles sadly at the floor. “I’m surviving, that much I’m sure of. You?”
“Same. Survival of the fittest, as they say. We’re tough. We’ll pull through, somehow.”
“Yeah. Something’s gotta change for the better. Eventually.”
“Can I offer you an old lady hug, in the meantime?”
“That sounds lovely,” the Seeker murmurs, looking up at the taller Councillor with a shy grin. “Yes, please.”
“C’mere, you.” Ariel opens her big pink arms and envelops Slipstream in a tight, smothering embrace, kissing her roughly atop the helm and slapping her firmly on the breadth of her back. “Good girl.”
“Ohhh, Primus. Mm.”
“Sorry, squeezing too hard?”
“Uh, no! No. You give, um, really, really good old lady hugs, actually. Really good. Yeah.”
“Well, that’s nice. At least I’m good for something, eh.”
“Where is the boy?”
“In here.”
“Show him to me.”
Soundwave’s cassette compartment opens, allowing Ravage to peek out his enclosure with malignant feline optics wide to behold familiar faces and flared enstrils sniffing the sterile air for known scents.
Meow?
“Ah-ha! There he is,” Shadow Striker coos, suddenly captive to a cuddly disposition as she gently scoops up the cybercat and cradles him against herself, peppering Ravage’s frowning feline face in kisses. The transformation in tone is astounding.
“Oh, he’s clearly loving that,” Flamewar drawls with amusement, watching the long-suffering cybercat’s tail thrash, but the claws remain sheathed and the fangs do not draw blood.
“I love you. Yes, I do. Precious, perfect boy.”
Meow.
“Auntie Shadow Striker has you now.”
“Slipstream didn’t come with you,” Starscream notes with some dismay. “Not even to see me. Everything and everyone that ever mattered to me, gone! For I am alienated and alone.”
“Don’t act to sore about it.” Ariel scoffs, looming outside the cell, Strongarm stood aside, guarded. “You did this to yourself.”
“I’ve already lost it all, taunting my soul from beyond the boundaries of my prison. My whole world, locked in a box, the dimensions committed to memory.” Starscream’s lower derma trembles as he takes a fleeting breath, then utters in his broken rasp, “Don’t be so cruel.”
Ariel swallows thickly and hurries along, escorted by the rapidly fading Strongarm.
“How you holding up today, pal?”
Soundwave answers by suddenly slumping forward, burying his visor against the cables of Shadow Striker’s neck, sequestered together in a discrete corner of their base of operations.
“Ah. It’s like that.” She thinks nothing of embracing him, dragging her sharp jawline against his helm in a brusque nuzzle.
“Mmhm.”
“Poor bastard.”
“I’m not the type to care. Not like this.”
“But you do. It actually happened.” She drags her callused palms lovingly over his pauldrons, making a low, soothing grunting sound as he exhales static into her neck. “He got you good.”
“I’ve never… hurt like this, before.”
“’Course not. You’re a bad glitch, same as me. Falling for the pretty boy, falling for him as hard as you did, wasn’t exactly your gameplan.”
“I don’t know what to do.”
“Dumbaft. You gotta fix it.”
“Any ideas?”
“Pffft. You’re asking the wrong afthole for advice.”
“I hate to see you unhappy,” Megatron intones in his soft rumble.
Ariel does not meet his gaze, pauldrons squared, fists tight at her sides.
“I am deeply sorry.”
“Yeah. Me, too.”
He sighs deeply, rubbing his forehelm against the Energon barrier as if to nuzzle her cheek.
She keeps her distance, her intact sensory spire lowered unhappily against her helm.
“Empress is my pupil, in many ways. She was overenthusiastic in that battle - though I taught her manners and refined speech, as per her talents, I never tampered with her temperament, for which I accept blame. She is young.” There is a pause to allow for a response, yet none comes. “I did not instruct my Decepticons to destroy your organic projects. I understand that you have been stripped of your life’s work and for that, I shall share in your grief until the day I cease functioning. I would severely punish those Decepticons responsible, if I were only able. I am not and so you may lay the blame on me.”
“Whatever.”
“Ariel, do not be like that. Please. Truly, I do love you. You do not feel my love, but it burns. You need not torture me so.”
“Burns. Burns! Just like everything else. It’s all hurting. That much I do feel, old mech.” Optics squeezing shut, pauldrons buckling into a bow of defeat, Ariel rests her forehelm against the barrier with a soft huff. “They wanna execute you, old mech. Orion keeps stalling the Functionists with meetings, trying to negotiate an alternative or somehow convince them otherwise to let you live, but they won’t budge and I just end up yelling as it always devolves into a looping argument about killing you. I just might lose my mind, at this rate.”
“I had a taste of dying, down in the pit of despair, haunted by the already dead things left to rot before me. So close to death. I know my stance even now. I suppose I will die believing in my cause. Thank you for fighting for my life, and console yourself knowing that you did what little you could.” Megatron kisses her softly upon her forehelm as best he can, even with this Energon forcefield between them, rippling in the wake of his kiss. “As for my execution, well, I realise the Functionists will merely make a martyr of my example. Fools. The Decepticons will rise up with or without me. Empress has been my pupil, she may take my mantle with a face so akin to mine, and Shockwave has been the spine of the entire operation, his endless plans accounting for my departure.”
“And what about Starscream? They’ll kill him, too.”
At this, Megatron’s vents hitch and his fists clench. “My shining Star. No, no, no.”
“Yeah,” Ariel mutters, optics fluttering open to gaze up at her best friend, the broken stump of her one sensory spire twitching. “The collateral damage really sucks, doesn’t it.”
“I’m here to help. Consider this my application to bolster your dwindling security forces, however I can.”
“C’mon, tough guy, I’m convinced! Put the axe away, you’re scarin’ the tin cans under my command.” Ironhide smiles ruggedly down at Chromia, thumping her firmly on the shield, thus she finally relents, much to the relief of the watching elite guard mechs and femmes, whom she makes nervous. “Welcome aboard this sinkin’ ship. Happy to have ya. Finally! Someone with mettle.”
“Don’t flatter me. I just want to be useful. I think my skills would align with your needs.”
“Abso-fraggin’-lutely! I don’t do flattery, I say it like I see it. You took on those damn Decepticons like a real warrior. Ball-bearings of brass on ya. I’d be glad for the help.”
She likes him already.
Empress ponders her replicate hologram with a quirked brow. “I always forget how ample I am.” She cups her own breastplate in emphasis. “Goodness gracious.”
“I don’t,” Thunderblast quips with a playful little smack to the aft. “Ow! Primus, we gotta soften you up in places, though.”
“All the battles, all the scars.” The holographic replica smiles, echoing the gladiator’s own expression as she admires her own image, rendered live. “I look good.”
“Duh.” The boat wraps her slender arms around her lover and the hologram shifts in reply as a kiss is dispensed softly atop a pretty helm tucked against gunmetal grey. “You’re beautiful.”
“I remember how I was, the way I used to be, back when Megatron first recruited me. Ghastly. I owe him a great deal.” Empress sobers, casting her queenly glare over at Jetfire, immobilised and mute. “That’s why this must work. We need him and I’ll be the one to orchestrate getting him back. This trade will work.”
“Let them keep Starscream, though. He’s a creep.”
“I wish I could, my dear, but we both know I can’t.”
“Okay, fine. Then you should just kill the glitch and make it look accidental. Simple as.”
“Now, that’s a very tempting proposition. Oh, you think of everything, my cyberswan.”
“Ugh. They’re sickeningly sweet,” Shadow Striker mutters, guarding Jetfire with a rifle and a grouchy look that deters any funny ideas of escape or resistance, as if the cuffs would allow for either notion. “Primus, I’m gonna barf.”
Soundwave busies himself with the media drone, preparing to record and broadcast a message.
“I’ll protect you.”
“I do not expect you to.”
“Shuddup. I’ll figure this out and save your dumbaft, because I love you.”
Megatron smiles sadly at that.
Ariel departs with a sigh.
“Here, observe this handsome creature I currently possess – a caged bird.”
Jetfire grunts into his obfuscating muzzle as a huge palm grasps his handsome jaw despite the silencing obstruction, forcing his downcast optics to rise with a flicker of wounded pride, reluctantly focusing on the camera.
“We wouldn’t wish any harm to come to him, would we? I’m in a difficult position, but I can be reasonable. It’s simple - return my Decepticon captives to me, and I won’t kill him, so that he may be returned to you in kind.”
“Scream’s gonna love this,” Shadow Striker mutters, stood aside with a rifle slung over her pauldron, looking tough and bored all at once. “That’s his bit of aft on the side, getting used as collateral for an exchange of his life. Bit of a mindfrag, eh.”
“I just hope giving Jetfire back to the other side might help make Slippy feel a little better,” Flamewar replies softly and with a sobering sort of sanity from her seat on the floor, legs spread out before herself, back propped against Shadow Striker’s leg. “After losing all the other Seekers.”
“Yeah, toots.”
Whilst Empress makes her subtle threats very clear to the camera, Flamewar is rewarded with a fond pat on the helm.
“That’d be one good thing to come outta this mess.”
“What are we to do about this?” enquires Grimlock, looking to the others for answers. “Shall we cede to her demands?”
“What else can we do? You heard the lady. We’ve gotta give her what she wants, or rather, who she wants,” answers Hot Rod wearily, optics on the media drone hovering before them. “Or else.”
“Forgive me for sounding like some callous tactician, but we’ll lose whatever advantage we have over the Decepticons if we comply.”
“And if we refuse, an innocent mech dies.” Bumblebee hangs his helm, huffing. “Nah. No way, dude. We’re the good guys. Of course we’ll do what she says, even if it’ll probably make things a whole lot harder for everybody else, what with letting Megatron and Starscream go free like that.”
“And what if she were to demand more? What if she demands your surrender, Orion? The brute might get greedy, as it were.”
“I do not believe Empress will test her persuasion and risk her primary objective,” Orion answers after a pause for thought. “Her ranks are already diminished after that battle. Her primary concern is returning Megatron. Should she attempt anything more ambitious, the exchange may fail entirely.”
“Then nobody wins.”
Chapter 72
Notes:
Shit gets real. Again. This chapter will have serious ramifications for the rest of the plot.
Possible trigger warnings: medical horror, mental and emotional anguish, prejudice, violence, injury, unhealthy relationships, dubious consent (not sexual), manipulation, corruption of authority, criticism of a fictitious faith (Functionism as adhered to by Functionists and enforced by Functionaries).
Chapter Text
“I remember, oh, so long ago… I did love him very much, and he loved me, and we were friends, once. To see things turn out this way does hurt me. It makes me sad, that it’s come to this…”
“You do understand the import of your signature, yes?”
“What choice do I have? It’s for the good of myself, and of everyone else. I loved him, once. But I can’t love the old Cybertron I served that made me relevant and important, yet at the same time love the mech that would ruin everything I know and everything I worked for by plunging this new Cybertron into chaos I can’t command. I’m… scared of him. It has to stop.”
“Love is the noblest virtue. We espouse the highest love, but we are not foolish. Do not waste your Spark’s wellspring, lest it run dry on the stubbornly unrepentant. He is destructive and beyond help, he keeps company with criminals, he will be destroyed – if not through this execution order, then by his own maddened machinations, or at the servos of his own greedy and treacherous underlings among those discordant Decepticons he believes adore him when they adore only destruction. You are mech of law, of order. Incompatible at the very core. Of course, it is natural for your love to sour into fear. We can mend that wound.”
“To be mended. That would be nice.”
“Councillor Sentinel, we know you have your doubts about Functionism. But we do not doubt you. The former Senate was always been open to our sponsorship and, as you know, a number of Functionists were Senators. You, a servant of the Senate, its highest appointed protector, failed to spare your masters from Megatron’s wrath, leaving you with a terrible debt and a lack of place in this changing world, and this does shame you.”
“It wasn’t my fault! You still see my potential, right? Ariel and Orion are always arguing against me, and Megatron has always been better than me, but I’ve been so good about doing my job! How was I to foresee all of this?”
“You want to make things right and restore Cybertron.”
“Yes! Primus, yes! Please!”
“Then there is still hope. In you, we place our hope. You would be a hero, come to aid our darkest hour in your resplendent glory.”
“Mm. I always imagined myself the knight in shining armour.”
“We were right to offer salvation to you. You shall serve and protect again, but you will do so with heightened beauty, grace, strength, and wisdom, for we will be with you, and you will be with us.”
“So, you’ll make me better?”
“We’ll make you whole again.”
“If you refuse to surrender the Matrix, we would require that you join us so that it would be in our possession through you.”
“No. I will not join you. Are we not already allies?”
“This alliance is tenuous at best and likely to fail without Councillor Sentinel actively allowing for certain necessary adjustments and compromises.”
Ariel snorts, but she does not punch the Functionary in the face.
“Councillor Sentinel was a bridge between our differing world-views,” says the invisible Functionist representative, voice emanating from the attending Functionary like a haunted husk. “Without him, we simply disagree.”
“If this is about executing Megatron and Starscream,” Orion intones with majesty, “then you already know that discussion will inevitably lead to further argument. Indeed, you already know Ariel’s stance and that I stand with her. There will be no execution. This is final.”
“So stop bringing it up already. Frag’s sake. And you’re not getting the Matrix, it’s Orion’s now.”
“Unfortunately.”
“It’s okay. We’ll figure something out, old mech. Hang in there a little longer.”
“This is unconscionable! It is blasphemy, heresy! Orion Pax, you are not anointed, but this can be mended by accepting our vows and embracing our way – Primus’ way.”
“Your way would say we’re stuck forever working the docks,” Ariel snaps, her temperament flaring with little provocation as her life lacks purpose and her love only hurts her. “Screw that. You don’t get to decide my function for me like it’s predestined by form. That’s a load of scrap.”
The Functionary looks scandalised. “How dare you–”
“How dare you! You sent one of your goons over here to try rip the damn thing out his chest! You want to publicly execute – as in kill – two guys who dared to stand up to you! Sentinel’s tearing himself apart trying to get everyone to cooperate because he doesn’t believe in himself! You tell me what I’m allowed to do with my time and my body and I just gotta wonder how you can even dare to act so superior with such a punchable face!”
“Ariel, please.”
Windblade, however, offers a solitary applause.
“Thank you, thank you. I’ll be here all week.” Ariel huffs, but manages a rueful smile, all the same. It fades fast. “Functionism is fine for those who want to believe in it. Maybe it comforts someone, maybe it provides purpose to someone else. But you don’t get to force your beliefs on other people. Faith shouldn’t be born from fear, it should be earned through fairness and free thought, free feeling. Or else what could even be the point?”
The Functionary lowers his visor, perhaps pondering these words. However, he does not speak for himself. He is spoken for by the Functionist. “Your calls for individuality and independence are the very modern sentiments that will bring ruin and disorder to the collective. We are stronger when united under one belief, one way of life.”
“What a sad, superstitious way to live.”
“Then perhaps it truly is impossible to save you – you are too self-absorbed.”
“I guess you can keep your salvation if it’s all about sacrificing myself to look just like the rest of you, to live my life just like your divine archetype dictates, with all those ridiculous rules and restrictions that forbid my scrutiny and criticism on threat of punishment. Sorry, but I value my freedom to express who I am and to find my own meaning in being alive.”
“Obedience to a greater authority is not something to be ashamed of. Councillor Sentinel knows this.”
“It sorta is, if you do bad things just to please, if you give up your identity to earn points. You’re not even doing it because you actually think it’s the right thing to do, you’re doing it to escape the very justice you espouse. You fear your master, fear that punishing force and you secretly resent all those rules that restrict you, so you inflict that fear on others and then everybody ends up scared and resentful. I see no love in that.”
Orion cannot help but chuckle. “Ah, my Ariel. You have quite derailed this meeting.”
“C’mon, back me up, here.”
“Freedom is the right of all sentient beings.”
“Yeah, exactly. Short and sweet. Way catchier than my waffling on.”
“You are free to believe in form and function. We are free to disagree. Although incarcerated, such a measure is temporary, yet sentencing Megatron and Starscream to death is permanent and would negate any opportunity for redemption or healing.”
“Of course, you just wanna make an example out of those two. Don’t you geddit? You’d just make martyrs of them.”
“They cannot be permitted to redeem themselves,” the Functionist says with a vaguely mournful inflection.
“Why not?” asks Windblade, rarely outspoken during meetings.
“Their redemption is not in accordance with our teachings. It would confuse the populace and bring our order into ill-repute.”
“So forgiveness is dependant on your principles. Okay, well, Starscream is acting the part of a machine of war. As a Seeker, isn’t that Functionism? Why is he a bad guy, to you?”
“He is an enemy. His form is abused to instil chaos and social unrest.”
“You’re scared people will doubt you guys. But wouldn’t granting amnesty to an enemy make you look a whole lot better to them, more merciful?”
“Perhaps. Though showing mercy to the enemy could make us look worse, Cityspeaker. It could make us look weak.”
Big blue optics narrow like cold, hard knives.
“You helped fund the development of our loyal Functionaries. In return, we will restore you to a glorious vessel that shall bring light to these dark times. The false Prime cannot be mistaken for a beacon of hope, as he would lead believers to their inevitable doom. No, the world needs a heroic, angelic figure, but you must ensure your allegiance to Primus through the sacred vows. Remember, you will become one of us, our shining representative, a figure they can admire whilst we perform our miraculous works in the discretion of your tall shadow.”
“Yes, yes, yes, whatever! Just get me fixed and flying already! I cannot stand these useless surgeons! I hate being vulnerable and useless and incomplete! It is torture to live like this!”
“We are offering you this promotion because we see great potential in you, unlike your fellow Councillors Orion and Ariel, for you have been useful – errm, and by that we mean helpful, of course – to our order in the past and only you understand that Functionism is necessary in a stable, enduring government. Do not disappoint, is that understood?”
“What is given, is taken away.”
“Ah, the Council’s adorable, plucky little mascot has deigned to visit me in my imprisonment. Here to mock me for my failure? Or perhaps you’ve come to lecture me about how evil I am and how I deserve to be punished? How boring.”
“No,” Bumblebee says quietly, optics upcast due to their sheer difference in height. “I just wanna understand you.”
Starscream quirks a sculpted optical ridge. “Understand me?”
“Why are you like this, dude? You’re mean, you’re full of yourself–”
“Because I’m fabulous, glitch.”
“No, not that! I mean… Ugh.” The scout rubs his brows, pacing back and forth before the cell. “Why do you hurt Slip like that? Why put any of your Seekers through a war that you lost anyway? You had it all. They love you, but you’ve made everything suck for them.”
The Commander’s gemstone optics narrow, following the smaller mech’s back and forth journey.
“They got VIP seats at every Cube match, they had friends and lovers and lives to live, and you were the king of your own little gang of special people. Why throw all of that privilege away?”
“You know nothing about me. You know nothing of my Seekers. Do not allow Slipstream’s unfortunate affection for you to convince you otherwise.”
“I wanna understand. Make me understand.”
“Why should I explain my reasons and the suffering of my people, to one such as you? Insignificant little insect, I’d crush you under my heel if not for the barrier between us. Consider this–” Starscream elegantly raps his knuckles against the Energon forcefield. “The ultimate equaliser. You, a free bug, and I, a trapped bird of prey, my wing clipped while you get to pace back and forth more annoyingly by the second, wasting your freedom to antagonise my captivity, gloating before a doomed mech. You are no better than I, little scout.”
“How the mighty has fallen, Commander.” Bumblebee stops his pacing, turning to simply gaze upward, forced to crane his neck to compromise for the extent of their differing scale. His handsome face is tinged with a curious mixture of disdain and pity.
“Don’t look at me like that.”
“Slip wants me to believe you’re not all bad. Even Windblade thinks there’s some shred of decency in you, something honourable wrapped up in all your other nonsense. I just remember that day you beat the scrap out of me for existing. Hey, actually, why’d you do that, anyway?”
“You got in my way and I taught you a lesson for it.”
“That’s it?”
“You’re gross and I dislike you.”
“Uh, because you’re an afthole who’s prejudiced against guys like me who can’t fly like you can?”
“It’s not quite that simple. You’re annoying. Your cheerful shade of yellow annoys me. Your contagious laughter annoys me. Your big blue optics and twinkly smile and clumsy movements annoy me. I’m annoyed by how people gravitate around you with such affection, hugging you and playing their idiotic games with you and kissing you and holding servos with you – eugh. Disgusting.”
“So, you’re mad at me because I’m adorable and nice and charming enough that people want to be around me because they actually like me.”
“Yes.”
“Ah, okay.” The scout scoffs, folding his arms. “I geddit now. I almost feel sorry for you. Almost.”
The Commander sets his palms on his ample hips, optics narrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean.”
“You wanna be like me. But you’re a big, bad Seeker and I’m just a dirty little ground-pounder, so you can’t admit it, not even to yourself. That’s why you attacked me in front of Windblade – you were jealous because she’d only just met you and me, but out of the both of us, she already liked me better than you. Aw, and after all your hard work trying to get a Cityspeaker to join your Seeker gang, she picked the grounder! That really stung, huh.”
“Envious, you imbecile!” Starscream snaps shrilly, bearing down on Bumblebee with the Energon barrier rippling between them. “I was not jealous! I envied you!”
“Huh?”
“Jealousy and envy mean different things, bolt-head! Read a holobook for once, you just might learn something!”
“Oh. Okay, so you wanna be more like me, because you’re envious of who I am.”
“Ugh.”
“That’s not my fault. That’s on you. If you just chose to treat me differently back then, we could’ve been friends before, like I’m friends with Windblade now. The three of us could’ve been a vibe. That makes me sad.”
“Humph.”
“Oh, you’re totes jealous of me, too.”
“Excuse me!”
“I stole Slip away from you. I mean, from your perspective, she was yours once, but she’s mine now. See? I know the difference between envy and jealousy. You got both.”
Starscream roars, throwing himself at the barrier.
Bumblebee flinches away, but manages to look quite relieved when the barrier holds.
“Alright, alright. That’s enough,” Strongarm intones with a gruffness of a femme so sick of her job. Once, she had been bright, bouncy, brimming with enthusiasm and hope. Now, she is dull and drab, performing her duties mechanically. “You, stop antagonizing him. And you, settle down in there or I’ll hit the mute button.”
“You insolent, insignificant insect! I’d wring your flimsy little neck and pop your oversized helm right off your ponderous pauldrons this very instant if I only could breach this barrier, bug! When I am free of this cage, I shall have my vengeance upon–”
Strongarm presses a button on the wall.
“Ugh. I don’t even feel good about what I just said to him.” Bumblebee rubs his neck. “That was kinda mean of me, right? I can sting, sometimes, I got spunk for days, but still, that was… too mean.”
Starscream’s intake moves, but auditory feedback has thus been abruptly cut from those outside his cell, thus he resorts to clearly pantomiming his violent intentions.
“I think he’s disembowelling you,” Strongarm reports dully.
“And… eating my guts afterword?”
“Eew. Well, then. You’d better hope he never gets out. Though, that might not matter, if that execution order goes through after all. Still debating doing it, so I hear.”
“Don’t say that. Orion and Ariel won’t let that happen.” Bumblebee sags where he stands. “Uuugh! I’m such an afthole. I came over here for answers, closure or something, I guess, I dunno, just to end up taunting the guy who believes he’s gonna die soon. Starscream’s a huge jerk, but he doesn’t deserve any of this.”
Strongarm sighs quietly, shuffling over to the smaller mech with a greasy foil bag. “You wanna wheel-nut? Still warm, fresh. I hide mine from the other guys, or I won’t get any to myself.”
“You got one with copper sprinkles on it?”
“Yup.”
“Thanks.”
Starscream is ranting and raving to himself, silent to those who watch him from outside his cell, his audience inferring what he says based on his expressive bodily language and avid gesticulations.
“If it makes you feel any better, he’s still murdering you in really graphic, painful ways.”
“Yeah. Let him have that. Least I can do for the guy, I guess.”
“They have a hostage! We gotta get Jetfire back! The deal goes through, it has to!”
“Regrettable. However, we stand firm. There will be no exchange on Decepticon terms,” the Functionary says, speaking not for himself, but for one of his masters, whose small voice emanates eerily from this huge mech. Functionists themselves rarely attend meetings in person, preferring to send their imposing and dangerous Functionaries instead, as a matter of safety. “The usurper and his harlot are to be publicly executed despite your disdain for our justice. It must be so, for the sake of our image. As you refuse us the Matrix, if you do not heed this instruction, our alliance shall formally end. We have too many irreconcilable differences. We have heard your concerns time and time again, you have heard ours. It matters little, for Councillor Sentinel’s signature has already granted motion from your side of the alliance, and so we will proceed with or without the two of you.”
“Signature? What fragging signature?”
“Councillor Sentinel’s signature, as I said, confirming his agreement to the execution order.”
Windblade swallows thickly, feeling wretched in her wrath.
Orion is appalled, unsure of what to say in answer to that.
“That bastard!” Ariel slams her fist in the desk. “He went behind our backs, Orion!” She grips her helm, seething. “Those stupid secret meetings, of course they were plotting without us! They woke him from surgery so he’d sign Megatron’s life away!”
“Sentinel would not have been cognizant at the time,” Orion says firmly now, optics aflame as horror turns to anger. “Ariel and I do not accept the veracity of his signature.”
“That is… unfortunate. It would seem we are at yet another impasse.”
“Frag you!”
The Functionary scowls as Ariel rises and stomps over to him, shoving at his heavily armoured breast.
“You can’t just waltz in and use Sentinel like a puppet! He’s not even fixed yet, leave him alone!”
“We already planned for that. Do not despair for him.”
“What the frag does that mean?”
“It means that we will ensure Sentinel recovers. Our resources are considerable, healers occupy our many ranks. It is a mutual debt. He has been a great sponsor for which we are grateful, and we have in turn sponsored him with a new path. We see great potential in his reconstitution, as he may not yet believe, yet he has been persuaded to appease us, unlike yourself and fellow Councillor Orion. Forgive any perceived disrespect - we do not acknowledge the false Prime, who is unlike us.”
“Ugh! Screw Sentinel! You can’t execute them! I won’t let you!”
“As for the condemned, those – ‘people’ – are a combined threat to everything sacred that ensures commerce and community can function here on Cybertron. You left for such a long time, Councillor Ariel, and in your fierce appeal to independence and individuality, you are yet alien to the ways of your home-world. The Senate would agree with our execution order, they were always keen to do as we asked, many were believers themselves. Councillor Sentinel, leader of his elite guard, once served and protected the Senate and by extension, he served and protected us. Perhaps he will be further persuaded, in gratitude for our care. He may serve and protect us again. ”
“The Senate is gone! Those old farts can’t dictate the future forever! We gotta do better than they did, or what’s even the point?” Ariel’s voice breaks at the end.
Orion now stands beside her, gently drawing her away from the Functionary, as the violence is tangible in the air.
“The public ceremony of a formalised execution is a social necessity. Martyrs, you said. Perhaps, for some. Yet a formal execution, when done before the public, serves a purpose of deterrence to the vast majority, to condemn their allegiance and teach those who bear witness to the folly and fall that such heresy cannot be permitted.”
“Are you insane? Actually insane?”
“No. It is your Spark that is clouded and cannot see. We will pray for clarity, so that you may yet come to understand. We doubt it, yet Primus willing-”
“You’re not executing anyone! And we’re not letting our people die so you can spread your message or whatever! The deal is gonna go through, Megatron and Starscream for Jetfire, and you better stay outta the way!”
“For the greater good, some sacrifices must be made. Jetfire is an old soldier, a war hero and veteren, who helped win the very war that elected the old Senate that Megatron destroyed. Jetfire will understand this. May it comfort him.”
Ariel roars with fury, her patience tested too far.
Orion catches the pink fist inches away from impact. “Ariel, please! You will make things worse!”
“I don’t care! Lemme at him!”
“This meeting is concluded,” the Functionist’s voice says, thus the mute Functionary takes a slow, heavy step backward, sneering. “We are done here and our alliance shall necessarily cease due to a conflict of interests too great to overcome. Enough time has been wasted. After collecting Sentinel and ensuring an armed escort for Megatron and Starscream, we will withdraw all our forces from this place and leave you in peace.”
“Listen, afthole! You’ll be leaving this place in pieces, ’cause I’m gonna get real violent with you real quick! You won’t get away with this!”
“It is being done, as we speak. Upon obtaining Councillor Sentinel’s signature, which I received remotely just moments ago, our retrieval team has already been assigned to the medical bay and an escort has been sent to collect the condemned. May Primus bless you.”
Ariel and Orion exchange a horrified look.
“Slip? Answer me, please. Scrap! Never has her comm link active when she’s at work.” Unable to transform and safely fly in such tight confines, Windblade sprints with a ferocious determination to rescue her girlfriend and maybe Sentinel too. Fliers are actually rather fast runners when grounded, despite any expectation to the contrary, gifted as they are with long and powerful legs even on top-heavy frames such as Seeker builds, naturally athletic. Windblade may very well run through walls, she is so fiercely determined in this moment. She tries another line in her favourite contacts. Her comm link chirps a confirmation as her call is answered. “Bee, Functionists incoming. Are you still onsite?”
“Uh, yeah, about that, bestie.” Bumblebee offers a nervous little laugh over the line. “We got a problem. A couple of problems. Big, burly problems with guns.”
Oh, no.
“Bee, I beg you, stay safe. Don’t be a hero.” Windblade shoves her way through ambling staff, too frantic to apologise.
“Somebody’s gotta stop them. I’m right here and it’s bit too late to hope for someone better to come along, so yeah. I guess I’m that somebody. Heh.”
“No! Megatron and Starscream are not worth you getting hurt, Bee! Get outta there and call for backup!”
“Hey, have a little faith in your little guy, okay? I’ll be fine. I promise.”
“Bee. Bee!”
“I’ll call you back. I love you, bestie.”
She feels sick as he hangs up on her, leaving a terrible throbbing in her brain module in the wake of his absence.
“Stand down, civilian.”
“Do not interfere.”
“You guys are so creepy!
Looming Functionary units approach slowly and ominously, bearing weapons with the implicit threat, although they do not brandish them.
In a bubble of silence, muted from verbal communication in or out, Starscream knows that these are to be his armed escort, powerful mechs in ordained armour sent to subdue him and drag him off to whatever crude ritualistic site shall be the stage for his public execution. He quivers in his little cell, but keeps his helm held high, refusing to cry despite the tremors that overtake him like a terrible chill. Yes, he is terrified, but he will face his demise with dignity. Or perhaps he could beg for mercy? Maybe he could bribe them with pretty poisonous promises? All he needs is a plan for treachery, a cunning trick in an opportune moment. Oh, woe betide he! But worse betide his enemies.
“Oi. Back off. Seriously.” Bumblebee is backed up against the Energon barrier that keeps Starscream encased within, palms splayed. “You’re not taking him anywhere.”
Strongarm grabs a Functionary and stops him. “You can’t just waltz in here and-” He shoves a datapad in her face, giving her pause to squint and read. “What’s this?”
Councillor Sentinel’s signature to commence the execution order.”
“I don’t see Councillors Orion or Ariel’s co-signatures to balance it out.”
“We Functionists make the other half of the ruling Council. We have agreed, and so there is consensus. The execution will proceed, today.”
“Consensus? Councillor Sentinel is in no state to sign a happy forgeday card, let alone consent to an execution order,” grumbles Prowl, the senior Chief of the Iaconian police precinct. He marches into the fray to neatly insert himself between the cell and the Functionaries, frowning heavily, sturdy jaw squared. “You should leave, before I slap down charges.” He has a very patient manner of giving orders, but he is undeniably not one to tolerate disobedience.
“We will not be dissuaded from our mission.”
“Oh, really.” Prowl nods to Strongarm, reassuring her as she moves to stand beside him, intending to form an intimidating wall of reinforced metal. “Would you like to sample my cells? That’s where you’ll end up. Fair warning.”
“I don’t think they’re listening.” Bumblebee spreads his arms, as if his small body might somehow shield Starscream, locked away in his cell.
“Fine, then. We’ll do this the hard way.” Prowl taps his audial, accessing his encrypted comm link. “All available units, requesting backup on my location–”
The Functionaries unanimously raise their weapons with a hum of charged Energon.
Strongarm whips out her blaster, unfurling into the shape of a compact crossbow that can be fired with one servo, automatically set to release stun bolts laced with weaponised Energon. “Drop the guns, now! Final warning!”
“No. Primus preserve us.”
Bumblebee makes a squeaky little noise.
“Damn.” Strongarm looks resolute, her figure firm and broad, but she widens her optics and pales a bit, giving Prowl a sidelong look as he sighs deeply next to her, his pistol already drawn. “This will have consequences, Sir. They’re our government.”
“Half of our government. Bah! I can already imagine the stacks of datawork I’ll have to process before the day is through.”
Locked in a cell, left with only Bumblebee, of all people, and the police to provide aid, Starscream looks suitably disgusted.
“Please, he’s in no condition for transit!”
“Move aside, Seeker. Let our healers handle it.”
Sentinel is drooling, groaning, barely conscious, slumped heavily on the gurney that the Functionary pushes like a hovering shopping cart.
“No! This isn’t right! You can’t just take him!”
“Stand down, soldier.”
“Someone, do something!”
But the other medical staff cower. They are not built to fight, they do not have weapons. Many of these people are volunteers, young and old, just trying to make a positive difference in their world.
Slipstream, however, is a soldier. She is built large and powerful and she does, in fact, have a nasty temper when sufficiently provoked. One of her patients – not her favourite by any means, but a patient under her care, all the same – is being mistreated under her watch and she feels her adrenaline protocols burning in her circuits. She boldly steps into the path of the gurney and firmly braces it with both palms, thus Sentinel is held stationary. “Enough!”
That old Captain’s voice, firm and strict and intimidatingly matronly, gives the Functionary pause as he considers this obstacle in his path.
“Sentinel is going nowhere!” Slipstream bares her dentas and flares out her wings. “Not in his condition, and certainly not without proper consultation and a treatment plan laid out to me first!”
One of the Functionaries neatly strikes her across the spinal strut, causing the Seeker to lurch, bellowing.
Windblade bursts into the medical bay, panting and dripping sweat, and finds Slipstream thus accosted. Already anxious over Bumblebee, this summons a wrath that the Functionist forces are not prepared for.
Starscream can only stand and stare silently.
Bumblebee darts nimbly between foes, his stinger immobilising a Functionary almost thrice his size, leaving easy pickings for Prowl’s pistol. And so Bumblebee braves melee combat, small enough to move quickly under the line of sight, his stocky body not only sturdy but unexpectedly nimble, dodging fists and stomps as he moves in for another sting here, there, anywhere he finds an opening.
These Functionaries are a genuine threat to those of more typical scale and fighting style, and yet their ranged weaponry and clumsy swings borne of such heavy limbs fail them against a foe they cannot hit.
Starscream is actually begrudgingly impressed by Bumblebee’s natural knack for fighting. Clearly an amateur, not the violent type at spark, and yet this unorthodoxy combined with such bold energy permit a most formidable little mech. And the scout is not fighting for his own sake, no. He fights to spare the Seeker Commander’s life.
Prowl’s call for backup does not only bring in more police units.
As a Functionary manages to grab Bumblebee with the intention of hurting him, Orion seizes the Functionary’s arm and bends it the wrong way with a metallic creak, then a snap, then a scream.
Thus Bumblebee is released and the Functionary is hurled aside like a mere plaything. “Whoa! That’s a lotta damage!”
“Bumblebee, are you hurt?”
“No, just a few scrapes, but I sure am glad to see you!”
The crinkles that form around Orion’s optics indicate that he is smiling behind his battle mask as Bumblebee embraces him. “My little friend, I only wish I had arrived to aid you sooner. You are so brave.”
“You’re here for me now. That’s all that matters, big guy.”
Starscream feels a chill when the Prime’s blue crystalline gaze finds his cell. In this instant, it is like looking into eternity.
Windblade’s roar rises above the clash of combat. She is usually soft-spoken, but she can get quite vocal in both lovemaking and battle. Her combat instructor had encouraged the battlecries as a form of intimidation, as if the force of nature that is the Cityspeaker wielding Stormfall could possibly be lacking in intimidation factor. She aims for the joints, severing the places where armour is weak and vulnerabilities are exposed in otherwise imposing frames, thus easily lopping off arms at the elbows and legs at the knees. These wounds may be non-lethal, if the wounded are attended to in time.
Slipstream’s grunts are deep, masculine. She is loathe to use her null-rays in close quarters, but she effectively immobilises with her charge set sufficiently low. Failing to get a clear shot, she applies her combat protocols and practice to adapt, but in doing so, she turns the sacred space of the medical ward into a battlefield and some part of her forgets any aspirations of being a healer and instead dispenses hurt, as Seekers are programmed to do. She launches a high kick, aided by her thrusters, and stabs her heavy heel into a Functionary’s visor, shattering it with a wet crunch. She does not even flinch at the sinking sensation of softer internals bending to submit. Once loathing violence and easily made nauseous, she has changed. Shadow Striker helped. Working in the medbay has been exposure to gore, a normalisation of bodies.
“I want to go,” Sentinel moans, fumbling for someone, anyone in the commotion. He has been out of stasis too long.
Ariel finds him, Energon dribbling from her split chin, falling on his face like rain. “Hush. I gotcha.” Her words are wet as she scoops him up and tries to get him back onto the gurney.
“No! I want to go! Let me go!”
“You’re delirious. You need your meds, old mech, and you gotta go back to sleep. Okay? It’s gonna be okay. Okay, okay, okay…”
“They came to finally fix me, you idiot!”
“Hush. Those guys can’t be trusted.”
“I’ll be a hero! Not a wreck, ugly and half a mech!”
“Listen me for once, you ungrateful bastard! We’re gonna get you fixed! You’re gonna be whole again! So stop fighting me and let me–” She growls as he pushes at her cheek, smearing wet, trying to escape her arms. “Sentinel, please. I love you. Let me help you.”
“Useless, everybody here just humiliates me, I’m left to rot, all this pain…”
“Look out!” Chromia bellows too late, caught up in the flow of Ironhide directing the security mechs and femmes to do as little damage as possible within the medical ward, while withstanding the Functionist taskforce bunkered within.
The butt of a rifle collides with Ariel’s helm.
“I heard the commotion from here. A battle I sadly missed. It would seem the Functionists came to collect, but you spared our lives. On behalf of Starscream as much as myself, I thank you.” Megatron offers a deep bow.
“Do not waste your words. Prove your gratitude in action.”
“Ah, yes, of course. You used to like my words, but I realise you have… changed.”
Orion has not yet figured out how to apply and retract his battle mask, thus only his optics can communicate whatever facial expression he may wish to convey.
“You hope that I might also change. Change my mind, change my ways. How could I deny a Prime? By necessity. I must disappoint you, old friend.”
“And I must return to Ariel. I merely wished to ensure you are safe, before I must leave you.”
“Give her my love, Optimus Prime. If those Functionists have even dared to so much as scratch her paint, I will find some means of escaping this cell, even if that means uprooting it with my bare servos, and obtain my freedom in order to kill them myself.”
“He’s really intense,” Bumblebee mutters to Strongarm, who nods.
Orion sighs, turns, and departs quickly. “I leave the rest to you, Chief officer Prowl.”
“On it, Prime.”
“No. Please. Just Pax will do.”
“Why deny your new nature?” Megatron calls after Orion’s departing back. “You, who bested I. To consider you Orion Pax is an insult, is it not?”
“Do not start with me, you old fart.”
Bumblebee trots in Orion’s wake, unable to resist a smile at that.
When Ariel revives, it is to a cool sensation pressed to the back of her helm.
“Easy.”
“What happened?”
“You were hit on the helm. Blunt trauma, nothing serious. You went into recovery mode for a bit to prevent data loss.”
“Uuugh. Fraggin’ heap of scrap, damn. Little glitch got me from behind. Punk.”
Slipstream smiles tiredly as Ariel slumps against her, offering something of a half hug about the bigger femme’s sweaty pink pauldrons.
“Wait. Sentinel. Is he–?”
“Gone,” Chromia answers with a huff. “He begged for them to take him away. We’d lost a few of our people and the fight was going on too long, too much damage was being done to our medical bay, so Ironhide figured frag it, let him go.”
“No. No!”
“Orion got back while you were out,” Windblade says quietly, sat on something that was once probably very expensive, but now it just emits smoke and probably will not suffer from being used as a seat for a moment of rest. “The Functionists were clearing out. What little fight they had left in them, he snuffed out, just like that.” She snaps her digits.
“Your new Prime is amazing.” Chromia offers Ariel a handsome smile, intending to be somewhat consoling. “Even with Sentinel out, we still have Orion, or Optimus, when he feels ready to go by that new name. We don’t need–”
Windblade winces and gestures subtly for Chromia to shut up, but the insensitive thing everybody has been thinking has already been said aloud.
Ariel turns and hides her face in Slipstream’s neck with a genuinely scary growl, then falls silent, slumped.
Chapter 73
Notes:
This is a huge chapter. It was a lot of effort to put together and I'm too mentally/emotionally tired to chop it down even if my body could manage it (I try not to go over 10 000 words per update, this is around 13 000). I figure an extra large chapter is fine, since I'll be going away for a while, so this might be my last update for a couple of weeks. Please enjoy it and thank you for reading.
Possible trigger warnings: reference to drunken sex (imaginary, a fantasy), drunken groping without sexual motivation, self-isolation, depression, mourning loss, discrimination, unwanted sexual advances, unwanted physical contact, toxic relationship dynamics, allusions to short-term dead bedroom and the toll that takes on an otherwise loving relationship (with so many other problems besides the lack of sex lately), Bumblebee considers the "I can fix him" trope with Starscream (which is fun in fiction but isn't healthy when applied to real life, so please don't put yourself in potentially risky situations trying to "fix" people who might damage you in the process instead), Starscream considers the "I can make him worse" trope with Bumblebee.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Can’t sleep?”
Windblade shakes her helm, sitting in the dark with a mug cradled in her palms.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Later, Slip.”
Slipstream frowns gently with concern, feeling a bit stung with rejection, pondering her lover’s predicament momentarily before she turns away and departs from the room without another word.
The grip on the mug tightens with something ugly inside, bitter like bile rising in the throat, as the Cityspeaker is stung by this departure, assuming rejection in the Seeker’s wake. Will their love survive this war? Can they stay together, when they want fundamentally different things out of this relationship? One wants to be a mother, a mentor, to nurture life within a marriage, and the other just wants her, already bonded to the sacred duty of communing with the Titans, unwilling to be tied too tightly beyond that ancient code. Does this already mark a bittersweet end to their future, is their love doomed regardless of the war? The war within, the war without.
Before Windblade can plummet into a deep, dark pit of her own despairing thoughts, Slipstream returns, approaching quietly with a bundle in her arms which she unfurls and gently drapes over the Cityspeaker’s slender pauldrons. “Here. Keep warm in your vigil.” The Seeker had merely left to retrieve a blanket.
Windblade blinks once, turning slowly to peer guiltily at her beloved, assuming the worst after expecting the best. “Thank you.”
“Don’t stay up too long. Come back to berth, where you belong.” With a motherly kiss atop the helm, followed by a lover’s kiss to the neck, that wound where Starscream had stabbed with a scalpel, patched over and healing fast, Slipstream murmurs huskily, “Does it hurt?” These words mean everything.
“No, not much.”
A soft, sad smile greets Chromia moments after, laid out in berth, waiting. “Is she alright?”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“Did you try to talk?”
“She doesn’t want to.”
“We must talk about it,” the bike intones quietly, peeling back the covers to invite her lover’s return.
“You’re right, as usual,” the Seeker murmurs with fatigue extending beyond the body, ensuring no warmth escapes between them as she settles down again, rolling over to rest her helm on that sturdy blue bosom, kissing the cleavage and nuzzling against the thrumming Sparkbeat.
“Sooner, rather than later.”
“Mmhm.”
The Cityspeaker bows her helm, once again left alone with her thoughts, but at least this time she will keep warm.
“You should eat something.”
“Not hungry.”
“Please.”
“Fine.”
“Thank you.” Orion stands in the doorway holding a laden tray, peering into the dim of the unlit office at Ariel’s large, dark silhouette stood so strikingly against the natural sunlight afforded by the viewing port. “I have a few of your old favourites, though I realise Cybertronian fuel does not please your palate like it used to.”
“It’ll have to do. I can’t make biofuel without the plants I cultivated in my office, seeing as the Decepticons destroyed everything. Tch. What does it even matter, anyway?”
“It matters to me, because seeing you unhappy renders me unhappy.”
“Oh, old mech. I’m sorry to do this to you.”
“I do not blame you. We are in mourning.”
“I can still smell his cologne.”
“Yes. He lingers in the air.”
Ariel gravitates toward Sentinel’s personal effects, the things he left behind on the shelves surrounding his desk, her optics narrowed, posture tense, digits exploratory.
Orion sets the tray down on the desk, then moves closer to her, finding her pauldron a perfect perch to rest his chin.
“I came back. Now he’s gone.”
“You did. Let us hope that he will be safe until we see him again.”
“And there’s that trade with the Decepticons to figure out. We just keep losing.”
“Take courage, old friend. We will do what we can, together.”
For a while, silence.
“I wish I’d stayed away.”
“That grieves me.”
“I hate this fragging planet.”
“Knock, knock. Wake the frag up.”
Ravage lifts his feline helm with a groggy meow, blinking blearily as his optics focus. He is curled neatly on Soundwave’s bosom, the mech stirring beneath with a groan.
“I made you breakfast,” Shadow Striker declares. “It seems edible.”
“I helped,” chirps Flamewar. “We didn’t blow anything up, even.”
“So you better get your handsome aft up and come eat it while it’s hot.”
“Or else. Goddit? There’s an implicit threat for ya.”
“Thank you both.” Soundwave does not arise, however. He stares at the ceiling in a depressed fugue, idly stroking Ravage.
“The threat wasn’t all that implicit, y’know,” Flamewar notes as Shadow Striker lumbers over to the couch. “Here she comes.”
“C’mon, geddup.”
Soundwave groans as he is poked in the pauldron.
“You can’t sleep your feelings away. That’s a bad habit that leads to rot.”
“I don’t want to disturb my cat.”
“I’ll take care of the boy.”
Ravage meows again, enjoying a much gentler stroke along his sleek spinal strut, Shadow Striker’s digits dancing over his dark coat. Although their start was a bit rocky, he has decided she is one of his favourite people. He dislikes most people, so she ought to consider herself honoured to occupy such an esteemed position.
“We all know the real reason why you don’t wanna geddup and face the day. Nobody blames you. But you’re better than that.”
“Ugh.”
“You got me worrying, here. It’s not like you to get in a funk. You’re hurting and I dunno how to help, but I actually went to the effort of cooking you a halfway decent meal and I’m gonna get real sad if you lie here and let it go cold.”
“Alright. I’m up.” Soundwave passes Ravage to Shadow Striker, then sits upright on the couch that served as a temporary berth last night - the alternative was spending another night in that habitation suite, without Hot Rod. “You’re good to me.” Some things are just too much to bear.
“Anything for you, pal.” Shadow Striker smiles, cradling Ravage to her bosom with a digit tucked under his little chin, rubbing affectionately against his purring throat. “Aw. Are you a hungry boy? You want some chow too? Oh, who is my special little kitty cat? Who is the little guy with the snoot to boop? Boop!”
Meow.
Flamewar is oddly jealous of that cybercat.
“Oh. It’s you.”
“Uh, yeah. Sorry!”
Starscream rolls his pretty optics, huffing moodily.
“Good morning to you too, sunshine.” Bumblebee is chewing on a wheel-nut when he stops, smiling aside at Strongarm. “Hey, uh, I grabbed breakfast on the way, hope you don’t mind. Help yourself, by the way. I got enough here to share.”
“Thanks,” she intones gruffly, but she does smile back. She used to smile a lot. She was happy, once. He seems to be on her good side, since her smiles are so rare nowadays. She does help herself to a wheel-nut, stereotypically rather fond of the junk food.
Starscream may feign indifference, but he glances aside at them, at the hot, fresh, greasy wheel-nuts stuffed in a foil bag that they share. He cannot smell foodstuff due to the Energon forcefield sealing him within this cell, but he can imagine the taste, as he has often indulged in junk food privately himself, usually from the sanctity of his office, refusing to share with his Seekers. Except Skywarp, sometimes, but only because he willed her into existence and as his first creation, she is his favourite, the naughty thing.
Bumblebee notices the hungry glances and swallows thickly. “Uh, can he have one, too?”
“I don’t see why not.” Strongarm gestures at a chute built into the wall outside his cell. “Slot it through there. That’s where he gets his daily rations.”
“The gruel they feed me is disgusting,” Starscream mutters, apparently to himself, avoiding looking now that he realises he has been obviously hungry. “It doesn’t satisfy.”
“Kept you alive just fine.”
“Humph.”
“Your boyfriend doesn’t complain.”
“He’s a gladiator, I’m sure he’s tasted far worse. I, however, am a mech of refinement.”
“Well, refine this.” Bumblebee presents the open bag. “Pick one.”
“Mm. I’ll have the one with the copper sprinkles.”
“Good choice.” He carefully passes the appropriate wheel-nut through the chute. “If you want more, I got more, so lemme know.”
“Errm, yes. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Although this is a small act in the grander scheme of things, Strongarm thinks that Bumblebee is astonishingly gracious, considering everything else.
Starscream takes a delicate bite, chewing methodically.
“It’s not poisoned.”
“Mmm.” His optics roll back in ecstasy.
“Ah, you’re savouring it. Gotcha.”
He swallows, sighs, and takes a rather less pretty bite, shearing off a hank of hot rubber betwixt keen dentas, his wings quivering with delight.
“Good, huh.”
“Mmm!”
Strongarm notes for her internal record that Bumblebee is smiling.
“Will you attend the meeting?”
Ariel sags deeper into Sentinel’s chair, miserably fiddling with his datapad just to be met with easily predictable passwords that use important dates mixed with the names of important people – the names of his friends, their forgedays, other anniversaries. He always was a sentimental old mech, as unpleasant as he may have become. She blames herself, mostly. “No. I need a minute to think.”
Orion leaves her with a kiss to the forehelm.
“Why are you sulking too?” Shadow Striker intones with a grouchy sort of playfulness, looping an arm around Flamewar’s neck and pulling her in roughly for a kiss. “I’ve got it bad enough trying to comfort Soundwave. What’s stuck up your tailpipe, sweet Spark? Talk to me.”
“You’ll think I’m being weird again.”
“Heh, I like your weird.”
“I’m jealous of the cat.”
“You’re jealous… of the cat?”
“Yeah. That damn cat.”*
“What’s wrong with my precious, perfect baby boy?” the mercenary grumbles defensively, scowling down at the bike with actual offense. “I like you a lot, Flames, but tread carefully. You better not disparage my stinky little nephew.”
“It’s not that. I’m used to getting all of your attention. I just want you to boop my snoot like you do with Ravage.”
“Oh. That’s it?”
“Yeah.”
“Why didn’t you just say so?”
“Because you’re a baddie and I’m absurd.”
“Bah.”
Flamewar giggles as a digit lightly presses to her olfactory sensor like a button.
“Get booped, idiot.” Shadow Striker’s scowl twists into a smile, somehow.
“Why did you defend me?”
“Seriously!”
“Yes.”
“No way. You gotta be kidding me, dude.”
Starscream pouts prettily, arms folded and wings drawn back in a defensive pose, hip jutting as he shifts his shapely weight from one elegant heel strut to the other. “Do I look like I’m joking, bug?”
“You’re actually asking me this right now.”
“Answer the question. Explain yourself.”
“Frag you! As if I could ever stand aside and let you die like that. I’m not that sort of person!” Bumblebee throws up his palms and rolls his pretty blue optics aside. “You’ve hurt me. You’ve hurt my friends. You’ve hurt yourself and you lash out at everyone around you because of that hurt. But you must be glitching out for real, if you really think I’m that sorta guy, that I’d just step back and let those Functionists kill you! Dumbaft! Of course I defended you!”
“My life doesn’t improve yours. I serve no purpose to you, I don’t benefit your interests. We aren’t the slightest bit friends.”
“That’s not the point, afthole! You’re a person, a horrible person, but I don’t want you dead! I want you better, to get better!”
The Commander’s optics widen, his haughty vulnerability giving way to disbelief.
“Slip would be so much happier if you just got better and actually treated people right! You need a chance, right? Even you need a chance. She might not want anything to do with you ever again and honestly power to her, but for your own sake, you need the chance to change. You can’t get better when you’re dead. Obviously. Sheesh.” The scout drops his servos to his helm, rubbing aggressively at it as if to cleave out the ache within. “Ugh! Y’know, you suck. I’m actually hurt by that. You really think so little of me, for no real reason, and that’s sad.”
Starscream gazes down at Bumblebee in bewildered silence.
“You’re lucky you’re really hot and that fliers are super cool by default, pal.” The scout shakes his helm, dragging his palms down his face with a low, aching groan. “’Cause you don’t have much else going for you, to be honest. I dunno if I can even try to be kind to you. Definitely not worth it.”
“Then why are you trying?”
“Slip loves you. You tried to murder her girlfriend, my best friend. But after all of that, Slip still loves you, and I love Slip, so. Yeah.”
“Did she set you up for this?”
“Pffft. No. Slip’s way too honest for that.”
“Mm. That would require some modicum of cunning.”
“Yeah, right. She’d come here and tell you she still loves you herself. Oh, wait. She already did. But did that matter to you? Nooo! Jerk. And me? Tch. Here I am, so call me stupid. You can’t be helped. I’m wasting my time.”
“Then go.”
“Huh?”
“Leave.”
The scout exhales shakily.
The Commander slowly stoops himself, lowering his beautiful face until he lingers optic-level with the little mech. “Why do you hesitate, bug?” comes out soft and slow.
Bumblebee opens and shuts his intake a few times, taking a timid step back.
“I can’t reach you now.” Starscream knocks on the Energon forcefield as a reminder, as if seeking entry to a locked door with no real expectation of an answer, no key. “You are safe with me, now. But am I safe with you?” The barrier holds, rippling in the wake of those elegant reinforced knuckles. “I’m at your mercy, bug. Is this what has you so fixated on me? Does my capture render you fascinated, the way a keeper admires his bird in the cage? My wing was already clipped. I can be forgiven for feeling…”
“Frightened?”
“I loathe to admit fear, but yes.
“Hey. I’m not here to harm you.”
“I’ve been very much harmed.”
“I’m trying here.”
“Trying to what? Help me change, hope that I might be better? Nonsense. You would sooner sting me here, where I have no room to escape.”
“I’m not like that!”
“Everybody harms me.”
“You harm everybody! You brought this on yourself!”
“You think I deserve this?”
“No!”
“Why not?”
“You deserve consequences for your actions, sure, but nobody has the right to take your life! Nobody deserves what you just went through!”
“Not even I?”
“Not even you!”
A prolonged, painful pause.
“Ah, I see.”
“Ugh. What?”
“You have a fetish for me, you little freak. I have you all figured out. Typical grounder, desiring his betters. That might work on Windblade, but not I.”
“Why you gotta make it weird, on top of tragic? Buddy, if anyone has a fetish between us, you’re the one who goes on and on about what a dirty little ground-pounder I am. Seems kinda freaky to me.”
“Oh, please. I’ll entertain you since I’m sorely lacking in amusement myself and you happen to be a suitable diversion, bug. Don’t misconstrue my attentions as anything but a meaningless diversion until whatever happens to me, happens.”
“Nothing’s gonna happen to you. We saved you, duh.”
“Nothing yet decided. I am your prisoner, bug.”
“You’re lucky I don’t mind being called that since it’s kinda cute.”
“It does suit you. Insignificant little insect. Crunchy shell, gooey centre, a satisfying sound under my heel.”
“Oh-ho. So high and mighty, fallen. Threatening to step on me now. Kinky.” Perhaps wanting to wrest dominance for once with a clever retort, the scout puffs out his youthful chest and offers a bright, bold smile. “You calling me - the bug so beneath you - cute?”
The Commander narrows his gemstone optics. Sometimes they are seared over with encroaching madness, or distant with mania. Now, however, his gaze is calm and clear, inquisitive like a raptor pondering a cybermouse, squirming and squealing under the hook of a talon without hope against the amused cyberbird of prey. “Kind of.”
That does it. Bumblebee quirks a brow and lets out a nervous, confused little laugh, scratching his helm. “Ha. Uhhh. Oh-kay…?”
“I despise you.”
“Thanks. Same.”
“But, that being said. You are small and sweet, I suppose. Everyone around you would agree. The noble and aloof Cityspeaker Windblade must feel responsible for your fragile upkeep, and Slipstream always did mother those relatively helpless compared to herself, hence they adopted you into their love nest. It’s actually a clever defence mechanism, as you’ve acquired two capable protectors who could hurt me in different ways, and I’ll confess, already have.”
“Bro. I’m just that adorable and my ladies love me to bits. That’s all there is to it. Stop assigning sinister motives to everything, it’s creepy. Besides, I kicked Functionary aft saving your life, you even watched me fight, so shove it. I can defend myself. You know that.”
Huffing through distinguished enstrils, Starscream rises again to his full height, sneering down the length of his handsome olfactory sensor. “Mmyes.”
“Mmyes,” Bumblebee echoes mockingly, in a terrible approximation of that distinct, alluring rasp, clumsily mimicking a sultry pose. He cannot keep up the act for long. “For real, though, if I gotta explain myself to you, I dunno what we’re really doing here. I guess a part of me just wants some clear reason as to why you’ve hurt me and mine so bad. A part of me wants to understand you, so I can reach a resolution with you. I think I want closure, before all this is over. And I want Slipstream to be happy, so if hoping you change, helping you get better is what it takes, maybe I want that too.”
“Doubtful. You wish to justify your hatred of me.”
“No. I wanna know what justifies yours, in your mind, even though you’re clearly wrong. Yeah, probably a huge waste of time. But what if? If I can figure you out, maybe I can, like, deconstruct your beliefs and challenge your preconceptions about grounders like me. Especially me, since clearly I am just the worst grounder of all. Maybe for Slip, I could try to talk you out of being such a bolt-head, so you could be less toxic even if she keeps her distance and dumps your ungrateful aft. Maybe I could figure you out and get that closure I feel I’m missing. Of course, I don’t owe you anything and I don’t gotta do anything to help teach you right from wrong. Just thinking in maybes and what-ifs, I guess.”
“Mm. I know more than most how a society dominated by grounders harms myself and my people in the long run. Seekers must rise above and I only strive to ensure it. This world is not built for fliers. Though Windblade lingers here, living and loving among you lot, surely she could corroborate my words, if you only thought to ask her.” The Commander sighs quietly, nodding curtly. “You are right about one thing, though - you are significantly worse than the other grounders, on account of being the most annoying to me, personally.”
The scout would sink into deep thoughts about the Cityspeaker, troubling thoughts that would make him anxious and sad to think about, but he giggles at that last declaration, then frowns, adorably serious. “No. You’re not funny. Shuddup.”
“I’m hilarious, actually.”
“Maybe when you’re the butt of the joke.”
“Nobody jokes about me. They laugh with me, not at me.”
“My friends and I laugh at you all the time.”
“So what. I definitely don’t care. Why would that bother me? Of course I’m unbothered. Humph! Your friends are dumb and so are you. So there!”
“Well, whatever.”
Starscream maintains his sneer as Bumblebee turns and shuffles away. “Yes, begone with you. Waddle off on those short little legs of yours, bug.” And then, after a moment of staring, there is a change of tune. “Wait. Where are you going? How dare you walk away from me! That is no way to end a conversation! So rude.”
“Ugh. You’re exhausting. I need a minute outside. I’ll be right back. Feel free to stare at my aft on my way out.”
“Oh, please. I wouldn’t dream of it. And don’t bother coming back. Or do! I don’t care either way.”
Bumblebee does have a great aft, though.
How dare he!
“I do not make this decision lightly, my friends. That is why I seek counsel from all of you. Tell me what I should do.”
“We can’t just let them go,” Prowl intones with a stern frown, shaking his helm and folding his arms. “Returning Megatron and Starscream to the other side just sets us all back to square one, minus Councillor Sentinel on our end. Both sides have sustained losses, true, but we’ll be the most disadvantaged if we comply with this exchange.”
“Yet if we do not comply, we will not only be without our Sentinel, but we will also incur Empress’ wrath and retaliation, backed by whatever Decepticons still answer to her call.” Orion sighs heavily, palms splayed on the table before him. “Our own numbers are diminished and our resources must be spent with careful consideration.”
“Mmhm. When Sentinel left, some of the elite guard went after him. He must’ve inspired more loyalty than we thought,” Chromia says begrudgingly, looking to Ironhide sat beside her, who nods grimly.
“Yup. We’re runnin’ low on security staff. To be honest, I don’t think we got what it takes to endure another Decepticon attack. We can’t guarantee our survival if the Decepticons retaliate. ”
“And then there are those Functionists to consider.”
“Truth is, we’re outnumbered and outgunned.”
“Then you two believe I should agree to the exchange and return both Megatron and Starscream to Empress, to avoid further conflict, at least in the immediate?” Orion intones lowly, looking between Chromia and Ironhide.
“Yes,” Chromia answers.
“Actually,” Ironhide interjects gruffly, “I was thinkin’…”
She turns to give him a curious look.
“I gotta echo what Chief Prowl said. If we hand over Megatron and Starscream, we only lose. That’s what Empress is bankin’ on us doin’ ’cause she knows we’re soft. We do what she wants, we look weak. Sets a bad precedent, goin’ forward.”
“I like being soft,” Hot Rod interjects adorably. “I dunno how to be anything else. But weak?”
Arcee squeezes his knee under the table, staring at the empty chair where Ariel should be sitting, contributing her voice.
“Then what do you advise?”
“We give over one. Not both of ’em.”
Orion tilts his helm a little to the left. “I do not follow.”
“That Empress lady wants Megatron. She doesn’t give a scrap ’bout Starscream, right? ’Sides, without their Commander, the Seekers will be less of a threat, ’cause they’ll be disorganised, demoralised. I say we hand over Megatron to keep the peace with Empress for a while, but hold onto Starscream as collateral and use him to control Megatron’s movements, y’know, toss a few threats here or there if he tries us again - do this for us, don’t do that to us, surrender or the Seeker gets it.
Slipstreams optics widen, then narrow.
Chromia looks utterly stunned, shifting uncomfortably beside Ironhide, questioning him with a touch to his mighty wrist.
“I know how that sounds. C’mon, give our team more credit than that. We’re the good guys, so we don’t actually gotta torture-”
Grip tightening reflexively, Slipstream inadvertently crushes her tin cup in her fist, which makes a rather loud, wet crunch, lukewarm Energon seeping through her clenched digits as she glares across the table in a way that makes Hot Rod cringe.
“Oh, uh, pardon me, ma’am.” Ironhide tips his helm. “No offence intended to present company. Just thinkin’ strategically here.”
“Starscream isn’t collateral.”
Windblade tightens her posture, discomforted by Slipstream’s strangely sinister tone.
“He’s damaged and needs help. They tried to execute him. Now you want to use him.”
“Well, uh, you’d say that like it’s a bad thing ’cause it’s personal for ya, but as for the bigger picture here–”
“It’s the wrong thing to do.”
“Think of it this way, Seeker. Wouldn’t it be easier to get the guy all the help he needs, while he’s in our custody, under our watch? We let him go free, he goes right back to it and we lose the advantage over Megatron, never mind the Functionists.”
“He’s my family.”
Chromia grimaces, silencing Ironhide with a jab of her elbow before he can incur more of Slipstream’s unusual wrath.
Orion frowns deeply in thought. He wishes Ariel were sat beside him right now, helping him decide for everyone else. The Matrix throbs within, but there are too many voices. Leadership is a burden to the mech who actually cares.
“How can we even deliberate any of this without Ariel here?” Windblade pointedly looks to the empty seat. “We need her input. It’s wrong to exclude her.”
Arcee looks so very sad, just then.
“I agree that this is far from ideal. Her absence was requested.” Orion nods wearily, sighing at length. “Ariel only needs a moment to herself. However, something must be done about the Decepticons. I do not believe Empress intends to wait much longer. We cannot afford to delay this exchange further than absolutely necessary. We also cannot afford distraction, as the Functionists are surely plotting their next move and they have Sentinel as insurance.”
“Then we gotta do what we gotta do.” Ironhide nods to Prowl, nodding back. “They play dirty, then so do we. Stoop just low enough to surprise ’em, make ’em fold.”
“Yes, we should keep Starscream in custody and make use of him, pretend to hurt him if we have to. If nothing else, it gives Megatron pause and buys us time over the Decepticons, so we can reconsider the Functionist threat. This is the smart thing to do.”
“But not the good thing,” Hot Rod mumbles. “This sucks,” he then declares with a frustrated huff, Arcee shrugging sadly beside him.
Slipstream grinds her jaw until it creaks, fist dripping from the dregs of her ruined cup clenched within. She looks like she might take a swing at the two mechs with that very same fist.
“Agreed, we are in a bit of a bind,” concurs Grimlock sagely. “We require level helms to further deliberate our decision. More Energon tea, anyone?”
A chorus of tired murmurs announce that there will be more tea dispensed this meeting.
Windblade feels distinctly uncomfortable as she reaches over and unfurls that clenched fist to expose the warped conglomeration off torn, buckled tin within, carefully pulling bits of the ruined cup out of her girlfriend’s larger servo.
Slipstream trembles to the touch.
“They’re stalling. Which means they’re scheming. Strange.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’d assumed they’d be more willing to cede to my demands with little trouble, considering they’re in no position to negotiate more favourable terms or deny what I demand.” Empress rubs her chin in thought, stood over the Seeker training grounds where they practice terrestrial melee combat under Nova Storm’s instruction, as she makes for an excellent combat instructor even if she is not Captain material. “And if Soundwave’s spying is to be relied upon, which it is, I do believe, then the Functionists have broken free and stolen Sentinel away. I have the advantage. Or so I thought.”
“You’re so hunky when you think. But you think too much.”
“I’ve got rather a lot to think about, my dear.” Empress likes to watch her adorable little cyberpigeons fight each other, sometimes contributing her brute strength and skill to the training regimen herself, although this is hardly helpful as it terrifies the mechs and titillates the femmes. “What could Orion’s lot be planning, I wonder…”
“I dunno, but mommy does want some attention if you can spare some.”
“Oh, my cyberswan, forgive me for being negligent. How may I serve?”
“It’s okay. You’re the boss now. That makes you important enough to justify getting distracted by anyone other than me.” Thunderblast saunters on over to take Empress’ servo like a gentlefemme courting a rather huge lady, kissing the reinforced knuckles littered with ugly scars in the gunmetal grey and black paint. “At least for a little while.”
“You do understand. Thank you, darling.”
“But mommy does want some loving.”
“Shall I arrange for a nice lunch out, perhaps make a date of it? I doubt this trade will happen in the next hour or two, I highly doubt it will take place at all today, so I should be otherwise unoccupied. How about a light meal, a little high-grade and a walk together in the gardens?”
“That sounds awesome.”
The gladiator beams, delighted, then blushes as the boat reverently kisses those ugly knuckles again.
Orion and Prowl make for an impressive pair, returning from the meeting after some hours of deliberation and debate.
Bumblebee does not feel comforted by their expressions.
“We have decided.”
“Oh, okay. So, uh, what happens next?”
Prowl pats Orion on the arm, then goes to speak privately with Strongarm, leaving Orion alone with Bumblebee outside the jail compound where captives are temporarily kept to await final judgment.
Captives like Megatron and Starscream.
“We will agree to Empress’ trade. She will grant us Jetfire, and in exchange we will give her Megatron. This will minimise hostilities, at least for now, granting us a moment of peace while we recuperate.”
“What about Starscream?”
“I warn you, my little friend.” Orion looks away, huge and handsome and heavy all over. “This is… upsetting to report.”
“Big guy?”
“We will not release Starscream back into Decepticon custody. We will keep him under our control… for an indeterminate amount of time.”
“What?”
“It is… strategically valuable that only Megatron goes free.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I have asked of our team, sought their council, and both Chief officer Prowl and our head of security Ironhide agree that maintaining control of Starscream would be the utmost benefit in our vulnerable, diminished condition. Their arguments were persuasive, although unpopular. They say that Empress will be satisfied with Megatron alone, which is likely true, and that by maintaining custody over Starscream, we will have… leverage, over the rest of the Decepticon forces. I am sorry, but I do recognise the sense in–”
“No. It’s convenient, but it's still wrong. I don’t even like Starscream, but the guy’s gone through a lot, for all the evil stuff he’s done, and we could’ve sent him to his death if you’d listened to Sentinel and the Functionists and probably Ironhide and Prowl too. We gotta do better than that. We gotta be better than the old Senate we’re supposed to be replacing, or what’s the point? But here you are, the guy I look up to as a leader and kinda like a father figure since my real mentor sucked, and you’re saying we just keep Starscream in that little box where nobody even wants to visit him, so we can dangle him over Megatron’s helm whenever he acts up?”
“In essence, yes.”
“No way. That’s horrible. You’d never do something like that.”
“Normally, I would not. I beg you to understand, I… I do not wish to do this. I will do so, if I must.”
“That’s not something Orion would say,” Bumblebee mutters with wounded sincerity. “But maybe it’s something Optimus would say, and that breaks my Spark, because I don’t even know the guy.”
Orion flinches.
“Please come out. Or let me in.” Arcee rests her forehelm against the door, locked from the inside. “I know you’re hurting. I’m hurting too.”
“I need to be alone for a while. Can’t you respect that?”
“It’s really hard to. I wanna help. Let me hurt with you.”
“Go away, before I say or do something even worse than everything I’ve said and done to drive people away,” Ariel answers from beyond, muffled. “Primus, girl, give up on winning me over. All I’ve ever cared about is myself, my organic studies and my interplanetary adventures and my hatred of this ignorant home-world. Sentinel was right. No wonder he’s gone. I was always putting him down, yelling over him, so he felt small. Sorry doesn’t say enough for how I feel.”
“Sentinel can screw himself. Don’t let him do this to you.”
“I’m doing it myself, to myself. You could do so much better.”
“You can’t say that. I love you.”
“You love everybody. It’s part of what makes you beautiful, Arcee.”
“Ariel, don’t make me break the door down, or hack the lock.”
“I’m a miserable old lady at this point. Go be with your friends, they need you most. Let me mourn, leave me alone.”
“For frag’s sake. Ariel. Ariel!”
Silence.
“Ariel?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.” Bumblebee rubs his cheek against Orion’s chest, barely able to reach.
“You were not wrong. Even I do not recognise myself, who I am, who I have become. It is not just my body that feels… different.”
“You’re a good guy. A great guy. I’m just upset. Sometimes friends say the worst things when upset.”
“I do not blame you.”
“No luck?”
“None.”
Windblade draws Arcee into a hug, kissing her cheek, tasting a trail of tears.
“She shouldn’t have to suffer on her own.”
“She isn’t alone. She has all of us.”
“It’s not the same.”
“I know. But it’s a compromise. We’ll love and support her at a distance if she needs it, and we’ll be waiting to receive her again, whenever she feels ready to face us.”
“I will speak with Megatron. Are you sure that you will be alright here, on your own?”
“Again? Sure. I can handle Starscream. Guy’s in a box, I’m not, so all he’s got are words.”
“He is rather good with his words, I am afraid to confess, my brave little friend. I would not wish to verbally spar with that one.”
“Aw, don’t you worry about little old me.” Bumblebee smiles up at Orion, recognising the paternal concern even in Optimus’ face. “I’ll be okay. I’m full of scrap, so I can talk his audial off for days, so long as I keep myself in check. I even kept him busy all morning. He still hates me, and I hate him back, but maybe we have the start of a rapport going on. Might be better if I, uh, break the bad news myself, instead of you, so. Yeah.”
“If you need me–”
“I’ll call for you.”
Orion lays his huge palm fondly upon Bumblebee’s pauldron, squeezing once, then turns and lumbers off on powerful pedes.
“Oh, yes. He’s so majestic, isn’t he.” Starscream yawns, slumped against a wall within his cell, ostensibly bored despite their earlier chat that same morning. “The Prime himself, embodied in an old mech. A glorified data-pusher, no less. Funny, that.”
“Hey. He came from the docks. He knows hard work, he’s big and strong, and he’s definitely made of tougher stuff than most. Besides, you ever been in the Archives, like the bits open to the public? Super complicated in there, mad confusing, Windblade has to keep me on a leash so I don’t wander off down an aisle and get lost without her, so you know he’s smart enough, managing all that mostly by himself. I love the big guy. He’s awesome.”
“You know, Thundercracker is rather fond of the Archives.”
“Yeah, actually, Windblade and I have bumped into him a few times in there, before all this mess. He’s, uh… creative, right? An artist?”
“Always reading and writing and doodling his adorable little drawings, yes. If that sweet, sensitive, stupid Seeker of mine can navigate the Archives by himself without needing Slipstream to mother him, then I’m sure it’s not all that complicated.”
“You’re just being contrarian because you’re cranky, dude.”
The Commander gives the scout a sidelong stare. “Why are you here, bug? I had enough of you this morning, why come back?”
“I’m sorta checking in on you before the trade-off.”
“So, then. Your side’s actually decided on what to do with me.”
“Yeah. It was in the air for a while, but you’ll be okay. I guess.”
“Don’t expect my gratitude.”
“Trust me, I don’t.”
“So, then. What is this bit of bad news?”
“Primus, look at my beautiful medbay.”
“Hrrrm. That’s a lotta damage, alright.”
“The Functionists went ahead and trashed anything the Decepticons hadn’t already ruined. I don’t even know where to begin.” Slipstream sets down something broken with a sigh, shaking her helm. “How much of this is irreparable, do you think?”
“Well, uh, lemme see here…”
“I’ll requisition replacements where I can, so just, um, write me a list, or… I don’t even know any more. Frag it. I can’t keep doing this.”
“Hey, now. Take it easy, Doc.”
“I’m not a doctor. I’m not even a qualified nurse.”
“You’re doin’ your part, best you can, in the worst circumstances. Nobody’s got the right to shame ya for it, so don’t go wastin’ time or energy blamin’ yourself. Hear me?” Wheeljack slings a comforting arm about her broad pauldrons, patting her lightly on the chassis. “I’m here to help. I’ll do the best I can, but I’m no expert in medical equipment, y’know? So you might need to sorta guide me through the repairs, but that’s a-okay! We’ll fix it, together.”
“You really think we can fix this?”
“Errm, well. Most of it. Maybe.”
“I see. So the coward has shown his true face. So much for our old friendship. Humph. Sentinel never did quite gel with the rest of us. Insecure fool.” Megatron scoffs, sat on the floor in the centre of his cell, meditative. “Ariel is in mourning, I expect. She always did prefer to distance herself.”
“Yes,” Orion murmurs softly and sadly, his helm hung heavily on his muscular neck. “She has sealed herself away, alone. She denies anyone an audience, except for myself.”
“Then I assume she will not be in attendance, to oversee this… transaction.”
“No, she cannot face you now.”
“Damned Sentinel!” Megatron suddenly bellows.
It is enough for grizzled old Prowl to shift uneasily.
“He sacrifices liberty for some notion of safety!* He thinks this will restore his station, yet those Functionists intend only to use him, weaponise him, brainwash him! And they will feel entirely justified in doing so, they will call anyone who disagrees with them their enemy as they always have, and so he is our enemy now. That treacherous fool! Was it not enough that he left me to die down there, now he must scorn you and Ariel as well?”
Orion merely sighs.
“You really need to acquire a more delicate approach,” Chromia grumbles whilst punching Ironhide in the chin, throwing the bigger mech back a few steps.
“Oof! Damn. Wouldn’t know delicate if it snuck in on ya and bit your aft! I respect a femme that hits like a truck.”
“You were awful in that meeting this morning, you and that cop, Prowl. Slipstream is my femme and you both upset her.”
“So, uh, what do I gotta do to appease ya?”
“Hush. Strike me back, if you can, then buy me dinner.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Oh, you cheeky thing.”
They are sparring to work off excess energy, being stressed and overworked of late, trying to ensure security.
Ironhide is bigger, stronger, with greater reach, heavier armour and a sheer tolerance for pain.
Chromia is quicker on her pedes and able to nimbly duck below his line of sight or slip around him where his bulk is at a disadvantage, maintaining consistent striking range whilst evading getting hit herself, and she does hit astoundingly hard.
Overall, they end up well-matched.
“Why are you the one to tell me this?” Starscream bites his trembling bottom derma, flexing his wings unhappily, pacing about his cell. “Slipstream truly has forsaken me, her brother, if she is not here to tell me herself that this motion to keep me here has passed. Why send for you?”
“I’m here of my own volition.” Bumblebee rubs his arm, downcast. “You can’t blame her for keeping away.”
“Does no one in this cruel, cold world pity me?”
“If it matters at all, even I feel bad for you, a bit.”
“Do you, really?”
“Yeah. I really do.”
“Then stop this from happening to me. Make it stop.”
“I’m just a little guy. People overlook me all the time. What can I do?”
“Your friends will heed you. Speak to the Prime, beseech him on my behalf, convince him that this is cruel.”
“I don’t like it either. I can’t believe this is even happening. I told him as much. But…”
“Tell him again,” the Commander hisses, suddenly pressed against the Energon barrier, pawing at it. “You can’t do this to me! Megatron won’t stand for it! I am sacred, I am vital to the Decepticon cause and hierarchy alike! He’ll fight his way in here to free me and he’ll kill anyone who gets in his way! Spare those lives and set me free from this torment!”
The scout swallows thickly, lifting his gaze.
“Please! Seekers aren’t built for boxes! This cage, it crushes my spirit, stifles every instinct to stretch my wings and fly! My poor, clipped wing, forcing me to the ground! Have I not suffered?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Sorry? Sorry! You want to see me suffer! You pretend that you could care enough to see me restored and rehabilitated, only so you can give me false hope!”
Whatever it is that Bumblebee tries to say to console or correct this assumption proves useless.
Starscream rants and raves and attacks the interior of his cell like a trapped beast, tearing apart the sturdy furnishings, ruining his environment.
“Starscream, dude! Stop!”
“Enough.”
Bumblebee flinches as Strongarm pushes past him.
“Calm down or I’ll be forced to stun you.”
“Raaargh!”
“He’s gone nuts!”
“Keep back, civilian. Fliers get crazy when confined. I’ve seen it all before.”
“Primus! What’re you gonna do? He’ll hurt himself at this rate!”
“Stun him. Like I said.”
“That’s horrible!”
“Don’t be concerned. It’s harmless if done right, just painful all the same. Hopefully he doesn’t bite his glossa off. I’ve seen that happen, too.”
“What?!”
Strongarm releases a clasp to reveal a button that is normally inaccessible. “Final warning. Disengage.” When there is no compliance, she grimly presses the button briefly, with a buzzing sound.
Starscream jerks in place as the very floor beneath his pedes emits some sort of energy blast, ricocheting against the walls. The shock to his system channels up his long, shapely legs to spasm throughout his arms and wings. He gurgles, optics bulging.
Bumblebee throws up a little in his own intake.
A moment later, Strongarm releases the button.
Starscream collapses, groaning feebly in a heap.
“What the frag!”
“Sorry. It must be upsetting, seeing it for the first time.”
“First and only time! Don’t you dare do that to him again, ever! This is where our taxes go? Torture chambers! And Prowl just lets you cops do this sort of thing? Torture!”
“Yeah.” The officer turns to the scout, her resignation meeting with his fury. “Welcome to the system, or rather the part of it that you’re not meant to know about.”
The Commander drools on himself, rolling over to stare up at the ceiling, the fight in him gone.
“Still mad at me?” Ironhide pants, dripping perspired coolant, his red shell scuffed with blue paint transfers, burly protoform bruised within the vulnerable gaps.
Chromia chugs refreshment from a canister, then drags a sweaty arm across her subtle smile. “Less mad,” she surmises curtly, passing over the canteen. “You still owe me dinner, though.”
“Much obliged. You like it cheap and quick, but tasty?”
“Do I seem the sort for fancy, uptight restaurants to you?”
“Heh.”
“Let her grieve alone. It is easier for her.”
“She’s my friend. She’s hurting and I wanna support her.”
“Ariel is the sort to lash out when upset. She does not want to hurt you. Give her space as she requests it, and in time, she will emerge.”
“Then promise me you’ll keep checking in on her from time to time, okay.”
“I swear it, my friend. Go now and seek rest. It has been a long day for us all.”
Arcee nods grimly, turning away.
Orion watches her go with elderly pity.
“We’re going out.”
Soundwave grunts as Shadow Striker slaps him playfully on the aft, kissing him roughly on the cheek as he turns to nuzzle her back. “We are?”
“Yup. Beats sulking at base, right? You gotta be sick of doing Decepticon datawork by now.”
“I suppose so.”
“C’mon, pal. We’ll have fun.”
“We always do.”
“Attaboy. Go pretty yourself up, but don’t take too long. I know how you get with the polish. You could admire your own reflection forever.”
“I’m just that beautiful.”
“Yeah, you are. Lemme go grab my girl real quick.”
Flamewar sits with Ravage, having a nice chat, apparently reconciling their differences. He meows conversationally at her and she answers with words, apparently perfectly cognisant of whatever it is he is saying.
Shadow Striker thinks it is adorably strange and Soundwave seems to appreciate it too, in his own way.
“Yeah, so, like, when you sit and stare into space, maybe into the corner of the room or up at the ceiling or just past someone’s cheek, and it looks like nothing is there, you actually see something there and it’s so awful that the rest of us dummies just can’t comprehend the invisible terror, so you have to ward it off in silence, staring down the eldritch horror until it goes away?”
Meow.
“Huh. That is seriously scary stuff. Being a cat must be harder than I thought.”
Meow.
“What’re you two talking about?” asks Shadow Striker as she interrupts the conversation to scoop Ravage up into a cuddle, smiling down at Flamewar.
“He was telling me about cat stuff. He revealed sacred feline secrets to me that I don’t think I have the right to speak aloud.”
“C’mon, you can trust me. I’m auntie Shadow Striker. Spill.”
“Well, okay, but it might be a cognitohazard. The reason why Ravage noisily runs around the habsuite early in the mornings, or stops and stares strangely at nothing when busy licking himself, all links back to a ritual to ward off bad things we can’t see. Turns out it’s really important that Ravage presents dead cybermice as offerings to the unseen, the unknown, but Soundwave or Hot Rod find the little corpses and stupidly throw away the offerings. The cat dads don’t get it. Society is doomed. Suffice to say, I’ll be thinking over this conversation for the rest of my life. Wow.”
“Girl, you need a drink and a night out worse than the rest of us.”
“Hot date, huh.”
“It’s hardly a date. Coworkers socialise after hours, you know.”
“Yeah, right.” Windblade smiles smugly, finding her sense of humour in spite of everything else. “I’ll let Slip know not to expect you home tonight.” A wink, brows wiggling suggestively.
“I said dinner. At most it’ll be a couple of hours. I didn’t say I’d spend the whole night with him. You assume too much, with your mind in the gutter.”
“Hey, I assume you’ve got him treating you to dinner, which has me tickled.”
“I can tell.”
“Can’t be blamed, here. Gotta say, I’m surprised. You don’t usually go for mechs, but then again, he’s very handsome, in a rough sort of way. Nice body, too.”
“Hush.” Chromia turns away, flushed. “He’s my boss.”
“That just makes it kinky.”
“I have no such intentions, you little minx.”
“Did you ask him out?”
“I was annoyed with him, so I told him so. I didn’t ask.”
“I won’t discourage you. Ironhide isn’t my type, I like my mechs soft and sweet and submissive.” The Cityspeaker sighs now, giving the bike a light pat on the back. “But if you like him, that’s fine with me. He’s really got Slip upset though, so just consider that, going forward, okay.”
“He’s been thoroughly reprimanded. I’ll have him apologise to her in person.”
“Thank you. Until then, enjoy his company and have a nice time.”
Chromia is still flushed as she accepts a kiss on the cheek, Windblade forced to stretch a bit to reach.
“Love you.”
“Love you too.”
“You got plans tonight?” Prowl asks all of a sudden, adopting his soft-spoken, patient undertone when speaking to his favourite subordinate, Strongarm, a femme he has personally coached into her role as a police officer with the help of the retired legend Dropforge, an ornery old Minicon of renown known for tackling the corruption inherent within the institution during his tenure as Chief of the Iaconian Police, thus rendering Dropforge deeply unpopular among the majority of fellow officers yet respected just as deeply by a few, Prowl and Strongarm included. As the current Chief, Prowl took over this precinct in Dropforge’s stead upon retiring from the force, in turn taking over Strongarm, hopeful to embody even a fraction of the Minicon’s desire to mend the reputation of law enforcement, together. They have had little success.
Strongarm looks up from her datapad, smiling a surprisingly soft, feminine smile at her senior and superior. For one so rugged and often-times stiff with a preference for following protocol, she can be warm and friendly, though her passion for the job died millions of years ago and it has slowly been killing her too. “Just homework.” She wags said datapad to illustrate.
“Could I tempt you to a game of Cube, drinks after?”
“So I can thrash you and get you to buy me multiple rounds again, Chief?”
“This time might be different.” Prowl feigns an expression of offence. “I could win.” He twirls a stylus betwixt his digits, intended to help navigate devices but a fun toy to stifle the fidgeting, lest he appear anxious. “You could buy me a drink.” This would be deeply unprofessional if they were not already so close, so familiar.
Strongarm sets down her datapad and slouches muscularly back in her seat, actually laughing, though the sound is burdened with fatigue. She is so very fond of him.
He likes her, too.
Decepticons and others mingle together, tenuously at peace in this neutral abode, the old oil house a safe refuge for anyone regardless of allegiance. The golden rule is simple and firmly reinforced – there will be no fighting here.
It has been a while since Slipstream tried drinking her sorrows away, but she finds herself just as miserable three drinks in.
Maccadam offers her free Energon goodies to suckle on and she accepts, but otherwise he gives her space and just watches over her from behind the bar, ensuring she does not drink too much.
“I’m so sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“Some of it is. I almost murdered Starscream, I helped capture him, and now he’s in our custody without much hope while Megatron gets to walk free.” Windblade is a little drunk herself, rolling an Energon goodie betwixt her digits and sat slumped unflatteringly in the booth. “I can’t believe Orion agreed to what Prowl and Ironhide were saying we should do. I should’ve loudly objected to it. I know Chromia wanted to. Bee would’ve said something, if he’d been at the meeting. You’ve got to deal with Starscream, whatever we’re willing to do to him to win this war, and on top of that you feel guilty over Sentinel’s departure. I wish I could help, but I just seem to hinder you instead. I can’t even comfort you any more. Primus, Slip. I’m so sorry.”
“My love, sometimes, your propensity for being honest extends to a fault.”
“Yeah. I just have this naive belief that open communication fosters healthy relationships, but then that’d mean I’d make you happy in spite of the brutally honest things I say to you, but I don’t, and you always listen even at your own expense, when I should learn to shut up.”
The Seeker sighs quietly, resting her helm in her palm, gazing forlornly at the Cityspeaker seated rather unladylike across the booth.
“I just love you so much. Too much, Slip.”
“I love you more. Eat that Energon goodie.”
Just then, Arcee returns from dancing her fears away, dripping perspired coolant as she falls into the space beside Slipstream, snuggling up to her sweatily.
“Feel any better?”
“Nope, not really.”
Hot Rod still dances, though it feels alien without Soundwave’s music, Bee doing a little jig of his own, Grimlock attempting to keep up with the smaller, more energetic mechs.
“They’re throwing hella aft out there,” Windblade notes in a very tired, absentminded sort of way, holding Slipstream’s servo on the table and finding Arcee’s to hold onto as well. “Really tossing it back.”
“Frag yeah. The boys are outta control. Go get it, I guess.” Arcee tries to inject a little jest, but even her invincible optimism fades away. “You girls as tired of everything as I am?”
“Yes,” Slipstream and Windblade chorus lowly.
“Darn.”
“But we have each other. We’ll soldier through it as a team, together.”
“We have to. Nobody’s strong enough alone.”
Suddenly, the music cuts off, only to be replaced with something more intense.
Helms turn to find a mech who looks like Soundwave at a glance, but as the figure steps under an overhelm light to reveal himself, the colours are wrong. Besides, the taste in music is apparently different, but few would actually care enough to note that.
Hot Rod already knows this is not his lover who has acquired control over the soundtrack to this scene, but this is confirmed to be a mech sharing an identical body-type to everyone else.
“Alrighty, then. Let’s get this party started!”
“Who’s he?” asks Arcee over at the booth.
“Dunno.” Windblade shrugs, playing with Slipstream’s digits.
“Got the Deceptibrand, so he could be trouble. No offence, Slip. We’ll scrub yours off somehow.”
“None taken. I sure hope so.”
“I didn’t think Soundwave’s framework would be shared by anyone else. Then again, Bee’s got a twin in Cliff. Rare frames aren’t always unique, I guess.”
“Yeah. I love Bee to bits, but I gotta say, Cliff’s hotter with the bigger horns, like, if I can be crude and just give my totes unsolicited opinion. I wanna grab them. They’d be fun to hold onto.”
“Cliff’s cute, sure, but nobody’s cuter than my honeybee. His little door-wings make me melt and he buzzes when he’s happy. How could anyone compare?”
“Aw. I love it when you call him that.”
In the meantime, this Soundwave lookalike has assembled a small crowd of people wanting to forget about the war, recognising a ringleader when they see one, urging them to dance their troubles away.
“That’s what I’m talkin’ ’bout! Follow my lead, lemme show y’all how it’s done!”
Bumblebee and Grimlock exchange a look whilst dancing to this new beat, then turn together to look over at Hot Rod, concerned for him, as he seems to be lost in thoughts about his lover left behind.
The Soundwave lookalike is an excellent dancer in his own right, his speaker system throbs with virile potency to match, but there is an abrasive masculinity here, a coarseness of character that some may prefer to the suave, subtler alternative. His visor gleams, catching the light as he tilts his helm and dances his way over.
“Hey!” Bumblebee is nudged out of the way with a hip check, almost toppling over into Grimlock’s arms. “Watch it!”
“Mind yourself, my good fellow. No need to get rough.”
Hot Rod arches his brows as the Soundwave lookalike settles in closely, too close, taking his servo without requesting it and pulling the mech into a dance. “Uhhh–”
“Howdy, sugar wheels.”
“Oh, um. Hi?”
“Name’s Soundblaster. What’s yours?”
“Hot Rod.”
“Suits ya.”
“Thanks?”
“I like the flames on your grill, pretty boy.”
“Heh, they do make me go faster.”
“Then I reckon you’ll keep up.”
Bumblebee and Grimlock collectively gawk as this Soundblaster guy makes it plainly obvious to them that he is chatting up Hot Rod, so soon after a painful breakup, in the midst of a bitter war between their opposing factions, the very war that made an enemy spy out of the communications specialist and social media celebrity Soundwave. Should they intervene?
“You got real nice optics.”
“Wow, you’re really forward.”
“What I want, I get. Keep those pretty optics on me, now. I’m the one that matters here, so forget all the rest and gimme the attention I deserve. Trust me, sweet Spark, I’ll be worth it.”
Hot Rod does not protest, although he is not overly enthused either, allowing Soundblaster to take the lead, flushed and a bit unsure yet not unwilling. It takes some borderline aggressive coaxing within the demanding flirtation, but they find a shared rhythm eventually.
“All good, dude?” asks Bumblebee with a concerned frown, Grimlock looming protectively.
An uncharacteristically tight little smile at the wary friends reassures them that Hot Rod is okay in that he does not feel endangered, but his optics beg them to stay close, and so they do.
Soundblaster wiggles his hips suggestively mid-dance.
It makes Hot Rod cringe, not that it matters.
Windblade rolls her optics from her seat in the booth. “Ugh. What a sleaze.”
“I know, right. I don’t even like Soundwave, but when you squeeze out all his charm, that guy’s what’s left of him.” Arcee shakes her helm.
“Should we step in?” asks Slipstream, craning her neck to watch. “Sure, Grim and Bee are right there, but maybe Rod feels pressured to humour the guy.”
“Doesn’t help that he looks just like Soundwave. That must be a real mindfrag. Damn.”
“Riiight. It’s gotta feel so weird. We should stop this. Right?”
“Right. Rod looks uncomfortable and that won’t do.” Windblade downs the remainder of her drink, rising from her seat with a grim expression of drunken determination. She nods over at Bumblebee, who has kept close to Hot Rod, nodding back.
Arcee rises too, looking tough.
Slipstream sighs, getting up heavily and lumbering after them like a thug.
The femmes march over to the throng of dancing bodies, trying to push through without being terribly rude.
“Sorry.”
“Excuse me.”
“Lemme just squeeze right past you real quick.”
In the meantine, Soundblaster has made a grab for Hot Rod’s hip.
“Um, no, thank you.”
“What’s wrong, darlin’? Am I intimidatin’ ya? Big, bad boy gotcha actin’ all nervous-like? Don’tcha worry, I’ll treat ya real nice.”
“We can dance, but servos-off the merchandise, okay. I just broke up and I’m really not looking for a hookup. Just to dance ’til I feel like myself again.”
Windblade looks ready to break a mech in half, a sentiment echoed by Arcee, even if this would get them kicked out by Maccadam.
Bumblebee and Grimlock push forward, intending to intervene themselves.
However, before anyone can rescue Hot Rod from Soundblaster’s determined approach, the screech of music being abruptly cut off into chilling silence is sufficient to capture the entire space in a bubble of tension, people turning together to stare, conversations having ceased and drinks forgotten.
Soundwave stands tall and broad, Shadow Striker loyally at his side, Flamewar an extension.
“Well, scrap.” Soundblaster huffs. “Of course you show up.”
Hot Rod scrambles away, flushed and flinching, as if somehow expecting he is in trouble when he has done nothing wrong.
“Why’d you cut my music? I had the whole place under my spell.” Soundblaster laughs mockingly, gesturing to his surroundings, the people who had been dancing to his beat. “This is my haunt now. You best begone. Don’tcha have a kitty cat needin’ a cuddle? That’s more your scene nowadays, I reckon.”
Soundwave says nothing, which is eery, as he is known for being musical even if not the most conversational sort of guy. He stands utterly silent and still, staring.
“Go on. Git. And don’tcha worry none ’bout your sweet li’l side-piece, here.”
Hot Rod cringes as Soundblaster slouches over, looping an invasive arm about his pauldrons.
“I’ll take real good care of him for ya.”
Soundwave finally makes a noise. It is an ominous hiss of static.
“I’m gonna shoot that guy,” Shadow Striker declares.
“No.”
“Lemme at him.”
“I’ll handle it myself.”
“I’m your best friend, dumbaft. Point is, I’m willing and able to help you handle him. Hell, I’ll even handle him for you. Be my pleasure.”
“I know. Thank you.” Soundwave gives Shadow Stroker a loving squeeze on her pauldron, then strides forward. “Watch me.”
“Oh, this’ll be good.”
“You’re not worried, boss bot?”
“Nope. Not after that.”
Hot Rod is trying to escape Soundblaster’s arm, but the grip only tightens the closer Soundwave draws to them.
“Got somethin’ to say, you cheap knock-off?”
“I don’t think he’s comfortable with you touching him.”
“He’s just a li’l shy. I have that effect on guys. You’re just jealous, so you gotta ruin the vibe I had goin’ – if you hadn’t shown up, I bet I’d be takin’ this perky set of tyres home with me.”
“That’s it.” Arcee slams a fist into her palm. “I’m knocking his block off.”
“Same,” concurs Windblade, optics aflame. “Let him go!”
“Oh, c’mon, now. He’s fine! Would you fine ladies please calm down? Femmes! So damn overemotional, all hot n’bothered ’bout nothin’ at all, all the time.”
“Get off,” Bumblebee intones, only to get shoved back. Sometimes it really sucks being small. Nobody takes him seriously.
“Alright, that does it, then! Now you’ve asked for it.” Grimlock is not someone to be dealt with so casually. “You, sir, are a cad and I dislike a cad.”
“Hey, now, big fella!” Soundblaster pales a bit. “Let’s take it easy! No need to get riled up! We can all have fun, eh? Lotta innocent bystanders. Wouldn’t wanna risk hurtin’ anybody else, right?”
Before Arcee, Windblade or Grimlock can attempt to react to that, Soundwave utters a strange noise, quite deliberate, apparently weaponised.
“Gaaah!” Soundblaster jerks in place, the only one so severely affected. In turn, he reflexively releases Hot Rod, who stumbles away with a mortified expression. “Ow! Stoppit, afthole!”
Soundwave does not stop. He does whatever it is he is doing, to torturous effect.
The others feel a dull ache in their audials, but it is enough to bring Soundblaster to his knees.
Maccadam returns from the storage room out back, arms full of canisters of Energon brew to replace the emptying tap behind the bar, only to find Hot Rod tearfully throwing himself into the public wash rack and a disturbance on the dance floor. Bad things happen in this timeline, but on occasion even the most farseeing mech can grow careless, distracted with the monotony of running a successful business. “Enough! What is my one rule?”
“No fighting in here,” Soundwave croons with a sort of sultry malice, finally ceasing his strange noise. “My apologies, Maccadam..”
“I turn my back for five minutes and already there’s a feud. Take it outside!”
“I think we’re finished.”
“Uuugh…” Soundblaster gags, scrambling to get up off his knees, unsteady. “You bastard. Usin’ your frequencies against me!”
“Yes. It worked.”
“This isn’t over, boy, hear me?”
“It never is.”
“Frag you. Frag you! One day, Soundwave! One day, I’ll wreck ya in front of everybody else, then they’ll all see.” Soundblaster jabs a digit threateningly below Soundwave’s chin. “I’mma frag your ex too! Make him wet, make him beg, make him forget you. Whatever it takes, just to really let it sink in that I’m better than you.” That digit is neatly brushed aside, impotent.
“Go take a walk, Soundblaster.”
“I got whatcha got and more, bigger n’better! I’ll have her, too.” On his way out, Soundblaster gives Shadow Striker a nod, to which she growls. “Imagine that! Up to the ball-bearings in your bestie. Her cute li’l lady, too.”
Flamewar gently yet firmly grasps Shadow Striker’s wrist, because she was about to punch Soundblaster for that. “Dude, eew. Just go.”
“I’m goin’! I’m goin’. I’m gone.”
They all watch the doors slide open, then shut.
Soundwave turns to the door leading to the wash rack.
“We’ll take care of him,” Windblade intones, Bumblebee already hurrying over to do just that, closely followed by Slipstream, Arcee and Grimlock. “After that, seeing your face might just upset him.”
“Yes.” Soundwave lowers his gaze to the floor. “I understand.”
“That’s bullscrap.” Shadow Striker bristles. “He can’t get away with this. I say we go after the guy and take him out back.” She motions pulling the trigger, aimed at her own helm. “Finish him first, before he gets more sick ideas. He did all this just to hurt you and I’ll kill him for that, trust.”
“Another time, perhaps. Not tonight.” Soundwave wants to go after Hot Rod, clearly, but respects Windblade’s warning and instead slouches over to the bar. “Come. I’ll buy the first round.”
Shadow Striker mutters darkly to herself, but accedes.
Flamewar trots after them. “Can we get shots? The ones with the Energon jelly? Jelly shots?”
“’Course we can, Flames. Whatever you want.”
“Okay, cool, then I want dirty bar snacks too.”
In the wash rack, Hot Rod has locked himself within a cubicle and sobs, but after gentle reassurance, he does unlatch the door to permit his friends to see him like this.
Slipstream offers a motherly hug, Bumblebee soothes with caressing palms and kisses, Arcee and Grimlock provide words of comfort and camaraderie, with Windblade stood protectively over the lot of them as if she is the only barrier between her beloveds and all that would harm them, though her Spark grieves too.
Safe to say, the night is young, yet already ruined.
“May I help you?” Orion asks through the door. “Shall I get you anything?”
“No.” Ariel sits in the tub, staring stupidly at the bubbles rising in the hot oil. “But you can come in, seeing as you’re the only person I can tolerate right now, and I can barely tolerate my own company.”
“If you are comfortable, I would join you.”
“It’s only the two of us. Nothing we haven’t shared before, even if it’s been a lifetime since.”
“We truly are that elderly.” He releases the door and steps into the wash rack, resealing it behind himself to keep out the cold air of the rest of the habitation suite.
She looks up at him, blue optics fringed with the telltale symptoms of prolonged crying.
He carefully sits on the edge of the bath and lays his palm chastely atop her helm, offering a slow, soothing caress between her sensory spires, one of which is merely a jagged stub.
She sighs, leaning into his touch, disturbing the glistening surface of the oil as her broad pink thighs shift below.
“Shall I top up your bubbles, old friend?”
“That’d be nice, thanks.”
He reaches for a canister of solvent and pours a generous measure between her knees, then dips in his other servo and stirs the solution, agitating the mixture until a scented mass of bubbles blossoms about his wading knuckles, following the ebb and flow of his wandering palm.
She leans in to rest her cheek against his muscular arm, nuzzling him.
He smiles tenderly down at her. “I love you, Ariel.”
“I love you too, Orion. Get in.”
“Old friend, I will hardly fit.”
“C’mon. Squeeze in here.”
“Alright, then. I will try. Prepare for the overflow.”
“I’m ready.” She shuffles back in the tub, offering him supportive servos to hold as he carefully steps into the tub as well, though he truly has grown huge, thus she finally feels small. “There ya go.”
He sinks under the oil with her, aware of the confines of the tub, her long shapely legs entwined within his own, their digits interwoven on the surface, bubbles bursting about their drawn knees.
“Been forever for us, huh.”
“Indeed. But the memories of the last time we shared a bath are so fresh in my mind.”
“Mine, too. Almost feels like yesterday.”
He smiles at her, wrinkling tenderly about his piercing blue optics, the sheer crystalline depth of a Prime, bejewelled impenetrable and immortal within the recognisable remnants of this friendly face, changed.
She leans forward slowly, surely.
So does he.
Their forehelms gently come to rest together.
“Take me home with you. Make me forget about everything.”
Shadow Striker looks Bumblebee up and down, tempted, but she notes how flushed he is, how he clings to her after taking a few more shots. “You’re drunk, honeybee. I like my lays sober.”
“Then don’t frag me.” He huffs like it is obvious. “We can hang out and stuff. Right? We’re sorta friends, aren’t we?”
She smiles softly down at him, one of her rare, genuine smiles. “You up for a game of Dead-Dark-Drone?”
“Frag yeah.”
“Alright, then. I guess you’re coming home with me.”
A little further along, Slipstream stoops to kiss Flamewar’s forehelm unprompted, but not at all uninvited.
“You been missing me, huh, Slippy.”
“So much, Flames. My little love.”
Windblade sighs into her cup.
Grimlock and Arcee took Hot Rod home, ensuring he is safe all the way.
Soundwave wanted to. His own visage made him hesitate too long.
Soundblaster would get a kick out of that.
“I cannot reach much of myself any more,” Orion confesses with a scowl directed at his own transformed body, stood helpless with a towel far too small to be of much use to his burly build. “I am so much bigger now. There is more of me than I know what to do with.”
“Can I help you with that?”
“Yes, please do.”
Ariel takes the towel and gently runs it along the thickset length of his arms, from the breadth of his slumped pauldrons to the very tips of his blunt digits, before progressing to his breast, tracing the shapeliness of his pectoral plating, gentle across each crystalline pane of his divided windshield.
He giggles despite himself, squirming.
She smiles at that. “Still ticklish here, huh.”
“Oh, do not even begin to torment me so.”
“Relax, old mech. I’ll be nice this time.”
He settles again and holds still as she wipes off his belly and sides.
Her knees creak loudly as she lowers herself before him, giving him an upcast glare. “Don’t remark on that.”
“I was not going to comment, old friend.”
“Very old friend, you mean.”
He has very soft, alluring dermas for a mech. A plump, sculpted intake worthy of appraisal. His expressions are often stern or even sombre, his jaw has always been strong and his brows have always lingered low in thought, but he is kissable all the same, especially when he smiles. “If not for the creak in your joints, one would never be able to tell your age.”
“Charmer.”
“It is true. You may enquire, if you doubt my word.”
“You’d never lie to me. Not about anything important. I trust you with my life.”
“Then rest assured, you do not outwardly resemble however ancient you may feel within.”
“I feel fragging ancient, mind.”
“At least you do not look it.”
She chuckles whilst buffering his thighs. She knows him intimately enough, loves him intensely enough even after all this time, that his prominent codpiece virtually level with her face does not distract her from the task.
“As for sleeping arrangements…”
“Mm?”
“I do not wish for you to sleep on the floor this night. My berth may not support us both. It barely supports me. I will join you on the floor if that is the only place accommodating of us both, but tonight, let us sleep as equals. I need not be so coddled.”
“I don’t mind it.”
“I do mind it.”
She mops at his ankles, grunting when he lays a fond palm on the bend in her neck, rubbing at the spinal seam in a way that makes her tyres spin, revving her engine in a low, rumbling purr.
“Will you cuddle with me, tonight?”
“’Course I will.”
His smoke stacks belch plumes as he balances on one leg with a servo held against the wall for support, lifting his pede into her lap like she wants him to.
“Just like old times.”
Sprawled out drunkenly on the berth, synthetic cushions scattered all about and anti-scratch sheets rumpled, Windblade distantly stares at the ceiling in silence and wonders if Chromia is getting railed by Ironhide by now, or railing him instead, or if they will take turns railing each other. Perhaps the far smaller Bumblebee is stuffed to burst with Shadow Striker, they could make it a threesome with Flamewar’s curious addition. Or maybe they are all being sensible and sleeping off the intoxicants.
Slipstream steps out of the adjoining wash rack, freshly showered. A polishing towel is slung low about her tapering hips, tied tight about her muscular waistline to conserve her modesty, as she evidently released her panels to wash out her interface array and prefers to leave herself open for some time after bathing so she can naturally air out and dry. Steam rising from her broad pauldrons, breastplate glistening with traces of oil, she stands at the farthest end of the berth and asks with a husky drawl slowed by drink, “Hey, honey, have you seen my polish anywhere? I can’t find a tub of the stuff in any of our things.”
“No, I think you used yours up.”
“Right, then. I’ll add that to the weekly shopping list.”
“Sure. Take some of Chromia’s, or help yourself to mine in the meantime.”
“Thanks. Shower’s ready if you want it. The oil’s still running nice and hot.”
“Mmhm.” The Cityspeaker bites her glossa, resisting the impulsive urge to ask to see what is going on under that towel, the ceiling no longer entertaining to stare at. She can, for one thing, see a hint of the Seeker’s flaccid spike jostling heavily in the gap between her muscular thighs as she turns and lumbers off, the tight firm curves of her aft. She is big and burly and beautiful, with such an impressive wingspan, everything appealing in a femme.
“I drank way too much tonight.” Slipstream sways a bit, squinting as she reads the label of Chromia’s preferred polish, bearing a more masculine scent than Windblade’s ladylike preference.
“Me, too.”
“I don’t think it’s helping numb the pain for anyone.”
“No. It’s not enough.”
“Poor Rod. He’s such a good guy and he’s going through such a hard time of it.”
The Cityspeaker sits up in berth, grabbing her codpiece and squeezing it quite without thought, only to reprimand herself with a soft, “No, bad girl,” releasing the hot, tight modesty panel promptly.
“Huh? You say something?”
“Nah.”
“I hope Chromia’s having a nice time.” The Seeker smears polish on the portable rechargeable buffer, then flicks it on and runs it over herself, sighing at the sensation, akin to a massage. “Even if I think Ironhide’s a huge afthole.” The whirring sound is quite distinct, but it does not disguise the scorn.
Windblade lurches to her pedes and totters into the adjoining wash rack, slumping against the metallic wall tiles to watch Slipstream polish herself.
The Seeker does not immediately realise she has an audience. She has her optics shut, helm tipped back, the buffer roving over her broad breast, leaving a handsome shine in passing.
The Cityspeaker knows there is no point to propositioning tonight. She already knows the answer will be no as she reaches over and tugs on the towel, not hard enough to undo the knot, just hard enough to stretch the textile slightly with a pulling sensation.
Optics fluttering open, rubies flushed with Maccadam’s best brew, Slipstream looks down at the servo tugging suggestively at the towel, follows the slender arm, finds Windblade attached to it, notes the look of pathetic wanton arousal.
“Please?”
“We’re drunk, my love.”
“Yeah, but… we haven’t, uh… done it in a while, so…”
“It hasn’t been long. Has it?”
“Maybe not for you.”
“Well, I’m sorry, but considering the circumstances, can you really blame me? I love you and look after regardless. Don’t I?”
“You do! You always do. Of course you do.”
The Seeker is frowning that hunky frown.
“I don’t mean to imply that you don’t. But I have needs and you have needs too, so we just need to work it out together.”
“And we will, when we’ve sobered up and had some sleep.”
The Cityspeaker feels bad. She really does.
“Is that all you think about?”
“You don’t have to be mean.”
Slipstream feels her throat tighten painfully as Windblade turns and slouches away.
“No would’ve sufficed. Knew it anyway. Sorry I bothered you.”
“Darling, I’m just not feeling it right now. I’ll get it up later.”
The Cityspeaker crawls into berth and buries herself in comfort.
The Seeker switches off the buffer and clumsily returns it to its charging cradle, then follows after, coming to linger over the berth with a sigh. “Windblade.”
“Mm,” comes out muffled.
“Chromia takes care of you like that, doesn’t she?” Slipstream sits heavily on the edge of the berth, running her palm up and down Windblade’s back strut. “Just because I haven’t been intimate lately, doesn’t mean you two don’t make love a lot. I keep walking in on you two going at it together, rutting like a pair of pornstars from a cheap holovid. Surely she keeps you satisfied when I’m not feeling up to it myself.”
“Yeah, well, she’s our intermediary, isn’t she.”
“What do you mean?”
“She’s the sanest, most sensible of the three of us. Keeping the peace between us, bridging the gap when we fail to communicate or whatever. I’m so violent and you’re so scared of me, so without her in the middle keeping us altogether, I dunno what we’d do. Just fall apart, I guess. We don’t even agree what our future should look like.”
The Seeker’s wings drop at her back.
“It’s not just about the interfacing, Slip.” The Cityspeaker grabs a pillow and hugs it tight. “I get sprung a lot, whatever. You’re a person, not a piece of equipment I get to use to pleasure my body whenever it feels like it. Chromia’s a person too. She’s very obliging of my nonsense, but she knows her boundaries and I try to respect them, even if I get away with a lot more than I should.”
“Windblade…”
“I can take care of myself, Slip. If it was just about the interfacing, I wouldn’t feel so sick with worry when thinking about us a million years from now. Thinking about us is supposed to give me warmth, make me stronger so I can face whatever might come, leave me happy when I close my optics to recharge every night. But when I think about us, I find a sense of dread instead.”
“Is this about–?”
“Yes.”
“We can stay unmarried. You’re pretty much married to your job already. I understand that being a Cityspeaker is a huge responsibility, a way of life steeped in tradition, a vocation demanding so much of your mind and body. I can’t compete with a Titan. That’s fine.” Slipstream has said all of this before, bus she says it again like she somehow might be heard this time. “We don’t have to have kids. Chromia isn’t interested in being a mother either and she doesn’t beat herself up over it, so why should you? I gave up on that dream already. It’s okay. All I want is the waking reality of being yours, so long as you’re mine.”
Windblade sniffs wetly. She feels the berth shifts as a familiar weight settles beside her.
“Please look at me.”
“Promise not to show fear, Slip. Can you promise me that?”
“Even if you terrify me, I promise to always love you in spite of it, and because of it.”
The Cityspeaker exhales shakily as big servos gently grasp her, coaxing her to roll over and face the Seeker laid out closely beside on the big berth.
“You could’ve killed him. But you didn’t.”
“But I wanted to. You knew that and you aimed your null-rays at me. You looked at me like… like I was a monster, wearing a familiar face.”
“And I would’ve shot you down. At that level of charge, my love, you’d cease functioning for good. Doesn’t that scare you too?”
Windblade nods meekly.
Slipstream sighs, opening her arms.
Mewling, the Cityspeaker crawls against the Seeker, nuzzling under her kisses.
“I still love you.”
“I love you too.”
“We need to discuss this again when we’re sober. The room’s spinning.”
“Yeah. I wanna throw up.”
Shifting her hips, Slipstream pulls off the towel and turfs it carelessly across the berthroom, baring her open interface array. “Ugh.”
Of course Windblade looks down, irresistibly drawn to the appealing equipment on display, though she sees the spike is soft and the valve is only slick with traces of residual oil from the shower earlier, the overall array lacking in the musk of pheromones indicating desire to copulate. Strangely, her own libido fades rather fast, leaving only a morbid curiosity in its wake. She wants to play with the spike and valve not to derive pleasure or even to give pleasure, but because it is mildly interesting to examine the intricacies of an array without the distraction of interfacing itself. Maybe this sort of numbness can be taught, trained into people? Is that the secret to happiness – just giving up on passion entirely?
“That towel was beginning to chafe.”
“Can I touch it? Just to touch it. Nothing more.”
“Okay.”
The spike is plump and pliable, deflated yet unslung from the internal chute, heavy in the Cityspeaker’s delicate palms, yielding softly to her digits as she peels apart the ridges to admire the flow of Energon through glowing veins, not enough to arouse, but enough to keep the spike alive, as it would atrophy and eventually rot away without sustenance, the same as everything else.
“Your servos are cold.”
“Sorry.”
The valve is tender to the touch, anterior node deflated, tolerant of the poking and prodding, trying to measure it flaccid, and the Seeker helpfully eases her thighs a little further apart to grant access to her deeper curiosities.
“Would you ever consider getting a few mods installed?”
“Would you ever want me to? I’d do it for you.”
“Do it for yourself, Slip, or don’t do it at all.”
Notes:
*Flamewar is loosely referencing an old film similarly named (That Darn Cat! directed by Robert Stevenson, 1965) though I've never seen the film myself and it bears no contextual relevance to the plot of this fic.
*Megatron is vaguely referencing a commonly cited Benjamin Franklin quote along similar lines but only references the first half to leave the rest implicit ("Those who would give up essential liberty, to purchase a little temporary safety, deserve neither liberty nor safety.")I humbly thank those of you kind enough to give me feedback thus far. Synchronicity is a huge project I handle alone and it isn’t easy, so if you’ve read up to this point and you still like what you see, please consider a kudos or comment or bookmark or subscription if you haven't done so by now - it doesn't cost you anything substantial but it means the world to me to perceive support and ongoing interest. I love chatting in the comments section, plus I'm happy to answer questions posed to me and I'm open to suggestions or constructive criticism, so please don't feel shy or intimidated to speak your mind respectfully. No, this isn’t social media dictated by an algorithm of popularity as relevance. Yes, this is an Archive at its core purpose and so serves as a place to safely store creative works without bowing to undue censorship. But to deny the social aspect of fostering community via feedback between fans is to render fandom a rather hollow place.
As said in the initial note, I might be gone a while. Until next time, take care.
Chapter 74
Notes:
This will be my last update for a while, as I managed to squeeze it in so the wait wouldn't be so long prior to my departure. Please enjoy. See you later.
Potential trigger warnings: mistreatment of captives by police officers including use of a taser to control ("sedate") a captive, verbal sexual harassment with threatening undertone and implication (not carried out), and bodily fluid contaminant in food (robot equivalent of spit).
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Are you certain you will not be in attendance, old friend?”
“Do what you gotta do. I just can’t face Megs right now.”
“I understand.”
“But will he?”
“I believe so.”
“Not like you can keep stalling.”
“If you need more time, I will.”
“No. Best get it over and done with.” Ariel rests her cheek on Orion’s breast, their engines ticking over together as he drags his digits slowly back and forth across her pink shell, her optics narrowed slits of bruised blue, dimmed and dull, searching the dark corners of this room. “You’re too kind, always have been, but you can’t spare everybody. I don’t expect you to spare me. Leave me to my mourning for a little longer and let Megs go.”
“It is not the right thing to do.”
“Kind of a privileged position.”
“Old friend?”
“Doing right.”
“Doing wrong…” Orion blinks slowly, watching shimmering dust motes wander across the void. “Doing the unconscionable…”
“Empress forced you into it, but you’ve compromised just to spite her. Megatron gets to go free, since we’re only keeping Starscream, so…” At rest against crystalline panes, Ariel turns to nuzzle at the windscreen wiper blade closest to her cheek, a sensitive thing that quivers under her recycled breath. “It’s not all bad.” She deposits a kiss here. “Nobody blames you. Nobody worth listening to at this point.”
For a time, nothing is said.
“I’d be there if I only could. You know I would. But I can’t. I just can’t.”
Orion nods slowly, his vents whistling with a mighty sigh as he sags over the floor, entangled within synthetic blankets to prevent scratches to paint and other superficial marring on such an unforgiving surface. He has outgrown his standard berth.
“It kills me to say it, but after everything, frag me, I need to distance myself for a little while. Let Megs resent me like Sentinel already does. I’m no good at mending fences between people anyway – I always relied on you guys to do the social stuff for me, since I suck like that. The barriers are all broken now, so I bet they’ll build great walls to separate themselves, protect themselves, and I’m just not socially equipped to climb.”
“You are who you are. I love you. They love you.”
“I love you too. All my gorgeous guys.” Ariel taps her digit over the reassuring Sparkbeat she can feel throbbing in return, a reply. “Megs has done too much damage to too many people for me to ever see him the same again, but right now, I don’t wanna see him at all. Sentinel fled from us, from me, mostly, so I guess that door’s slammed shut on my dumbaft face and I deserve being locked out. It’s not just about me, but Primus knows I tried to talk them down. Would Megs really need me there, at the trade-off, overseeing his freedom being bargained at Starscream’s price? Would my presence help him, or harm him, like how I hurt Sentinel just by getting too close to him again? I should’ve stayed off-world.”
“Let love, lingering and long-suffering, be the eventual cure, if not the immediate answer.”
Orion is also in mourning, and so Ariel dares not say it aloud, this thought that has her frowning and smiling at once – wow, that is such a fragging Prime thing to say.
Chromia did not return last night, which means she must have found safe refuge with Ironhide. Her place in this berth is empty space, which Windblade occupies by spreading out, limbs cast carelessly about, taking up far too much room.
As the internal alarm chimes, Slipstream wakes to find herself laid on the edge, squinting groggily at the ceiling. She sighs, stretches, and inadvertently disturbs her lover.
“G’morning,” the Cityspeaker intones softly with recent sleep, shamelessly spread out.
“Morning,” the Seeker answers huskily through a yawn, turning over without falling from the precarious perch.
Windblade smiles dreamily as she is scooped up and pulled close, a clumsy kiss finding her slender neck.
“Love you.”
“Love you too.”
They are both hungover. The nausea shall soon set in, and yet the day demands more from them.
Slipstream wants this moment of peace prior to the storm to last forever. But it does not.
Bumblebee is a bit hungover this morning, but this is mostly because he is a little guy and booze hits him harder. He has to wonder about Flamewar’s fuel tank, as she seems quite unaffected by whatever she chugged down last night. Bikes do metabolise quite fiercely, it would seem.
“Here. An old cure of mine.”
As Shadow Striker sets down a concoction with a rather acrid scent, Bumblebee quirks an optic ridge over at Flamewar.
“It’s probably not poison,” the bike says cheerfully.
“Only for the weak,” jokes the mercenary in a sinister undertone that makes it hard to tell if this really is a joke. “C’mon, honeybee. I know you’ve got mettle in you.”
“Yeah, uh. Thanks.” The scout cautiously draws the cup of something closer to himself, peering down at the hissing mix. “What’s in it, though?”
“Battery acid,” Flamewar answers with a sort of manic excitement, only to grumble as a big palm ruffles her helm. “No?”
“No, you little maniac. Just a few performance enhancers, plus a detox solution. It’s actually good for you, if you’re tough enough to keep it down.”
“Let’s hope the short king is tough enough, then.”
“Technically, I’m a little taller than you,” Bumblebee says with a nervous smile as he takes a sip and wretches immediately. “Bleeeuuugh!” He spits back what he tried to drink into the same cup.
“Eeew. That’s super gross, dude.”
“Suh-sorry! I didn’t mean to, but damn. It’s vile.”
“C’mon, Bumbles, don’t waste it now. Drink up.”
“Dude. You’re getting your kicks outta my suffering.”
“Yeah. I should probably introspect about that. Nah.”
Shadow Striker laughs.
“Gotta be missing your big buff boyfriend something awful, huh. Here, slag. A little something for the loneliest glitch in the cells.” The police officer makes a revoltingly wet, throaty noise before leaning forward and neatly spitting into the fuel ration.
Starscream curls his sculpted derma in disgust.
“We all know how you hate the provisions here. Not good enough for ya. That’ll add flavour, eh? A mech’s taste, from me to you. Be grateful, glitch, ’cause you could be locked up in there for a long, long time and my spit in your food’s gonna be the closest thing to the real deal you’re gonna get that I’m allowed to give ya, since there’s gotta be rules about that sorta thing. Shame, huh. Real shame. Pretty thing you are. I’d like to pull your wings until you cry out like a loose little glitch pulled from the gutter, ruined. You like it rough, I bet. That brute wouldn’t know any different. He’ll hollow you out.”
“Must you talk? Surely you mustn’t.”
“Frag you. Stupid glitch. You think you have power here? You think you get to boss me around? This is my kingdom, son.” The cop scoffs, roughly sliding the tray through the chute and into the cell depository with a metallic scrape. “You fragging fliers, all the same, full of yourselves, fancy yourselves better than grounders like me, dirty and low down and close to the ground. Hope you choke on it. You wish it was my spike.”
“Very trite. Very tired.”
“Guys like you make the world a worse place.”
“How blissful it must be, to live your life in such oblivion.”
“Yeah, well…” The cop struggles to think up an intelligent retort, realising he has been insulted for his lack. “Frag you! Get fragged! Fragger!”
Starscream simmers in fury, silent and forlorn, holding himself where he sits.
“That’s what I thought.” Muttering darkly, the officer mech swaggers off self-importantly.
When those steps recede, Starscream rises and staggers across his little cell, damage done despite being repeatedly rendered unconscious for repairs to the place and his personhood. He comes to an unsteady stop, feeling unwell, and critically investigates the contents of his ration. Seeing the globule of corruption in the glistening mass weakly aglow and cold, he promptly upends the entire tray and flings the meagre provisions at the farthest wall, spattering his cell with Energon gruel spiked by spit. A sob, singular and solitary.
“Y’know, that cure of yours actually did the trick. I feel loads better already.”
“Attaboy.”
Bumblebee really likes it when Shadow Striker ruffles him between his sensory spires, styled after stubby horns. Her callused palm is heavy and warm and it reassures him in spite of everything.
“You’ll be okay from here, yeah?”
“Yeah. Thanks. You’ve been…”
Flamewar is picking at an old scar on her cheek with a claw. She licks that claw after some picking.
“Gentlefemmes,” the scout intones with humour, huffing and shaking his helm. “I appreciate being looked after last night. Things got rough and I needed to get away for a bit, but I bounce back quick.”
“Happy to help.”
“Even though we didn’t frag?”
“I can be somewhat decent, I guess.”
“Heh. You’re pretty cool.”
The mercenary winks down at the smaller mech, then scowls over at the bike. “Flames, stop picking. You’ll cut yourself.”
“Mm. I taste weirdly sweet?”
“You are weirdly sweet, duh. Just don’t eat yourself.” Shadow Striker’s scope whirrs, zooming in on someone she cares about. “Save me a slice, eh.”
“Sure.” Flamewar perks, her manic glee reflected in the way she bares her fangs and flares her optics. “Sharing is caring!”
Bumblebee smiles at that. This peculiar pairing reassures his optimistic soul that happiness is possible in these dire times, even if unorthodox.
“I’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”
Windblade nods once, then kisses Slipstream softly, sweetly.
“We’ll find time tonight.”
The Cityspeaker wants to make things right. It comforts her to know that the Seeker intends to do just that.
Slipstream smiles reassuringly, then turns and lumbers off to attend to the medical bay, what little of it is left, simply forced to make do. Many volunteers have quit by now, fearful of their lives, losing faith in their allies.
Windblade feels such a surge of anger when she contemplates the ruin that her lover is reduced to.
“Hey, uh, so… I know it’s not a good time, but…”
The door is shut, but there are the sounds of movement beyond – a subtle shuffling, a metallic creak of redistributed weight, a sighing being disturbed from her mourning.
“I’m the janitor. It’s my job.”
“Sorry, Cliff. I get that.”
“Yeah. Sucks, but I gotta clean that office sooner or later. It’s getting stale in there and stale turns to nasty pretty quick. Do you think you could lemme in? I’ll be quick and quiet. Promise. Or maybe tomorrow? Or–”
Where Arcee and the other friends failed, Cliffjumper succeeds, because Ariel releases the lock and opens the door leading to the musty interior of Sentinel’s abandoned office.
Abruptly silenced, Cliffjumper looks up at Ariel, dwarfed in comparison. He is very similar in appearance to Bumblebee due to sharing an overall frame with some stylistic differences, such as horn length and colouring, and they are mechs similar of age. Cliffjumper offers a handsome smile intended to both apologise and comfort.
Ariel looks tired and worn and sore. She manages a feeble smile back, a few faint wrinkles softly set about her sorrowful optics. There is a certain graceful beauty to this elderly femme mired deep in her own distress.
“You sure? I can come back tomorrow, or the next day.”
“Come in.”
As she steps past to afford room, he shuffles past her with his cheerfully chirping little vacuum drone in close attendance, entering the office and assessing the state of it.
“Thanks.”
“Hey, just doing my job.”
“It’s not your job. You’re not a janitor, Cliff, you’re a sanitation engineer. There’s a difference. You have qualifications, education, work history…”
“So do janitors, I reckon.”
“Still.” Ariel’s expression darkens and her gruffly motherly undertone deepens as she murmurs, “Sentinel was wrong to demote you like that. Aren’t you mad about it?”
“Meh.” Cliffjumper shrugs cheerfully in return. “I’m a chill guy. I try to keep an open mind and an easygoing spirit. Besides, I joined up wanting to help out. This is helpful. I’m useful here.”
“You’d still be helpful, useful, and better paid, working in your actual field.”
“You tryna get rid of me or somethin’?”
She watches his cleaning drone as it charts the office space independently, allowing him to busy himself with polishing the desk.
“Well, I promised to keep this quick and quiet, so just pretend like I’m not here and I’ll be gone for real in a bit, leaving a lasting shine and fresh scent in my wake.” That said, the little mech busies himself in his work, leaving the femme to stand stiff, staring.
“Cliff.”
“Mm?”
“These past few days…”
He sprays something foamy on the desk and swipes across the solution with a specialised textile.
“You’re the only person I’ve let this close to me.”
Cliffjumper pauses at that, slowly turning to look up at Ariel, unsure of what to say.
“Other than my Orion.”
“He’s a great guy.”
“I love him a lot.”
“He’s, uh, lovable.”
“We’ll be ready to receive him,” Chromia intones, nodding to Ironhide.
“And I’m ready to collect him,” Windblade adds firmly.
“Your presence is a deterrent, Cityspeaker, but I fully intend to sedate Megatron if he turns violent,” Prowl says from beside his favourite subordinate police officer, Strongarm. “One way or another, we’ll get him out his cell and into an armed escort with minimal fuss, minimal bodies. Empress can take him from there.”
“Good riddance, I say,” Grimlock mutters.
Bumblebee frowns at his lap. “I wanna see Starscream while this happens.”
“Why?”
“He’ll be freaking out.”
“So what! The guy hates you and everybody you love,” Hot Rod protests with a wounded huff. “He’s a huge jerk who almost took out Windblade for good and tortured Slip for her whole life, plus he really hurt you. Nobody wants anything to do with that guy. He doesn’t deserve you or your empathy.”
“Yeah. Exactly. He’s sick and twisted and I don’t know how to explain it, but for the first time, I’m feeling almost a little sorry for him. I’m curious. I want catharsis. I’m cautious, but concerned.”
“Bee, you’re sweet, but I agree with Rod.” Arcee sits forward with soft optics open wide, big sisterly in her concern. “Screw Starscream. Seriously. Let him rot by himself, he earned it.”
“Slip doesn’t want that.”
“Sure. But even she’s keeping away from him. You gotta be a real piece of scrap to make someone so naturally darling end up so unnaturally distant.”
“He deserves that much. Still, call me dumb, but I feel bad about all this that’s happening, especially since we’re letting Megatron go free. A bad person is still, like, a person in the end. Right?”
Orion bows his helm and thinks deeply about that while the youngsters debate Starscream’s fate among themselves.
Although rather imposing, hailing from a humble background in hard labour and finding fame in the arena, Empress is a large lady all the same and likes to be prettied up accordingly.
“Oh, yes, the vision, I see you so clearly,” Thunderblast coos sultry and suave as she applies colour to that scarred yet naturally lovely face, surprisingly youthful when clean, flatteringly feminine under makeup. “Goddess, made manifest in this hunky shell. Mmyeah. I am swimming in your radiance so deep right now, sweetie. Dive down, overindulge in you ’til I drown.”
The gladiator purrs at the praise, but she holds very still like a good girl should even as her Spark flutters, patiently bent forward in her seat to allow the busy boat to apply details, gazing into golden optics up close and personal like this all the while with rubies electrified with attraction and affection alike. This is no thrall, doing all the sweet-talking here and now, but rather a siren’s sound serenading a willing wreckage.
“You’re beautiful. I want to try all my inks on you, experiment with colours until I find a palette that fits you just right. Aw, but time is limited! I can’t play with you to my Spark’s content. I would if I only could. I can’t even ask for a kiss because that’ll smudge. Tragic!”
Empress flutters her shutters and shudders as delicate digits capture the breadth of her jaw, tilting her heavy helm back a little further so she arches into the light. Her frantic Spark throbs in the fuel lines bared vulnerably, trustingly, within her muscular expanse of taut neck.
“After today’s business is done with, you best believe, mommy is going to have such fun with you.” Thunderblast sees how her subject flushes and adds quickly, “Entirely within the limits of your comfort zone, of course! I’ll be a gentlefemme.”
A day-dreamy sigh passes from a midnight smile.
“I shall go on ahead. Catch up to me when you are able.”
“Alright. I won’t be long.”
“Thank you.” Orion gives Windblade a humble look and a fond squeeze on the pauldron, because he truly does appreciate that she has elected to serve as support and security.
“We got your back, big guy.” Bumblebee winks reassuringly as a huge thumb brushes across his cheek, fatherly.
“You are both braver than I.” That said, Orion turns and strides off, casting the cell and the sole occupant within a passing glance.
Starscream is a beautiful wreck. He is dirtier and damaged and does not care for the concern reflected back at him in those eternal blue optics in that limitless moment.
“Oh.” Bumblebee scratches his helm, peering into the cell through the transparent Energon forcefield. “It’s a mess in there. What happened?”
“So astute. Breakfast disagreed with me.” Starscream rolls his optics, folding one long leg over the other and propping his chin in his palm, sniffing noisily. “You’ve returned, bug. And you brought your best friend. Delightful. What are you two doing here? Come to gloat, add that interpersonal edge to my general torment?”
“Bee just wanted to check in on you because he’s a good person. Orion might have some trouble, so I’m here for added muscle, just in case Megatron is disagreeable.”
“And yet you dwell outside my cell, Cityspeaker.”
“I’ll go join him in a sec. I just…” Windblade frowns deeply in thought, her expression pitying. “Seriously, you’re surrounded in filth. Does nobody clean the cells?”
“Sometimes.”
“This is unacceptable.”
“Ah, please, my dear, don’t pretend to care, it’s a waste of my intellect and your energy. Feigning indignation that I should suffer such humiliation unto humiliation! I mean really, who would you hope to fool?”
“I’ll complain. Someone will answer for it.”
“Oooh! The foundations of this place shall tremble!” The Commander waves a free servo airily, as if to indicate seismic tremors. “Feel that? It’s giving me the shivers. You’re so ferocious.”
The Cityspeaker sighs, shaking her helm.
“Maybe you should go join Orion.” The scout gives his closest friend a gentle nudge with the elbow. “Megatron will probably be less aggravating. Besides, that’s why you tagged along.”
“Alright, Bee, but don’t take his scrap.”
“I’ll be okay. Love you, bestie.”
“I love you too.”
“Eugh. Gross.”
Windblade gives Starscream a sidelong glare whilst stooping a bit to kiss Bumblebee’s forehelm with such sisterly tenderness.
“See ya, bestie.”
“Soon, Bee. Soon. And you!”
The Commander quirks an optic ridge as the Cityspeaker points at him.
“Be nice! In the meantime, I’ll call a guard to come clean your cell, on my way over to Orion.”
“Don’t bother. The cruelty is intentional.”
“I won’t stand for that.”
The scout smiles fondly as she marches off. “That femme is just the greatest person ever.”
“Humph. She is suitably impressive. You do seem quite infatuated with her.”
“She digs me too. I’m her honeybee.”
“Bah! Do not disclose such unnecessarily intimate details, bug.”
“So, if your breakfast’s all over that wall and some of it got on the floor, I’m guessing you haven’t eaten, so you’ll be hungry. Am I right?”
“Excellent deductive reasoning.”
“Look, uh… I know this sucks for you, like, a lot.”
“Mmhm.”
“And I can’t really do much to help make this any easier, but I got some wheel-nuts to share if you want?”
Starscream purses his pretty dermas, tilting his helm elegantly to one side in that distinctly avian way, his lithe neck flexing powerfully with the motion. “Do you have one with copper shavings sprinkled atop?”
Bumblebee smiles softly, sadly.
“You’ll be free soon, so…” Thundercracker shuffles shyly closer, rubbing his neck as he bites the inside of his cheek anxiously. “Why don’t you seem a little happier?” He is a soulful person, sensitive and sweet, creative and gifted in ways unbefitting of a soldier. He was born to be a writer, a poet, an actor, an artist. So depressed is he, resigned to die young, violently.
Jetfire lifts his shackled palms and cups the younger mech’s handsome face within, bowing a bit and kissing his forehelm. “My beautiful boy.” A shaky whimper. “Forgive me, I… I am so sorry! It is not your fault, but mine!”
“Oh, no. Please don’t cry. You cry so much lately. It makes me cry too.”
“He has gone quite mad! He has lost himself.”
“Star? No, he’s just strange, he always was.”
“Fool. I am a fool! I never spared him then, and now he shall not spare you.”
“Huh? I don’t understand.” The Seeker is built smaller, sleeker, as he is a newer model. He is thus easily scooped up in those shackled palms and cuddled, which is okay, except the tears are upsetting. “Sure, war is scary and awful and I hate it as much as Slip does, or did, I guess, since she left us. And now you’ll leave us too, again. You probably won’t come back next time. But, uh, Nova says Star means well for us and I try to listen to her. It’s simpler that way. People say I’m not built to think for myself, so I try not to. It sounds like war can be a good thing?”
The elder weeps.
“No. I refuse to leave this cell without him. Bring me my lover and we shall both go in peace, with the appropriate gratitude.”
“You presume too much. The decision has been made and it isn’t open to negotiation. Be grateful that we’re letting you go,” Prowl intones in his patient yet critical way, “as opposed to executing you like in the old days, and those days weren’t so long ago. You deserve far worse than your freedom, but you’ve been granted mercy – think hard on your life and don’t misuse it.”
“Mercy! You consider this mercy!”
“Old friend, do not make it more difficult than it must be. Please.”
“And you!”
Orion flinches as a thickset digit points at his Spark, locked up and squirming underneath the consuming Matrix.
“My disappointment in you is immeasurable, Orion Pax, though I realise you are gone and gone with you are all my prior expectations,” Megatron rumbles in his scarily quiet way, bringing his face close to the Energon barrier to sneer handsomely. “Orion Pax no longer, for it is Optimus Prime to whom I speak. I will have to assume new expectations. I no longer know you.”
Prowl winces softly on Orion’s behalf, laying a steadying palm on the elderly mech’s back strut. “Haven’t you done enough harm?”
“You do not comprehend the sheer extent of harm I am contemplating doing to you, Chief.”
“I’m sure you’re imagining the most awful things for me. Wouldn’t be the first. I’m used to it. You don’t scare me.”
“Liar. With a single blow to your breast, I almost killed you.”
Prowl pales a bit at the memory.
“My fault was not striking you with all of my might, as I had some restraint back then. But next time, ohhh, I will not hold back. If you tempt me, you are unwise.” Megatron narrows his hellish optics, his glare swivelling sinisterly from Prowl to Orion, thus choosing a different target for this nightmarish ire. “And as for you. I do not know what to make of you, Prime.”
“Pax.”
“Prime!”
“Pax! Please!”
“Optimus fragging Prime! Return Starscream to me and we will both leave this wretched place without violence!”
“I do not wish to do this! Why are you making me do this? This war, we would have avoided it if you had only–”
“I did what I had to! The Senate listened to the mech who was Orion Pax, the mech I loved, but I went unheard! They did to me what they did to Termagax before me and it brought her to exile! No, I will not go that way, I will not depart quietly for anyone else’s convenience!”
“Megatron–”
“Megatronus! Damned by my very name! Brutish usurper who loves so much, too much! My love could kill! And I could never match those sensibilities the beloved Orion Pax had assumed so well under such tender tutelage as that of the noble and wise elder Alpha Trion, as my mentor was gone, outcast and humiliated! I am too crude and cruel, I was deemed so, no matter how many inane dinner parties those rich bastards made me attend as their celebrity, but not a thinking and feeling mech with dreams! A trophy to parade about and mock, talking politics as they humoured me, found humour in me! No one listened to my arguments, her arguments I tried, and tried, and tried again!” Megatron gasps shakily, as if desperate for air to vent his smouldering internals. “Until I hurt people.”
Orion and Prowl feel a collective chill.
“Only then, do the decadent listen. Only then, do the downtrodden rise up. Bloodshed is necessary in resistance and retribution alike. That is where Termagax, my beloved mother, that cold and calculated old glitch of a visionary, had failed. I will succeed. Mark my words. You disbelieve, but Starscream listened, he believes. I have never had to strike him to get him to sympathise with me, I do not brutalise him to make him care.”
Prowl turns to Orion and gives the older mech a look, as if to say, behold – the guy is crazy, we better keep him locked away if not killed, do not be foolish and fantasise otherwise.
“Now give me what is mine.”
And it is a compelling look.
“They are late.” Empress narrows her hellish optics. “And this displeases me.”
“Think they stood us up?” asks Thunderblast, hanging prettily on the bigger femme’s arm, eager for her approval and attention and adoration alike, needy when others are around and other distractions impose.
“Not Orion’s style,” Shadow Striker answers, arms folded as she leans back against bare metal, unadorned and dull, functional but ugly against her sleek, glossy, dark curves and angles. “He wouldn’t wanna risk ticking you off anyhow. He’s gonna be preoccupied with minimising damage while he licks his wounds, real fresh and raw after Sentinel ditched and the Functionists fragged things up on their way out. It’s gotta be rough over there.”
“I worry about Slippy.”
“Yeah, Flames. Me too.”
Flamewar looks so adorably sullen just then.
“Oh, that little face. May I scoop you up, dear? Sit you on my lap?”
“Damn, okay. I’m not gonna say no to a big lady with a big lady lap.”
Empress thus gets her way, scooping up Flamewar and sitting her shapely, sinister, small self on the firm breadth of a huge thigh where she can be fussed over like a pet, rather than a person. “Don’t be sad, darling. I’m sure I’ll figure out some way to get Slipstream back on our side, eventually.”
“Slippy’s got a girl. I don’t wanna ruin that.”
“Nothing lasts forever, my dear. You’ll see.”
Shadow Striker sighs, shaking her helm whilst giving Thunderblast a look that urges her to be very, very careful.
“What have you done?! Why is he like that?!”
“Calm yourself, Seeker. Megatron is sedated.”
“Did you use your taser to render my beloved unconscious?!” Starscream throws himself at the Energon barrier, beating his fists until they bleed. “You have hurt him! I would kill you if I only could!”
Prow does not answer that, nor does Strongarm as they stoically drag Megatron’s drooling frame between them, immobilised by stasis cuffs, assisted by other officers.
However, there is a guilt to Orion’s gaze as he refuses to look Bumblebee in the optic that says everything.
“You cruel, conniving cur! You had him locked up and you still resorted to it! And look, behold, the Prime permits it! You were his friend, his best friend! He loves you!”
Words can hurt, and this Orion feels most painfully as Starscream’s penetrating accusation follows, echoing.
Windblade looks nauseous as she finds Bumblebee’s servo. She leans against him and he presses himself under her chin, taking shelter together. They do not depart from Starscream, whose distress only worsens the further away Megatron is dragged.
“My love, I beg of you, do not sleep! Wake up and fight them off, free yourself, fight for me, set me free! Please, you cannot leave me here, locked and lost without you! I… I fear being alone… I am afraid, so very… scared, now… I…”
Bumblebee’s cheeks are wet. He buries his face in Windblade’s warm bosom and feels how she winces against his helm.
Slowly shrinking, collapsing in a quivering heap, Starscream shrieks himself hoarse.
Empress expands with anger, her metallic shell shifting as protoform muscle swells within her expansive shell, but her voice remains terrifyingly dulcet, some parody of a mother’s croon. “You have some nerve, even for a Prime. Were you not empowered by the light within you, I’d rip your throat out where you stand.”
Orion takes it upon himself to carry Megatron’s slack, silent body over the threshold, held aloft in his arms like a bride, conveyed to the cult like a sacrifice.
“Yes, you’d better keep quiet and bring him to me quickly, lest you tempt me to react.”
Shadow Striker’s scope follows Orion’s quiet, careful passing, her lens flickering as she catches the sway in Megatron’s limp, hanging arm. If not for his biometric signature clearly visible in a cursory scan, he would look dead.
“They had no right to do that,” Flamewar growls, bristling. “He deserves better than that. He’s not perfect, but who is? He’s a hero to a lotta people. He’s been a hero to me. Fraggers, thinking they’re better than us.”
“Yeah, like, wow.” Thunderblast shakes her helm, scowling, arms folded. “Some good guys you lot turned out to be! Bunch of self-righteous hypocrisy.”
Strongarm keeps her gaze downcast and Prowl somehow is able to peer through people without acknowledging they are even there.
Still saying nothing, Orion gently passes Megatron to Empress, who cradles him with her own expression of fondness, ravenous though she may be.
“Oh, Megatron, my darling, what have they reduced you to.”
“It is done.”
“That’s it? That’s all you can say?”
“Please return Jetfire to us.”
“Fine.”
Nova Storm and Thrust reluctantly bring their prisoner forward, one of their own, slumped with humiliation yet very much alive and conscious.
“You should not have done this for me,” Jetfire bemoans, released from his binds and let go. “You have done things you will regret, because of me!”
“Come along,” Ironhide grumbles, helping the Seeker hobble along.
“Wait. Where is Starscream?”
“Hush, now. Been through an ordeal. Save your strength.”
“No, he… he should be here! I was to trade myself in exchange for him!”
“Yes, actually, I am wondering about that,” Empress intones icily, allowing Knock Out and Breakdown to take Megatron from her for a thorough on-site assessment. “You dare show up here, with less than promised, after presenting him in such appalling condition. Do explain, Prime.”
Orion only has optics for Megatron, who is not capable of returning that mournful, apologetic look. “We will not give you Starscream at this time.”
“Bastards! You lied, you tricked us!”
“Calm yourself, Nova, dear. Prime?”
“You may take Megatron and go.”
“Ah. I see. You cunning thing.”
Orion flinches as Empress draws very close to him, breathing against his neck.
“I didn’t think you could ever be so treacherous. Then again, you’re rather different now, aren’t you.”
He backs away from her quickly, turns and flees in the most graceful, majestic way.
“Get him! That old mech dies today!” Nova Storm lunges, but she is only stopped when a huge palm clamps down almost painfully on her pauldron, yanking her back.
“Let him go, dear. You stand no chance. Don’t hurt yourself trying to look brave.”
“But he’s got our Commander!”
“And attacking the Prime who vastly surpasses you, out in the open, in front of his allies, won’t do much to ensure your Commander’s safe return. We must think about our next move and act with tact.”
“I’m strong enough! Why don’t you believe me? Back me up, we can take him, together!”
“My darling, that Prime debilitated me with a single blow and tossed General Alpha Strike like a mere plaything, not to mention how he handled our beloved Megatron himself so effortlessly I still struggle to process it when reviewing my memory files.”
“Yeah, but he got lucky!”
“You’d only get yourself killed, my cyberpigeon. I’d be so sad about that.”
Orion hears those words and feels the flood of emotion rising up, up, up, burning behind his steely blue optics as he remains tall and firm in body, but not spirit.
“I gotta go. Chromia texted me. They’re done and Slip will see Jetfire soon, so…”
“Yeah. Go be there for her. She needs you right now.”
“And him? You’re staying.”
“He needs someone too.”
Starscream is curled up in the corner, holding himself tight, face turned away, wings tucked tight, one of which is severed by a sword.
“Don’t stay with him too long. He’s not good for you, he’s not good for anyone.”
“I know. I’m sorry. It’s not fair to you, or Slip, or any of our friends and all the other people he’s hurt.”
“You’re a good guy Bee. A great guy. My guy. I don’t begrudge you for being kind, even if you had nothing nice to say about him months ago, and suddenly you care too much for him. It worries and confuses everybody, myself included, but I trust you.”
“That means everything to me, bestie.”
“Bee, we’ll talk about what happened today. Okay?”
“Okay. Later, then.”
“But not too late.” Windblade bends until her big blue optics are level with Bumblebee’s. “I love you.”
“Love you too.”
“Kiss?”
The scout drags his stare from the huddled Commander, briefly focusing on the Cityspeaker long enough to press a peck to her ruby dermas.
“I’ll call you in a couple hours, update you on how Slip and Jetfire are doing.”
“Please do. Give them my love.”
Windblade bows her helm honourably, then turns and strides out with a pitying glance at Starscream from over her pauldron, visibly sorry for him, lacking in her vengeful anger borne of a strong sense of justice and in turn self-righteousness.
Bumblebee sighs and settles to stare at Starscream for a while longer. Nothing is said, because there is nothing to say.
“This is weird. I’m sorry.”
“I haven’t complained.”
“I’ve roped you into it.”
“You hear me glitching?”
Ariel is a bit drunk. She dug into one of Sentinel’s cabinets and found a couple tall bottles of high-grade, which she has passed back and forth between herself and Cliffjumper, but mostly herself, whilst helping him thoroughly clean the abandoned office from top to bottom, requiring the shifting of furniture and the putting away of trinkets in boxes to prepare to vacate this space so it may be useful again.
They are preparing the way to erase all signs of Sentinel ever having been here.
Of course, Cliffjumper had not suggested they go so far. He is just the janitor, here to keep the place clean and tidy. He could lose his job for drinking and working at the same time, though he is reassured this will not happen, and he does not dictate how people grieve.
It was Ariel’s idea to take this all the way, bolstered by booze, becoming increasingly incensed with emotions, so very hurt and angry and mostly sad. She is moving on, or trying to, or making a start at it, or pretending to do it so she might feel like someday she really could. She could pull Sentinel’s things out of these boxes and return them to their rightful spaces on the shelves, spaces that had been marked by dust before Cliffjumper so studiously wiped the evidence away. She wanted to scream with every stroke of that cloth. She still does.
He sits with her now, sat together on the floor, glasses and bottles at the ready, open boxes between them brimming with someone’s belongings, to be organised and disposed of.
“I’m grateful. Really. Thank you for humouring an old lady.”
“For you? Hey, anytime.”
“Charmer.”
A knock interrupts.
“Oh, scrap.” Ariel realises the magnitude of what she has done, with Sentinel’s life in boxes.
“Sober up quick,” Cliffjumper drawls with an easygoing smile. “Ooof. I hope I don’t get fired.”
Another knock. “Ariel, it is I, returned.”
“It’s unlocked.”
Orion lets himself in and finds Sentinel’s room partially dismantled, but very clean. “Oh.”
Cliffjumper offers a casual wave. “Hi.”
“Errm. Hello.”
“Don’t freak out,” Ariel says in such an adorably small voice, for such a big, gruff femme.
“I am too tired, old friend. It is done.”
“Damn. Megs went willingly?”
“…No.”
“He’s malnourished, traumatised, and he hasn’t recharged properly in Primus knows how long.” Slipstream stands protectively over Jetfire, laid out unconscious on the gurney with a drip-feed of fortified Energon embedded in his arm by a cable, a panel of his shell removed to bare the protoform and fuel lines beneath for the insertion. “Starscream did this to him. The most important person in his life. He did this to him.”
“Come here.” Windblade opens her arms.
The Seeker collapses against the Cityspeaker, exhausted and distraught, yet unable to cry, sobbing dryly with sounds more akin to heaving, as if to purge.
“Jetfire’s safe now.” Windblade wraps herself around her girlfriend, trying to be big and strong and reassuring. “You’ll take care of him and he’ll heal. He’s gonna be okay.”
Slipstream, however, is inconsolable.
Notes:
To the person who commented publicly and immediately deleted that comment: I invite you to keep reading Synchronicity so long as you're enjoying this fic, reassured that you're never obligated to comment if you don't want to and that you should do what you can to navigate this site safely and comfortably, thusly it's within your right to delete your comment and you don't have to apologise or explain why, but please don't censor yourself out of fear of reaction or retribution.
I've shared my stories online for over 15 years, so I'm aware that my writing can be considered controversial or distressing for many reasons even though I don't intend to offend or cause harm. That said, I foster a fairly open and robust comment culture, as I accept constructive criticism and I can process opinions different from my own. You won't be reported for submitting a comment containing constructive criticism or for voicing your honest opinion, so long as you don't break site rules, resort to personal insults or threats directed at myself/my character rather than my writing, or devolve into a tirade of general abuse. I'm a human being with thoughts and feelings and lived experiences, same as you.
Chapter 75
Notes:
Hi, I'm back! Before we begin, please accept my gratitude for the wave of support this story has received - I'm just so happy to know that Synchronicty is enjoyed and I thank you all for the kindness you've shown, because you make sharing this story and all the hard work involved worthwhile!
This chapter is a very important first part of a two-parter, split due to sheer size, so the next chapter will conclude this segment. Synchronicity as a whole is drawing close to its conclusion...
Possible trigger warnings: nature vs nurture, depression vibes, reference to suicide, mistreatment of a captive by law enforcement, the cruelty of cold forging, poisoning via spiked drink/drugged drink.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“My friends, I ask that you take today to yourselves. Rest, recuperate, reconnect with your loved ones.” Orion attempts to smile, but it is so very frail. He is wise and majestic, yet without Ariel and Sentinel and Megatron sat alongside, Orion sounds like a hypocrite. “Recent events have drained us, yet we persist, altogether. It is important to remember all that we love, all that is at stake to lose, so that we remain grateful to be alive and to strive for our future. I will attend to matters here. As for the rest of you, please consider today a moment of reprieve, however brief.”
“So, uh, just to make sure I got all that.” Cliffjumper scratches his chin, slumped casually against his vacuum drone. His resemblance to Bumblebee – albeit a suaver, redder version with bigger horns – is uncanny. “We get the day off?”
“Yes.”
“Me too?”
“Of course.”
“Sweet.”
“Morning, handsome.”
Rolling over in the berth they share, Shadow Striker breaks out in a soft, sweet smile, forgetting herself, neglecting to look scary.
Flamewar purrs as a large palm cups her cheek, callused yet careful.
“Morning yourself, beautiful.”
“Today’s gonna be a great day.”
“How do you know?”
“You’re in it. I got you.”
“Ugh.”
“What?”
“You’re sweet. It’s tedious.”
The bike grins, fanged and insane.
“I wouldn’t have you any other way,” the old mercenary rumbles, rough with recharge, pulling the smaller femme back down into the twisted anti-scratch sheets and all the cuddles and kisses they could ever want.
The meeting thus concludes and Orion accepts a fresh cup of Energon tea, courtesy of Grimlock.
Together the friends linger in the big meeting room for some time, chatting about their plans. Time is a precious commodity and today has been budgeted out, afforded to them. How much time shall they waste?
“I do miss my classes at the school,” Arcee intones softly. “It’s hard to maintain a routine learning environment with all this war stuff pulling me away. The kids are suffering. Since we got the day off, I can volunteer again. I should make today about spending time teaching them, playing with them, and just checking in to make sure they’re doing okay.”
“You’re awesome,” Hot Rod replies sweetly. “Me, I’m probably just gonna hang with my kitty cat. The boy misses me. I gotta remember to be a dad, from time to time, but I wish I could do more. This war sucks so bad.”
Windblade knows Slipstream is about to protest due to the important nature of her work, but Orion silences her with a look from across the table.
“Please allow the new batch of medical drones to do their work. Wheeljack reassures me that they are sufficiently sophisticated to run unassisted for some hours, but they will not go unsupervised.”
“Don’tcha worry! Every drone’s hooked remotely to my subsystems, so I never miss a peep. ’Sides, I rigged ’em myself, with Doc Ratchet’s input. He wanted a project to keep his big ol’ brain module busy while they rebuild his legs, so we collaborated. And no offence, but you look, uh, like we’re runnin’ ya ragged. Take a break.” Wheeljack winks.
Slipstream sighs wearily, nodding. “I’m rather tired, yes.”
“Then we’ll take today to ourselves.” Windblade smiles over at Chromia, who nods reassuringly back, finding Slipstream’s servo to hold and squeeze. “Bee, you in for cuddles and snacks?”
“That sounds perfect, bestie. I’m totes in.”
After a visit with Starscream, to make sure he has not killed himself in his cell, or been brutalised in some way.
Bumblebee does not say that bit out loud, of course.
Being pulled out of berth and immediately called into a rather tense meeting does not bode well for the rest of this allegedly good day.
“It is not enough that I was humiliated in captivity. It is not enough that my subordinates had to negotiate with the enemy for my release. No, it is not enough, for they have stolen from me, returned me incomplete and bereft.” Megatron crosses from one end of the room to the other, his strides huge and heavy. “Thus I call upon my specialists, for I require your services. I have an assignment for the pair of you to complete at your discretion, utilising whatever resources you require. Failure is not an option.”
Shadow Striker is a grizzled old glitch who has survived the trenches of war. Still, the way he glares aside at her in passing makes her cheek twitch below her scope, which follows him endlessly back and forth, unblinking.
Close beside, Flamewar tightens her handsome jaw and makes a soft sound of consideration. She is actually taking this quite seriously for a change. She does possess some sense and she is far from stupid.
“Empress has taken a shine to the both of you, but your position here is precarious, as I have reassumed dominance over all my Decepticons. Failing me will not be tolerated.” The old gladiator suddenly stops pacing, turning sharply to focus his entire attention on his smaller subordinates, looming over the mercenary and bike. “I have not forgotten your treachery and desertion. You have affection for people who oppose my will, over on the other side. I can empathise, or rather, I once did, but the time for the appeasement of such sentiments has passed. Things are different now. Lines have been crossed. My empathy died the moment they defied Empress’ trade and stripped me of Starscream whilst I was unconscious.” Those hellish optics widen, then narrow. “Suffice it to say, I lack a disposition for unmerited grace. You must both endeavour to earn my trust. In doing so, you will earn your keep, mercenaries that you are, and steal from them in turn.”
“Steal,” Shadow Striker echoes with a little huff. “You mean you want us to take prisoners.”
“Like, uh, alive and stuff,” Flamewar adds with a cute tilt of her helm to the left. “We gotta nab ’em and grab ’em so’s we can bring ’em back to you for, like, whatever it is you’ll do.”
“Yes. But I require only one prisoner, someone far more valuable than the likes of Jetfire,” Megatron purrs in that thunderous way of his, able to project his mighty voice without needing to raise it above a sinisterly sultry rasp. “Bring me Optimus Prime, alive and intact, and make him submit to me.”
There is a deathly hush for some moments of processing.
“Ooh.” The bike gives the mercenary a light jab with the elbow, attempting to lighten the mood perhaps. “Kinky.”
“Flames, not now.”
“Eh. Sorry, boss bot.”
“Do this for me, do it to my satisfaction, do not fail.” The old gladiator sneers ominously. “Then your debt will be settled and I will grant you forgiveness.”
Shadow Striker feels her reinforced, streamlined shell beginning to painfully yield under the sheer strain of Megatron’s imposing grip as he suddenly lashes out and pins her in place by the pauldron, leaning in slowly until his hellish optics hover before her staring scope, a pinprick of panic darting between.
Flamewar stiffens, about to protest, protective, but a sidelong glare begs her to be silent, so as not to provoke. So she keeps quiet, gritted fangs chewing the inside of her cheek raw.
“I have some faith left. Your work has been excellent, it may yet prove so. You could both still prove useful to me. Consider this a great opportunity to ensure your safe, prosperous future. Do this for me and your past transgressions shall be forgiven. Fail, however…”
The bike winces as something audibly creaks within that grip.
“Fail me and you will be scrap metal. There will be no escape for you, not on Cybertron, not among the colony worlds, soon to be blessed by my Decepticon uprising. Am I clear?”
The cables in the mercenary’s neck bob with a reflexive swallow as she maintains a scowl to hide that she is genuinely afraid of the gladiator. She nods stiffly. “Understood.”
“Excellent.”
Shadow Striker maintains her scowl as that huge fist finally releases her pauldron with an ache.
“I want him tonight.”
Flamewar reaches for a visible dent left behind, gently stroking it with her claws, tracing the ugly impression. She is not swatted away, her concern is not unappreciated.
“Send me the particulars once it is done.” Megatron turns his huge back and addresses the wall instead of his subordinates. “I shall leave it up to you, then come to collect once he is in custody. I will prepare a speech in the meantime. I have much to say to this Prime, who wears an old friend’s face, parades about in his body.”
“That’s some short notice for such a big job, Megatron.”
“Best get to work promptly, then. And I once went by Lord. Do you recall? Lord Megatronus. No, too pompous, too ostentatious, damned as I was by my very stage name, that is why I initially dropped it. Lord Megatron is better. Yesss, perhaps I shall resume that old title, considering that we will soon be in possession of the final Prime.”
Both subordinates linger awkwardly, exchanging confused and concerned glances in the midst of this rambling.
“Dismissed.”
The mercenary turns and stalks out, closely followed by the bike, leaving the retired gladiator to his musings.
They go for some paces in silence, until that silence is inevitably broken.
“I’ll help buffer that out for you, if you want.”
“Thanks, Flames. That’d be nice. Damn sore.”
“You okay?”
“Fine. You?”
“I’m as okay as you are. If you’re fine, I’m fine.”
“Alright.” Shadow Striker turns to smile fondly down at Flamewar. “We’re fine, then.”
“Yeah. We’ll do this job and then the big guy won’t be mad at us any more.”
“I’m not so sure about that. I bet he’ll die mad at this rate. Mad at everyone.”
“He’s not a bad dude, he’s just…” The bike rubs her neck. “He’s got the right ideas. He’s hurting too. We’re all hurting. But he’s got no right putting dents in you like that. I wanted to say something, or do something. Just something to make him stop.”
“And risk getting yourself hurt for my sake? No way. Never.” The mercenary slows to an almost casual amble, looping an arm about her smaller companion. “C’mere.”
“I care about you, boss bot. I know you’re worried for us. I can sense how scared you were, of him, of this Decepticon stuff. Frag me, I dragged you back.”
“You did it for Thunderblast. She needs people in her corner. Plus, it got us back on Cybertron, which means you’ll sometimes see Slipstream. She misses you. I gotta learn to share, can’t hog you all to myself over on Velocitron forever. Not like we’d fit in on most of the other colonies. No work for people like us, not with these.” Shadow Striker slaps herself on the Deceptibrand, then mutters a pained curse. “Why in the Pits hasn’t this thing healed yet?”
“Aw. I’mma kiss it better.”
“Mm. Suck my tits, too.”
Flamewar reaches again for that dent, caressing it ever so gently. The heat in her peculiar optics upcast like this, fiery gold and fringed with a surreal purple hue, flickering – this is unmistakably a look of love.
The cups are running dry and more Energon tea is set aside to brew. Some friends have gone their separate ways by now.
“Actually, I could use your help with the kids. Pretty soon, those young protoforms will have to choose their alt-modes. Big decision to make! As their teacher, it’s my job to help introduce them to a whole world of possibilities, so they can figure out for themselves what feels right for each of them. The war has taken me away from my class more and more lately, but I still owe as much of myself to the kids as I can spare, so I wanna do something special for them while I have the time today. That’s where you two fit in! You’d be perfect for my little plan, which admittedly I only just thought up! C’mon, girls! Let’s be spontaneous together! Spontaneity is a useful skill to exercise, right? Right!” Arcee bounces on her heels with eagerness. “Anyway, I just thought up something fun we could do as pals! Wanna help me teach a lesson about flying frames?”
Slipstream perks with interest.
Windblade sighs, resigned.
Chromia politely steps away, joining Ironhide with a chuckle.
“If you girls can find the time later today, would you lovely ladies mind helping me out, just for an hour or two?” Arcee clasps her palms together in supplication. “Just long enough to answer some of their questions about, like, being jets and all that entails, maybe give them some idea of what it feels like. Oh! And maybe you could fly a couple of circuits over the school to show off, so they see you girls in action! That’d be so much fun for them! Kids love fliers, really!”
“Well, um.”
“And I’d totes owe you each a huge favour if you let the kids climb all over you, since they’re at that stage of their programming where everybody bigger than they are has just gotta be an obstacle course, hahaha, it has to do with calibration of their spacial awareness sensors, you know, fine-tuning their perception of the world…” People forget that Arcee is a teacher, when not otherwise busy with the war effort or going on grand adventures with Grimlock, and she is a damn good one, bringing such enthusiasm and energy to her class that she seems more like a fun big sister at times than an actual authority figure. “Anyway, it’d be awesome if the kids could get the chance to see you up close, so they can figure out if maybe flight’s for them too. I can imagine a few upcoming jets in my class!”
Windblade was already subtly frowning up until then, but she openly winces at that last part, unable to disguise her discomfort. She is simply not much good with kids, even if she would never claim to dislike immature protoforms, and thusly she does not look enthused by the prospect of younglings clinging to her in excitement or asking her their inane questions or begging that she perform aerial tricks for their amusement.
“Aw.” Slipstream makes a soft sound of motherly affection and smiles deeply, nodding her helm. “I’d be delighted, Arcee.”
“Really?”
“Of course.”
“Not to parade you about or whatever, but it’s just so hard to find flight frames on Cybertron, so you’d be doing me a huge favour!”
“Yes, my love, I’ll do it. I’d be happy to help.”
“Thank you!” Arcee flings herself at Slipstream, hugging the bigger femme. “Ohhh, Slip, you’re a lifesaver!”
“You’re welcome! I try. Heh.”
Windblade sighs. Now she feels bad.
“Look alive, you two.”
The Seeker brothers abruptly stop arguing between themselves and hastily salute, assuming a perfectly soldierly stance side-by-side as if they actually do not dislike each other and bicker endlessly about nothing.
“That’s better.” Shadow Striker nods approvingly. “You’re going to love the mission we’ve just been assigned.” She giggles ominously.
“Oh, yeah, this one’s gonna be a riot.” Flamewar scratches her cheek. “So, like, we’re gonna capture Optimus Prime alive. You know, supposedly the Thirteenth Prime reincarnate, if those old legends are true, and the fragging Matrix he’s holding in his tits sure does imply the truth. Feeling up for that?”
The Seeker brothers glance nervously at each other.
“See that confidence? They’ll do great,” the bike surmises, turning to smirk up at the mercenary. “This definitely won’t end in disaster, not even a little bit.”
Ravage purrs as he is gently extracted from the cassette compartment and passed over between two different sets of familiar, fatherly servos, as if his fathers are recently divorced and negotiating custody for today.
“Be good.” Soundwave hums musically, running his digit under a purring chin. “Listen to your father while I’m gone.”
Meow.
“That’s my Ravage.”
“Aw, baby boy. You gonna be sweet? Of course you are!” Hot Rod cradles their cybercat like a freshforged protoform, permitted to pet Ravage’s exposed belly without losing that servo in the process. “Hey, uh, fellow cat dad.”
“Mm?”
“You could come hang with us.”
“I want to. But I have much work to do.
“Oh. Something big is boutta happen.”
“Yes.”
The mechs look at each other seriously now.
“Tell me.”
“I could be killed.”
Hot Rod winces, lowering his gaze to Ravage once more.
“I’m sorry.” Soundwave sighs melodically. “If I keep taking risks for you, it’ll catch up, eventually.”
“Then I guess we really can’t make it. We just won’t work out.”
“The war will end. Stay alive until then.”
“Crazy to think we could just die horribly.”
“We won’t die.”
“We could, though. All my friends could die. Our boy…”
Ravage blinks his big feline optics, pointed audials pressed flat to his sleek black helm.
“Please.” Soundwave makes a choking sound and turns away, betraying himself. “Don’t say that.”
“You gotta get out.” Hot Rod is trembling, tearful. “You gotta come back to me, come home.”
“It’s too late for that. Soundblaster is watching, waiting to find concrete proof that I’m on your side in all this.”
“On my side? You’re a Decepticon spy. I know you’re still telling Megatron stuff, stuff even I don’t know about, stuff he can use against me and my friends. How can you pretend like you aren’t betraying me?”
“I’ll keep you safe. I know everything that’s worth knowing. I can use that to protect you. I must be smart about it, I must be subtle, but-”
“And my friends?”
“They aren’t my concern. You are.”
Arcee is leading her little pack of protoforms along the manicured metallic school grounds, giving the class a safety talk along the way. Not that the kids are listening. They giggle and gawk from behind her, fixated as they are on the fliers, pointing eagerly. The excitement is palpable.
“Oh, Primus, look. They’re so little,” Slipstream whispers to Windblade, who nods stiffly, stood alongside.
“Uh, yeah, they’re definitely, um… smaller than us. ”
“Little and shiny and adorable.”
“Mmmhmm.”
“They’re so precious when they haven’t picked their alt-modes yet, so they don’t have, like, a defined shell or shape. They’re just so malleable. So much potential.”
“Yep. Arcee will do a good job guiding them along their paths, that’s for sure. They’re lucky to have her.”
“Absolutely! She’s a miracle, she is. She’s wonderful, doing such good work. These kids have their whole lives ahead of them. I wonder who he’ll become, who she’s destined to be, whether any trines could form from them… I mean, trines could come from groups other than Seekers. I think.”
As the class draws closer, the protoforms become louder and move a lot more, evidently unable to contain their mounting excitement.
It makes the Cityspeaker cringe.
The Seeker, however, is suddenly contemplative, serious. “I always feel a little sad about kids. Not because I can’t make any myself, no, that’s not an issue at all since there’s plenty of other ways of starting a family. It’s just that Seekers are constructed cold and we never got to be kids, so I don’t have any relatable memories or experiences of my own. We were just made this way, forged fully formed, and the previous generations of Seekers were assigned trines from birth, back when there were enough Seekers to form trines. I never got a trine. None of us did.”
Windblade’s Spark breaks a little for Slipstream. They are such different femmes. Can compatibility truly be found here? Is today a test?
Arcee waves enthusiastically and shouts something cheerful to her friends, but in turn she loses control of the class, the eager young protoforms assuming permission and thus escaping from her, sprinting ahead despite her attempts to catch them. Their teacher can only pursue the class that converges on the Seeker and Cityspeaker like a swarm of starved cyberpiranhas.
Slipstream laughs, deep and bellyful, palms on her narrow hips, delighted.
Windblade braces herself for impact.
“Lately, Ariel has opted to stay back at HQ for some hours after Orion has already gone, and he is one of the last to leave,” Soundwave reports smoothly, sat at his workbench, poised over a media and surveillance drone with the entrails exposed to his tools. “Orion will be alone. He frequents Mac’s place most evenings and he’s consistently on time for the half-off happy hour special. He likes his high-grade, but occasionally settles for mid if the stock runs low, and he does not overdo it even if he never leaves a drink unfinished. I’ll ping your comm the particulars.”
“Good to know. Thanks, pal.” Shadow Striker slaps her best friend fondly over the pauldron, then stoops to bump her helm affectionately against his. “You’re the best.”
“Mmhm.”
“Flames, let’s get to it, then. We gotta job to do.”
“Okie-dokie, boss bot.” Flamewar stops fiddling with the rather complicated communications equipment, following after the bigger femme with a wave in passing. “Bye, dude. You’re really cool and stuff.”
“Cheers, ladies.”
“I brought wheel-nuts.”
Starscream says nothing. He does not even move from his corner, crouched like a nesting cyberhawk, wings tightly drawn, optics bejewelled, digits sunk like talons. Silently staring.
It disturbs Bumblebee to the depths of his bright, beautiful soul.
“Okay, class! Since we have guests and it’s just such a beautiful day today, how about we skip the text-holobooks and do our learning outside? Would you like that?”
The overwhelming consensus is yes, the young protoforms would be delighted to learn their lessons beyond the cold confines of encroaching walls and a stagnant ceiling. They do love the sky, these little terrestrials, some of whom are bold enough to dream of alt-modes that may someday fly.
Windblade realises this is a sacred mission, a great personal responsibility, to some extent. She may not be the best with kids, but she is generally quite docile and soft-spoken, so they seem more fascinated by her aloof beauty as someone exotic and new, rather than feeling outright afraid of her poised stoicism and suspicious of her origins, unlike many adults.
Slipstream is just so happy to be here, happy to hold little servos in her huge digits and cast gentle smiles down at upcast stares. Happy, to be given a chance to be someone other than a machine of war, more than a mere soldier built to kill and die. This is precious, on the fringe of a war that children cannot and should not understand. Seekers were born for it, yet most barely comprehend it. So very nurturing, she struggles with the basis of her own cruel nature.
“You ever heard of Fool’s Energon*, boss bot?”
“It’s poison, right?”
“Yup. Just a small measure’s enough to toxify a guy as big as a shuttle. Saps the strength right outta ya, leaves the limbs feeling heavy and slows down reflexes, makes it hard to think straight. Sorta like you’re drunk and drugged at the same time, but the effect can last for days. Assassins love the stuff. Keeps the target quiet and enfeebled.”
Shadow Striker watches with rapt attention as Flamewar rummages through her Energon cells, which essentially act as ammo for her bow, the fuel within providing the various arrows at her disposal with different debilitating or outright lethal effects depending on her chosen cell, to be loaded into the bow and drained after enough arrows are fired, whereupon a fresh cell will replace the spent cell.
“Now, I don’t have a measure of Fool’s Energon with me, buuut…” Claws turn one such Energon cell over, the transparent aperture revealing the putrid green Energon blend within, tones lighter than the brilliant emerald green acid arrows, not to be confused between. “I have my paralysis ammo right here. A small dose of this laced into in a stiff drink would have similar effects, but it’ll take a little while to kick in.”
“Just long enough to ambush the old mech by the time he gets home.”
“Exactly. Easy pickings.”
“Won’t that taste bad? Smell bad?”
“It’s just Energon with a little magic tossed in. And by magic I mean chemical agents. It smells and tastes mostly the same. Not like I go licking my Energon cells to check, boss bot, but I have sampled a few outta curiosity.”
“Fair enough, little maniac. Guess we’re going to Mac’s.”
“Why do you look like that?” demands a proform, interrupting the lesson and pointing at Windblade’s face plate.
“I’m from Caminus,” she intones patiently, naturally using a gentle voice. She is rarely loud, maintaining control over her emotional output even if she is irritable at this point. It is unfair to blame the children. “These markings identify me as friend to very big, very smart people who have lived very long lives. They can’t speak for themselves like you and I can, so I speak for them. I’m like an interpreter, where I come from, so these markings assign me as such.”
“How big are these smart people?” Another young protoform holds out both arms as wide as those short arms can reach. “Bigger than this?”
“Oh-ho. Much bigger.” The Cityspeaker smiles naughtily now. “As big as cities.” Her distinct brows arch.
“Whoa. For real?”
“Totally for real.”
“And you can just talk to them?”
“They speak through me. I am their voice.”
“That’s so cool.” Another young protoform peers up at Windblade with newfound respect. “You’re so cool.”
Grumpy as she may be, she feels a little flattered by that.
“We’ll strike at nightfall. The darkness provides cover. Plus, we’ve still got a few more hours to secure the closest safehouse, which is…” Shadow Striker scrolls through her datapad with a deepening scowl. “An Energon storage facility. Mm. It’s large, only one way in and out that we’ll have to fortify, plus it’s in a quieter part of the district, right in Decepticon territory…”
“Sounds pretty good so far, boss bot.”
“Still, not ideal.”
“We’ll make it work.”
“Um, excuse me.” One of the Seeker brothers raises his servo nervously. “Question.”
“Ask away.”
“What’s wrong with an Energon storage facility, Sir? We like Energon.”
“Yeah, Sir, we get hungry on the job, since we’re jets.”
The old mercenary smiles at the rather stupid Seekers, amused by their innocence rather than annoyed. After all, they were assigned under her especially, and so she tends to treat them decently enough. “Energon explodes.”
“Oh.”
“If there were to be a firefight, we’d all blow up.”
“Oh!”
“C’mon, boss bot, like that’s gonna happen. We’re professionals! So long as we keep this quick and quiet, nobody will even catch our trail.” The bike flops her wrist dismissively, claws catching the light as she slumps casually back into her chair, loses balance on the teetering brink, and inadvertently topples it over, falling in a combined heap with a clamor. “Oomph! Well, this is a weird view of the room.”
“You good down there, Flames?”
“Yup. Heh. You guys sure do look funny from my perspective.”
Shadow Striker rolls her scope, but neatly picks up Flamewar and sets her right on her chair with a fond little ruffle on the helm, all the same.
“Thanks! I was fine like that, though.”
“Little maniac.”
The Seeker brothers look to each other, doomed.
“Now, then. Assuming we settle on that location, next on our agenda is equipment. Let’s take inventory.”
“That’ll be quick to sort out, boss bot. I got my bow and my shotty, you got your rifle and your knives, they got their null-rays and each other.”
“It never hurts to be prepared, sweet Spark. Never hurts. I need to requisition a cloak for myself. You come with one built-in, lucky scraplet.”
“Okay, so I guess we’re gonna need bigaft chains to tie the bigaft mech down, kinky-style. Add that to your list - chains fit for a Prime.”
“I do like the way you think, Flames.”
A little flattery can only fuel strained patience so far. It proves to be an exhausting lesson, at least for Windblade it is exhausting. She is made to perform, transforming in and out of her jet alt-mode to demonstrate how every part of her shifts and folds and rearranges to reform herself, back and forth on repeat to a chorus of cheers, since apparently her exotic appearance and rotary blades render her the most fascinating flier when compared to Slipstream’s more rugged standard-issue Seeker fare, though at least she enjoys entertaining protoforms and is physically fitter to some degree.
“Again!” the young protoforms cry. “Again! Again!”
“Okay, class! I think Windblade’s transformed enough, so let’s give her poor T-cog a break and just stick to her alt-mode for now. Pay close attention! There will be a test on this later, soon as I draft one!” Ignoring the groans this provokes, Arcee pats the Camien jet fondly on her nose cone, always surprisingly large when fully transformed, offering an apologetic sidelong glance at the other femme, speaking to Windblade more discretely now. “You’re doing great, sweet Spark.”
“Am I? Oh, Solus Prime, my T-cog is on fire right now. Little monsters will wear me out for sure.”
“No blasphemy in front of the kids, please. And they love you, so be nice.”
“I’m being so, so, so very nice right now. You have no idea how nice I am at this moment.”
“And I love you for it, you old grouch. So! Think you’re up for a little flight demo? Three, four laps, maybe? Go low and slow over the school, so they get a good look, maybe throw in a few loops, that sort of thing?”
“Since I’m in jet mode, I might as well, huh.”
“Wonderful! Don’t suppose I could convince you to give out a few rides, maybe?”
“Absolutely not.”
“But–”
“No rides.”
“You give Bee and Rod rides all the time. Spoilsport.” Arcee sighs, then perks up again seamlessly, turning to smile a dazzling smile at the class. “Alright, then, class! My friend Windblade here would love to show you how she flies! What do we say?”
“Please!” the young protoforms chorus. “Pretty please with Energon goodies on top! Thank you!”
“Can’t refuse that now, can I.”
“Nope! Get to it, girlfriend.” Arcee winks, offering a fond slap to the nose cone, then withdrawing.
Windblade sighs, but there is a smile in there, somewhere, as she grumbles, “Stand back, kids. Things will get blustery real quick.”
“Alright, class! Let’s get some safe distance! Back, back, back!” Arcee guides the young protoforms to back off and give the jet some room, whereupon they coo in awe as the rotors activate, spinning with immense force.
Slipstream watches on with pride as her girlfriend ascends neatly to hover in place some distance above young helms, upturned to watch in awe as the Camien jet defies gravity with graceful, easy poise, evidently enviably nimble at some sacrifice to hull integrity.
“Wow, class! Look at Windblade go!”
“Right there!” Flamewar points at the metal slab, a platform usually intended to secure Energon crates, thus built to be rather sturdy and large. “We’ll flip it over onto one side, rig up the chains, and strap him on that. He’ll be all trussed up. Kinda hot.”
“That’ll do it.” Shadow Striker nods at the platform, then turns to admire the array of Energon crates neatly stacked all around. “Nice. We’ll last for a while on these provisions. Megatron’s preparing for the long haul, looks like. Gonna starve the enemy out.”
“Uh, boss bot, not to be a downer, but the enemy getting starved out kinda includes your boyfriend, too.”
“My what? Who?”
Your boyfriend. The short king, y’know, Bumbles.”
“He’s not my boyfriend!”
The Seeker brothers return from their routine patrol at that moment, quirking their optic ridges, intrigued.
“He’s just a guy I like to frag once in a while,” the mercenary mutters rather shyly, scowling at the floor. “And he’s good for a game of Dead-Dark-Drone. So what? I don’t care what happens to the guy. He chose his side, I chose mine.”
The bike simply smiles.
“Shuddup.”
“I didn’t say anything just then, boss bot.”
“Well, you were thinking it! Uppity little glitch.”
“I’m your uppity little glitch.”
“Damn right you are.” Shadow Striker huffs, skulking off. “Make yourself useful and double-check our equipment before I spank you. We gotta head out soon.”
“Okay, but I still wanna get spanked.”
“You sure are asking for it, pal.”
“Aw, I can’t get enough of that old girl.” Flamewar gives the Seeker goons a grin. “She’s just the best.”
Slipstream transforms mid-air and drops to the ground, landing in a low, heavy crouch in root-mode with a smirk, rising smoothly to flex her wings. “How was that?”
The young protoforms all but explode with how “cool” and “awesome” and “badaft” that feat was just now, but Arcee has to be the responsible adult with a quick reprimand, declaring, “Class! We don’t use that word, it’s a naughty word!” Still, she smiles.
Windblade chuckles, offering an applause. Truthfully, she is glad not to be the centre of attention for once, as the young protoforms run over to her girlfriend, pouncing upon her burly limbs.
“Easy, kids! You’ll bowl me over!”
“Come along, class, let’s be gentle!”
The Seeker scoops up the smallest of the protoforms and sits him neatly on her broad pauldron, to his apparent delight as he now towers over his peers, jeering down at their envious little faces.
“Hey, no fair!”
“Me too!”
“And me!”
The teacher sighs, turning to smile over at the Cityspeaker. A helpless shrug passes between the femmes.
The young protoforms are thus picked up and carried about, until Slipstream can only lumber about stiffly with smaller bodies clinging to her own in this ridiculous game, laughing as sticky little servos pinch surprisingly painfully in places where her armour does not provide protection. She will be scuffed and bruised afterward, but it is worth it just to make young souls laugh in wartime. To mother is to be more than a soldier, even if it is only for today, only a pretence. She is naturally good with kids, evidently.
It makes Windblade, childfree entirely by choice, feel so terrible for someone who never even had a childhood to begin with. Preferring to be stoic and aloof in public, she blinks away the urge to cry and buries her face in Arcee’s neck.
“Do you wanna step away for a minute?”
“No. Um. I’ll be fine. Sorry.”
“It’s okay. I’ve gotcha.”
“And when we have the Prime, what will you do with him?” Empress asks this whilst reading over one of many scrapped scripts. “Other than ransom him for the safe return of Starscream, of course.” Repeated attempts to find the right words for the speech lie littered in notes scattered across the desk. “Surely you have something special in mind.”
“Ransom,” Megatron repeats with a scoff. “That implies an exchange. Bah! As if I ever intend to let the Prime go. I will use him to convince Ariel to surrender Starscream to me, but she shall surrender more besides.”
“Doesn’t she know you too well for that scheme to work?”
There is no reply.
“Ah. I see. That’s rather interesting.”
Two figures approach – an elderly femme, flanked by a younger mech in uniform kibble indicating he is a security guard.
“That’s the head of the school. My boss, basically.” Arcee sets down a protoform on the tinfoil lawn, allowing him to play with his peers under the bright Cybertronian sun.
“She looks scary,” Slipstream intones warily.
“She is.”
“Arcee, a word, please.”
Windblade feels a chill. “Uh-oh.”
“Sure!” Arcee smiles at her friends, intending to reassure them as much as herself, an easygoing spirit. “I wonder if I’m in trouble!” She is joking, of course, but her smile fades as she is led away.
Windblade winces as the security mech does not leave, apparently supervising. “Is there something going on?”
“I’m not paid enough to disclose that.”
“Ah.”
Slipstream sighs, shrugs, and returns to entertaining the class.
The security mech watches her in particular, his expression stern, optics judgmental of every movement.
It irks Windblade, but she cannot cause much fuss in front of children. She has a small protoform awkwardly clutched between her servos, held out before her as demanded, dangling and giggling, grabby little servos reaching for the Titan’s crimson markings on her pale cheeks. She turns her helm aside sharply, big blue optics narrowed. She tolerates this for some seconds. “Help.”
Slipstream gently takes the protoform child, drawing him into a big, burly hug with a dulcet croon. “Aw, was the big, bad Cityspeaker mean to you? I’m sorry. She’s really nice, I promise. It’s just been a hard day for her.”
“The big, bad Cityspeaker has a helmache.”
“You’re doing so well, my love. The kids adore you. They definitely like you better than me, just another boring old Seeker. I bet they’ll all wanna turn into your alt-mode some day, soon as they’re big enough to scan something similar.”
“I’m flattered.” Windblade looks so very long-suffering as someone clings to her leg and squeals with laughter when that leg moves as she attempts to gently shake the protoform off without performing a proper kick. “Remind me to never do Arcee a favour again.”
“Hush. She loves you and appreciates you. That’s all that matters.” Slipstream patiently indulges a curious poke to her helm, smiling warmly, in her element.
“I really don’t know how you can be so… graceful, in all this chaos.”
“Me, graceful?”
“You’ve got this maternal elegance about you. Just compare that to me. I’m a total dumbaft.”
“Language, dear.”
“Oops. Sorry. Idiot. I’m a total idiot.”
“You’re not me. I’m not you. That’s perfectly alright.”
“So long as Arcee benefits, I guess.”
Arcee does not come back to class for some time, long enough to be worrying. When she finally does return, she holds a small box containing a few personal effects, her cheerful tone rings hollow, and her smile does not reach her optics. She does not try to explain it to the protoforms beyond telling them that she might have to go on a long, long vacation, but that she will always think of them and they must remember to do their best without her.
Windblade and Slipstream exchange worried glances, gently enquiring, casually brushed off.
Class thus dismissed, the protoforms sadly say goodbye to the femmes who must leave the school grounds, followed by a security mech who tails them until reaching the gate, where he can go no further.
“What was that about? What happened?”
“Um, nothing. Heh. Totes nothing.”
“You’re upset.”
“I’m fine. How about a drink over at Mac’s? You girls must be parched. First round’s on me. I’m calling the shots, hahaha.”
“Arcee.”
“I don’t wanna talk about it right now. Please. Just call our friends over and pretend for me.”
“Ready?”
The Seeker brothers nod grimly, far from convinced. They are just goons however, designedly expendable, easily replaced.
Flamewar jerks up a clawed thumb. “Ready.”
“Alright. You know the score. Stick to the plan with minimal flourishes and we’ll get this thing done or die trying.” Shadow Striker smirks crookedly, a very mean expression. “Imagine if we do catch the Prime. We’ll be legends.” A nasty, raspy little mockery of a laugh.
“Heh, yeah! Fame’s a form of immortality, isn’t it, boss bot.”
“Fancy that.”
The femmes lovingly fist-bump.
“Nah, go on without me. Don’t wait up, okay. I’ll be home late.” Ariel indicates the interior of Sentinel’s office. “Still some packing to do. A few more boxes, then I’ll call it quits.”
“You have been so very busy in this office, old friend.” Orion sighs gently, stood in the doorway. “Can these few boxes of which you speak, not wait until you are refreshed? We should tackle the task tomorrow, together.”
“Sure, but then that’d be another sleepless night spent thinking about all these boxes left behind, open and hollow, waiting to swallow whole everything left of him.”
“I cannot hope to persuade you to come home with me.”
“I’ll come home to you, old mech. Just not yet. This…”
The elderly mech accepts a kiss on the cheek, though he must stoop over a bit.
“This is something I gotta do.” The elderly femme smiles softly, sadly. “Okay?”
“Very well, then. Goodnight, my love. Do not be too long.”
“Goodnight. See you in a bit, beautiful.”
Orion nuzzles his forehelm affectionately against Ariel’s, then gently departs, leaving her alone in the plundered office Sentinel once claimed as his own.
“Your dad comes with his own cat carrier built-in,” Hot Rod bemoans with a sigh, stroking Ravage along the entire length of his spinal strut, arched to receive. “I don’t have nearly fat enough tits to carry you in your cassette mode, sweetie, or I’d take you with me no problem. Mac doesn’t mind. He has yummy Energon goodies just for you.”
Meow.
“I mean, if you promise not to scratch dad’s seats like you rip up your scratching post, you can hop in and I’ll take you for a drive. Would you like that? Do you wanna come along and see our friends, baby boy?”
Meow.
“Alrighty then! I guess we’re going out.”
The sleek black cybercat, littered with scars and scuffed in places despite being well taken care of, sits on his haunches and rears up intelligently, lifting his front paws expectantly with the most adorable little chirp imaginable. Hard to believe he was once a feral stray, afraid and aggressive, only willing to approach with the promise of food and shelter, resentful of the system that made him that way. Now, he loves.
With a fatherly giggle, the mech stoops to gently scoop up his most precious companion in a hug.
“I’ve gotta go. My friends are waiting for me. I was supposed to meet them hours ago, but…”
Starscream offers no response. He has been catatonic all day.
“It’s fine. No, it’s not, but they understand. Actually, no, they don’t geddit, but they just pretend so I don’t feel so bad, since they love me.” Bumblebee chuckles faintly, turning from the cell. “Anyway, uh. Yeah. I’ll come visit again tomorrow if I can.”
No voice beckons him back.
Shadow Striker had offered to do this part, to swap their places, but Flamewar is small, very feline in her subtler skill sets, and simply better equipped for stealth missions to some level of irony. She finds an opening and exploits it, sleek and silent despite her capacity to be loud and violent. “I’m going in.”
“Be careful.”
An unlocked viewing port, left slightly ajar, provides a convenient way inside the habitation suite. Privileged people often neglect basic security standards such as locking up their vacant homes filled with valuable things, lacking such sense due to living comfortable lives in nice neighbourhoods. There is much bias in the police and their willingness to react promptly to reports of criminal activity, thus privileged people assume those police are their friends and that nice neighbourhoods are entirely safe.
Orion is a nice mech, who lives in a nice neighbourhood, and it has been millions of years since he struggled upon the lowly docks. He has not forgotten, but he has grown soft, pampered under the privileged position of archivist granted due to Alpha Trion’s tutelage, as even Megatron had noted.
Flamewar drops to the synthetic carpet in a crouch, muffling her entrance. Cloaked, she is all but invisible. She activates her internal comms for added discretion. “Boss bot, I’m in position. Seekers are hidden and awaiting retrieval. Rest is up to you. Bring him home.”
Shadow Striker makes an approving sound over the other end of the comms, her voice coming through perfectly clear and intimately close, due to the internal link between them. “I’ll hit you up soon as it’s done. Hold position until he arrives. I’ll tail him once he’s taken the poison and meet you there. Be ready to receive.”
“Goddit. Just don’t mix up his drink with someone else’s, eh, boss bot. That’d be awkward.”
“I’ll be careful, toots.”
Arcee has a distant look in her optics and she says very little tonight, preferring to take out her frustrations on booze and dancing.
Of course the friends have asked if she is doing okay. They love her.
“Something must have happened. She never gets like this unless something is deeply wrong,” Grimlock intones, watching his best friend drink and dance at the same time among the throng of sweaty bodies in motion. “She has such a cheerful disposition.” His frown deepens. “She prefers to communicate when upset. For her to clam up like this…”
“Yeah. She tells you everything, big guy, and she tells the rest of us enough. So if she’s keeping it to herself, it’s definitely something serious.” Bumblebee rubs his neck, letting off a sigh. “Maybe you could talk to her alone, when we all head home. You’ll get through to her somehow.”
“I shall certainly try. She is my beloved, her pain is mine.”
“She was her usual self this morning, back at the school,” Slipstream murmurs anxiously to Chromia. “We spent hours with those kids. It was so much fun. What could be so terrible, that it’d spoil such a great day in the end?”
Hot Rod is with Arcee on the impromptu dancefloor, keeping her company as much as taking out his own frustrations.
“Do you think…?” Slipstream looks to Windblade.
Before she can answer, the music cuts out, to be replaced by something else.
“Oh, no.” Hot Rod cringes as Soundblaster commands attention. “It’s that guy again.”
“He tries anything, I’ll break him,” Arcee mutters back, worryingly deadpan, dark.
“Um, I think I’m gonna go sit down with the gang. He really made me feel uncomfortable that one time, so…” Hot Rod slinks away, ducking his helm, hoping to go unnoticed as Soundblaster does a little dance with a gaggle of giggling femmes.
Left to her own devices on the dancefloor, Arcee chugs her drink, slams the empty cup down on a totally unrelated table and in turn startles the occupants, then buries a belch into her fist.
“Girl, you okay?”
“Nope. Wanna dance?”
Dead End shrugs, gets out his seat, offers his servo like a gentlemech and intones dully, “I guess?”
She dances with him like it is a competition she intends to win.
Shadow Striker strides in, dark and sinister and gorgeous. She comes alone.
Orion is sat in his usual spot, nursing a depleted drink, helm hung low. He does not want company, though friends check in on him occasionally.
Maccadam looks deeply uncomfortable as Shadow Striker saunters up to the bar.
“I’ll have whatever he’s having.”
“I implore you to reconsider.”
“What, is it gross?”
The old bartender reminds himself that he must not intervene too deeply into the threads of this timeline and that fate will carry itself out one strand or another. He has seen everything, every outcome is known to him, and it has driven him a little mad. How could it not?
She quirks a bladed optic ridge as a tall cup, already prepared, is pushed over to her.
“I’m so very sorry.”
“Uh. Okay.”
“Remember who your friends are. They love you. They will love you, even at your most unlovable. Let them in, if not yet, then eventually. It is as much for their sake, as yours.”
“You come up with the weirdest scrap to say.”
Maccadam smiles sadly at that and turns away just in time for Shadow Striker to extract something green from her storage kit, pouring a measure into the cup, slightly discolouring the drink. A quick sniff confirms that it smells as it should. He keeps his back turned, feigning ignorance as she departs from him, strolling coolly over to one of the booths.
Orion looks up as a drink is set before him.
“Hey.”
“Oh. Errm. Hello.”
“I’m a friend of Slipstream’s. You’re taking care of her and even if this divides us,” the mercenary indicates her Deceptibrand, “I remember who my friends are. Thank you. Here.” Sick old glitch.
The archivist smiles a small, sad smile as the drink is pushed into his personal space. “This is kind, but in truth, Slipstream rather takes care of everyone else.”
“Heh, yeah, that’s a good girl.”
“You do not need to buy me a beverage, though I will not turn you down.”
“Good, you shouldn’t, ’cause it’s rude to turn a lady down. Drink up, old mech.”
Orion thus accepts the laced drink with a tilt to his helm. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Shadow Striker pats him on the pauldron and strolls off, sure to keep him in view to secretly observe him as she finds a seat of her own, without crowding him and risking suspicion.
“Hey.”
She stops, feels a tug on her spark, a smaller servo touching hers.
Bumblebee has left his booth and made a point of seeking Shadow Striker out, smiling up at her.
She almost feels bad. But it is a job, she reminds herself, perhaps the most important job in her whole career, and he is just some other guy.
“Come sit with me and my friends.”
“I was actually hoping to be alone.”
“Well, cool, but Slip might not let that happen, even if I let you go be dark and mysterious in some corner of this old oil house all on your lonesome.”
The scope rises, finding the Seeker waving enthusiastically from her seat. It makes the old mercenary smirk.
“Reconsidering?”
“Dammit.”
The scout laughs.
A couple of hours pass.
Dancing to the point of exhaustion, Arcee ends up simply holding onto Hot Rod and swaying with him to the music, her face buried in his breast, his chin at rest atop the dome of her helm, and they sway together in Grimlock’s arms as he hums in tune.
Ravage sleeps on the counter in the middle of the booth beside a bowl of partially devoured Energon goodies, enjoying the occasional stroke, tolerant of his dad’s friends, happy to have Shadow Striker near and dear. He is not the only one.
Bumblebee keeps stealing longing looks, flushed when his obvious interest garners him a wink, a smirk, a brush under the counter. He knows he should not be so fond of such a dangerous, bad femme, but after everything, how could he not be?
Slipstream is just as smitten. She insists on having Shadow Striker seated next to her the whole time, snuggled up to the scowling older femme, enjoying the privilege of not being told to frag off for being openly affectionate in public.
Windblade is not the jealous sort, but she is the distrustful sort, so she does not like it, but she keeps herself distracted with Chromia, who has been trying and failing to make sense of Cube as reruns blare above them on the large holoscreen mounted to the wall.
“I’m sorry, but I just cannot see the appeal in chasing a box around.”
“Not a box!” Bumblebee corrects her, holding up his servos emphatically and gesturing as if to somehow make it mean more. “Cube! Cube. Dude, work with me, here. Cuuube.”
Chromia frowns adorably over at Windblade, who cannot resist feminine giggles behind a palm.
Shadow Striker loves Cube, yet she does not contribute as much, since she divides her focus between the conversation, drinking, and keeping watch over Orion, looking for signs or symptoms that the poison is taking effect. He is a rather big mech, so perhaps she did not dose him enough. She reaches over and idly fondles Ravage’s pointed audials, garnering a cute little chirp from the cybercat who somehow feels safe and relaxed in the hustle and bustle and general noise of the old oil house.
“Shadow Striker, bro, tell her.”
“Cube is wicked cool. Period.”
“Hear that? Wicked. Cool. Period.”
“You Camiens just don’t have anything cool enough to compare it too, so the magic of Cube is lost on you. Tragic, really.”
Windblade could take offence, but Shadow Striker’s flat delivery just ends up making the insult funny, so she laughs at her.
Even Chromia cannot resist quirking a subtle smile, shaking her helm as she bemusedly watches a player catch the Cube for the hundredth time.
“My Seekers love Cube,” Slipstream murmurs, resting her cheek against Shadow Striker’s pauldron, where the dent has been buffered out. “Oh, they’ll toss that battered old Cube back and forth for hours. Half the time they don’t even play by the rules. They just play.”
“And they play in the air!” Bumblebee exclaims, excited, even if he thinks of Starscream with a twinge. “How epic is that?”
“That’s actually badaft,” Shadow Striker grumbles, scope on Orion independently of where her optic wanders, settling on Slipstream with familiarity. “Do you play?”
“I did. Sometimes I’ll toss a Cube with Bee, and if we’re really lucky, Windblade joins in.”
“She gets suuuper competitive about it, though. Damn.”
“What can I say? I like to win.” Windblade smirks, puffing herself out proudly, showing off out of humour. “Whatever the winning condition actually is, since I’m still not sure, since I dunno what I’m doing with the Cube or how to play properly, but still. I play for keeps.”
“Work on your modesty, perhaps then the intricacies of this Cybertronian sport might sink in,” Chromia chides teasingly, then grunts as a heel strut lightly kicks her under the counter, far too gently to hurt. “Oh, you brute. When we get home, I’ll sort you out.”
“Nice.”
“I love them,” Slipstream intones, snuggling up to Shadow Striker without reproach.
“Yeah, and you got them both. Lucky girl.” The old mercenary fondly elbows the Seeker, who giggles huskily. “Take care of your ladies and they’ll take care of you.”
“I try. I’ll never take them for granted.”
Orion suddenly staggers to his pedes, clutching his helm, and totters for the door.
Shadow Striker sits a little straighter.
“Uh-oh.” Bumblebee frowns, concerned. “Poor guy. Been through a lot, so I guess he had to let loose and drank too much tonight.”
“Though I didn’t see him down that many cups, and for someone so big to get so drunk…” Windblade tilts her helm. “Must’ve ordered something strong. Can’t fault him for it.”
“Someone should walk him home. He’s definitely not fit to drive.” Bumblebee thus gets up out his seat. “I’ll go, make sure he gets back safely, tuck him in with a detox. You guys keep having fun without me, I won’t be gone long.”
“Alright, Bee. See you soon.”
This is not going quite according to plan, but Shadow Striker is not overly concerned. She gives Bumblebee and Orion their exit together, waits a few minutes more before dismissing herself with a stretch, gently brushing Slipstream off. “I’ll be going, then.”
“Aw, so soon?”
“Been a couple hours, girl. Flames is waiting for me.”
“Give her my best, okay.”
“’Course. You know you got hers.” Shadow Striker is sure to give Ravage a little scratch under his chin. “Love you, boy.”
Meow.
Shadow Striker then pauses, considers something, grits her sharp jaw and suddenly kisses Slipstream’s cheek.
Windblade and Chromia avert their gazes together so as not to embarrass.
“G’night, you.”
“Goodnight.”
Withdrawing with a soft huff, Shadow Striker spares the other femmes a nod each, then saunters off. When outside, she internally comms Flamewar. “He’s coming. But he’s got a tagalong.”
“Scrap. Who?”
“Bumblebee.”
“Ohhh. That complicates things, boss bot.”
“Keep low. Leave them be. Make sure it seems like you aren’t there and just watch how it plays out. We don’t wanna drag this out into something ugly, so do not engage unless you have to. I’ll meet you shortly.”
“And if this does turn ugly?”
“I’ll think up something on the fly. Just please try not to hurt Bumblebee.”
“Primus, you really had something strong. You can barely walk.”
“Uuugh. I feel most unwell, little friend. Please, help me inside.”
“Okay. We got this.”
With Bumblebee’s support and guidance, Orion lets himself into his habitation suite, located in a nicer district where security measures are somewhat lax and people feel safer on account of the low crime statistics naturally afforded to places where government spending is disproportionately generous and the police are typically more reactive so as to please the more affluent civilians, consequentially leaving the poorer districts to squalor. Orion was once a lowly dock worker, a dangerous and difficult history he still distantly recalls. As a retired archivist, he is not above such privileges as this.
Alpha Trion afforded much. Just thinking about the dead father figure is enough to give a son pause to grieve again.
Ariel, too, is distracting.
Sentinel.
Megatron.
This damned war. Their war. These old fools will devour resources, live far too long lives, and in their frailty they shall doom the future left as scraps tossed so thoughtlessly to their youth.
“Uh, Orion? You’re drifting off standing up, barely.”
“Bumblebee, forgive me, I…”
“Hey, now. You’re fine, let’s just get you to berth, I’ll whip up a detox and you can sleep it all off, though something tells me the hangover tomorrow is gonna suck.”
Orion spares them a thought, now. Bumblebee, Windblade, Hot Rod, others. Young lives ruined, pulled into his orbit. If not for the Matrix, Orion would be so lost in thought, so as to fail to sense something or someone that should not be residing with him within his home, something or someone intending him harm. “Wait.”
“Big guy?”
“Something feels wrong.”
“Orion? Do you wanna throw up?”
“Is someone there?”
No reply.
“Speak.”
It is not right. This silence lies.
“Uh.” Bumblebee turns and peers about the dark interior of the comfortable habitation suite whilst using much of his stout, short might keeping Orion upright. “Now you’re scaring me, big guy.”
“Who goes there? Reveal yourself.”
“Orion, it’s nothing, nobody’s here but us. You’re definitely having a bad reaction to the booze. What the frag is Mac putting in those things?”
“That drink. Shadow Striker.”
“Huh?”
“I fear she has done something to me. She gave me that final cup. I felt unwell halfway through it, so I simply sat, drank slowly. Damn it all. I did not wish to be wasteful or rude.”
“Orion, dude, you’re freaking me the frag out. You’re not making much sense. Please stop scaring me and come to berth.”
“Call Ariel. I need help.”
“She won’t answer me. She only answers you nowadays. Listen, I’m gonna call for a doctor, okay? So let’s sit you down and–”
Flamewar brought a comm scrambler with her, but on the off-chance that her gadgetry fails, cannot afford for them to call for help. Besides, she is not as intangible as she thought. Kinda exciting, really. She is impressed that the toxins have merely dulled the senses, not deadened them, and so she is still in some way detected. She better get involved, and quick, since this job cannot flunk. Pity about the collateral damage.
Shadow Striker will just have to be cool with it.
Though Orion senses the approach of an aggressor, not even the Matrix can see through a military-grade stealth cloak, and Bumblebee is entirely unsuspecting.
“Whoa!”
Flamewar mutters a curse, ducking low and rolling to recover. She tastes Energon on her split grimace.
Orion threw out his fist impulsively into the air, as if to punch what he cannot see. He barely misses, a madmech. Yet his paranoia proves true, for he feels his knuckles barely skim against the angles of the phantom with a shower of sparks illuminating a silhouette. Then, a splitting pain from an entirely different direction sends him to his knees, for he fails to account for a second invisible terror.
The front door was not locked in their wake and Shadow Striker has let herself in, cloaked. Yet her modified scope detects Flamewar just fine through the cloak, and she just got a punch to the face that could have killed her, had the little femme been less agile and failed to dodge the brunt of it.
“Orion?! What’s happening?!” Bumblebee stands over the crumpled mech, pushing and pulling at him. “What–?”
“Bumblebee, flee.” Orion vomits on his own lap, stooped on his palms. “Find help.”
“I won’t leave you! Hold on!” Assuming a defensive stance, Bumblebee ducks behind the couch and activates his comm link. “Scrap!” He hails an SOS to all friendly contacts at once, so someone will answer him, someone will come, but there seems to be some sort of scrambler in effect strangling his communications, because static fills his helm simply in the effort of trying to reach out to someone, anyone. And then painful darkness descends upon him, to the retches of Orion in the background, and a familiar voice much closer still.
“Sorry, honeybee.”
Notes:
*Fool's Energon isn't something I made up, but I've interpreted it more literally than canon and made it an actual poison.
Arcee was a teacher of some sort in Animated, so I figured I'd channel that here, if only for a moment. It will be relevant later on in the story, particularly in the final stretch of the last sequel.
Chapter 76
Notes:
Here's the rest of it. Shit hits the fan, again. Just loads of shit all at once, spattered everywhere. It's a mess. But Ariel gets to be a leader out of necessity and stops being a sulky glitch all on her lonesome for five minutes so as to actually participate socially in something important. Don't worry, she gets better. Then worse. A whole lot worse.
As always, thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy.
Potential trigger warnings: effects of poisoning/drugging, kidnapping and being kept in enemy custody, depictions of bodily injury and gore, extreme mental stress and emotional distress, death via explosion, hell imagery used for emotive and poetic effect.
Chapter Text
Bumblebee jerks awake, gasping in panic. “Orion!”
Orion does not answer. He is not here, in this room.
“What? Where am I? How’d I get here?”
It is an unfamiliar room, the imposing door shut, red light indicating a locking mechanism is in effect. The ceiling is high up, bearing the flimsy cover marking the sealed entrance to a ventilation shaft. Viewing ports mounted at the peak of reinforced walls, dimmed and barred, provide little outside light and no clear view. Storage crates, some empty, some aglow with Energon reserves, have been pushed aside in cumbersome stacks. A chair is propped in the centre of the scuffed metallic floor, in which a prisoner can be strapped securely in place, to be held for an indeterminate time.
Bumblebee is that prisoner. Realising the sheer extent of his predicament, the obvious answer is escape.
Orion will also have been taken somewhere. He was so sick, barely able to fend for himself. He will need help.
Bumblebee struggles in his seat, cursing under his vents. He cannot seem to break these bonds, though he tries until it hurts, optics welling as his brain module aches with anxious thoughts about every scary scene from past holovids and holocomics about the heroes being held captive by bad guys in epic narratives. Yet he is not a hero of some epic narrative, he is just a little guy, a mere scout.
Windblade is the hero. She is not here to save the day. Slipstream could be a hero. If only she were here. Hot Rod, Arcee and Grimlock are all bigger, stronger, more obviously equipped for heroism. Not a single one of them got the SOS.
Bumblebee still feels the scrambler affecting his comm link, filling his helm with static, and so he cannot call for help. He fears raising his voice, in case he draws the wrong sort of attention to himself by indicating to his captors that their captive is awake and uncooperative. He begins to spiral in short order, panting and squirming, slick with sweat, sick to his guts.
If this really is the business of Decepticons, and it must be, then Megatron will come. Despite relying on an invisible ambush, Shadow Striker’s distinct voice had betrayed her allegiance. The Functionists would not employ such a femme, nor would she be willing to work for them. After all, she would have no reason to do something like this, if not to appease a very dangerous, quite possibly senile old mech with a keen interest in Orion, or perhaps Optimus, or maybe just the Matrix itself. And the scout got in the way, an unfortunate bit of collateral damage to be summarily dealt with. Considering what has happened to Starscream, Megatron will not be inclined toward kindness.
“Honeybee my aft! I thought she liked me! Graaargh!” Fear gives way to anger, and so Bumblebee struggles harder, almost frothing at the intake, until his chair topples over and he falls with it. His helm bounces off the hard floor, leaving him dazed, disoriented. Optics squeezing shut, the whole world pins him down and he sniffles, grows very still. Crushed under the weight of the world, the magnitude of this betrayal weighs heavier still.
Nobody knows he is here. Nobody is coming to help.
“I thought she liked me.”
After some drinking and dancing, Arcee excuses herself from the booth, sequestering a cubicle within the public wash rack to herself. She does not immediately realise a friend followed her.
“Arcee?”
“Slip! Oh! Uh, hi! What’s up, girlfriend?”
“Can we talk? Just us?” Slipstream winces as she lingers closely outside the cubicle, laying a large palm on the shutter as if to reach through and touch a dear friend. “Please?”
“Sure! What do you wanna talk about?”
“What happened back at the school.”
“I did say I really don’t wanna bring that up again, sweet Spark, so… if you don’t mind… I’d like us to drop it forever. Okay?”
The Seeker lowers her gaze to the floor. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry.”
After some shuffling, indicating that Arcee is likely attempting to compose herself, the cubicle sides open. It is very obvious that the teacher – or rather, former teacher – has been crying.
It breaks Slipstream’s Spark.
“The school fired me.”
“Oh, Arcee.”
“I deserve it.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I got stupid, I didn’t think things through, I just went for it like I always do. I was so excited to finally get back to teaching, I had such an awesome lesson planned, and I knew the kids would love you. But there’s a system to doing this sorta thing. I mentioned briefly I’d bring two fliers on campus, and the school was okay with that, but I didn’t tell my boss you’re…”
“…A Seeker.”
“But it’s not your fault. I should’ve taken responsibility. For Primus’ sake, as their teacher, I really should’ve known better. This is all on me.”
“It wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t been there, if I wasn’t a damned Seeker. Windblade should’ve gone without me, the kids loved her too and the school would’ve been honoured to host a Cityspeaker.”
“Okay, sure, but she only did me that favour before because you pulled through for me first. Don’t blame yourself for what happened, okay? You were so good with those kids. They loved you. I really, really appreciate that you went outta your way to spend time with them.”
Slipstream opens her big strong arms with the most adorable trembling of her bottom derma, indicating that she could burst into tears any moment.
“Who knows?” Arcee sighs, stepping into the hug with a nuzzle. “Maybe someday soon, we’ll have a batch of fresh new Seekers who chose that shape for themselves by scanning a Seeker’s alt-mode, rather than being made into it like you were. Wouldn’t you like that, inspiring a little free will?”
“I’d love that, Arcee, and I’d have you to thank for it.”
“Then let’s try to have hope.”
A kiss to the cheek makes the Seeker flush, as she is still a bit shy with most femmes, though not nearly as timid as she used to be.
“But I’m still gonna get hammered and be a mess tonight.” The former teacher winks tearfully. “So be patient with me and just love me like I am.”
“Of course, Arcee. I do love you very much.”
“I know. Love you too, you big, beautiful girl.”
Smiling shyly, Slipstream bends her neck in that endearingly birdlike way so typical of fliers, resting her helm against Arcee’s, wings fluttering pleasantly as a slender servo reaches upward to gently massage the audial casing, before sweeping down that muscular neck, then up and under the angular jawline, shy smile cradled within a palm, dainty thumb plucking at the chin.
“Pretty bird.”
That makes the Seeker coo.
“Aw, that’s such a pretty bird.” The terrestrial giggles. “Usually, this sort of praise is dispensed on Windblade. She likes to act to above it, but you’ve seen her melt.”
“She does enjoy being told she’s a pretty bird.”
“You like that, too?”
“Mmhm.”
“Who’s a pretty bird?”
The wash rack resonates with metallic cooing, a very instinctual sound.
A stranger walks in, sees this, and immediately walks out again.
The femmes share a giggle.
“We’re being weird, aren’t we?”
“Old mech?”
Silence.
Ariel was not gone as long tonight. She returns to an empty home. Everything is perfectly in order, furnishings and features familiarly tidy, except that every room she checks is devoid of Orion.
Some would not worry, as a grown mech may roam where he pleases, but he is known to her, he is her best friend. This is rather unlike him, to be out at Maccadam’s past a certain hour of night. At the very least he would text her so as to assuage her concerns with messages littered by expressive emoticons, as is his endearing style of texting. It irritated Sentinel endlessly in the group chat, though he has not been heard from since.
“Answer me, old mech. C’mon.” Huffing with impatience, Ariel tries to hail Orion via his comm link and is met with no reply. “Dammit, don’t make me worry. Please.” Her concern sinks deep in her Spark. She tries again, and again, and again. Even her texts cannot go through. Exhausted and under enough stress already, she falls into her favourite armchair and stares at the carpet, just needing a moment to think. It takes her a moment to process the anomaly. Her optics widen in dawning horror. “Oh, Primus.”
Droplets of spilled inner Energon, soaked into the fibres, indicate someone has recently bled here. Some paces past the blood, there is a puddle of vomit.
“No, no, no!”
The impression of a large pede indicates that she herself stepped in it.
“I’m fine, boss bot. ’Course, you can keep fussing over me if you wanna. I like the attention.”
“Shuddup. He damn near took your helm off.”
“I dodged the brunt of it. Barely.”
“Old fragger is fast, too fast.”
“Matrix stuff, I guess.”
“Performance enhancement is one thing.” Shadow Striker tenderly cleans the cut in Flamewar’s jaw, marring her dermas in blood, seeped between fangs that smile cutely. “But he’s so different now. That Matrix made a new mech outta him.”
“Damn straight. Bigger, better, and bit of a baddie for an old guy. I mean, if he wanted to, I would. Would you?”
The mercenary sighs patiently, poised with a rag seeped in Energon.
The bike blinks her optics cutely, waiting in expectation for a reply.
“Would.”
“Nice.”
“What concerns me is that he punched you like a pro and somehow detected you through your cloak. You didn’t do anything to give yourself away, so that means his perception is also enhanced, on top of his reflexes, granting him inherent combat abilities.”
“We’ve seen him tear through Decepticons already, boss bot. Soundwave recorded everything for study.”
“Point is, who knows what Optimus Prime could do, if given time to figure it out for himself. If we base it on legends of the other Primes, we Decepticons are totally screwed.”
“Megatron can’t afford that. Guess tonight’s gonna be a finisher, then.”
“As if. Old bastard’s far too sentimental. He could never kill–”
“Sir,” a Seeker interrupts meekly, “he’s waking up.”
“Scrap. Sooner than I’d like. Fine, I’ll attend to the Prime.” Shadow Striker grunts, straightening herself with a nod. “Make sure he feels comfy and welcomed. I’ll be there in a second.”
“Yes, Sir.” The Seeker shuffles out, feeling like he intruded on an intimate moment just now. “Awkward…”
“Boss bot, you’re doing that thing with your face.”
“Uh, yeah.” Shadow Striker’s expression is indeed crooked with discomfort. “Flames, would you… Y’know. Do me a favour?”
“Sure, boss bot.” Flamewar looks sympathetic, even kind, with a bloody chin and manic optics. “I’ll go check in on Bumbles for ya, make sure he’s doing okay.”
“Thank you. You’re a good girl, Flames. My good girl.”
“For life.”
The femmes lovingly bump fists, grazing their knuckles together.
“But we gotta figure out what to do with Bumbles before Megatron gets here. We can’t delay calling him for much longer or something might go wrong and it could compromise the mission, which’d suck for us since our lives are literally at stake.”
“I know, I know, just…”
“Hey, it’s not all bad. We got a little time. We’ll figure something out. Don’t mention Bumbles when you do call Megatron, just make a big deal outta capturing Prime. That’ll sell it. Meantime, we stash Bumbles some place safe, safer than that little storage room anyway.”
“It means a lot to me, that you’re so cool about saving his aft, even at some personal inconvenience, if not outright risk.”
“You like the little guy, I like you. Simple as.”
“Bee’s been gone a while.” One of the most sober of the friends tonight, and therefore the designated responsible friend, Windblade rises from her seat, whilst taking her drink with her. “I’m gonna step out for a second and call him. He’s not answering my texts.”
“He might’ve got distracted taking care of Orion, you know what they’re like together,” Hot Rod supplies with a soft smile. “They’re so cute.”
She smiles too, even as she departs, leaving her tipsy friends at the booth. The smile fades once she steps outside, where it is quiet enough to link comms.
Bumblebee does not answer.
Orion does not answer.
This does not have to spell disaster, of course, but a best friend does worry.
After trying and failing a few times, Windblade sighs and tries a contact she is sure will not answer her. She does not begrudge the distance, the silence.
People mourn differently. Some self-isolate.
So it is quite the shock when Ariel actually answers, and after the first chime, too.
“Oh!” Windblade perks, pleased. “Hey, nice to-” This pleasure abruptly evaporates, optics widening as she falls back against a wall, listening to the frantic femme on the other side.
“Whoops.”
Bumblebee cringes as Flamewar approaches him, chair overturned, helm at rest on the unforgiving floor. From down here, he can see the wicked heel struts that could definitely do some damage if she were to feel so inclined. “Don’t hurt me.”
“I’m not gonna hurt you.”
“Please.”
“Relax, Bumbles.”
He whimpers as she kneels, stroking his aching helm with her claws.
“Shh, shh, shh.”
“Let me go.”
“I can’t do that. You’d wanna rescue your friend, or you’d call for help, and then all your other friends would bust in for the rescue. We couldn’t risk leaving you back at the habsuite. Sorry, short king, but you’re gonna stay here for a little while, just until we can find a safe spot to keep you where Megatron won’t think to look. I mean, maybe he won’t notice you’re stored back here, but it’s a liability. He could ask questions about our loyalties, for sparing you.”
“Wait. Sparing me?” This makes the scout perk. “You’re hiding me from Megatron? Keeping me safe?”
“Yeah. He’s gone a little, uh… intense, lately.” The bike gestures at her own helm, drawing a loopy circle with a claw, indicating madness. “Brilliant mech, got the right goal in sight, but definitely going through it right now. He might kill you. Probably would, considering Starscream.”
“Oh, frag me.”
“Hey, chill. Boss bot wants you alive and I want boss bot happy, so that means you gotta survive. ’Sides, you’re a pal of Slippy’s and I love that girl, so consider me extra invested in your continued survival, little guy.”
“Then… I’m not in danger?”
“Not from me and boss bot, no. Plus those two hunky Seeker brothers. They work for us and we told those boys not to rough you up.”
“Then… if Megatron doesn’t find me and, uh… take me offline…” Bumblebee shudders as a clawed thumb brushes over his cheek. “You’ll let me go?”
“Yup.”
“Oh, thank the Primes.”
“Here, lemme help you up.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.” Flamewar hefts up the chair and with it the small mech, not much taller than she is, albeit a lot stockier compared to her curvaceous shape. “There, that’s better, eh.”
“Much. Um, could I ask for you to take off the cuffs?”
“Wish I could, Bumbles, but you might try to rescue your pal, like I said, and we can’t afford that.”
“Don’t give Orion to Megatron. I beg you, please. Let us go.”
“No can do. That’d get boss bot and I killed. Tough spot we’re in, see.”
“No way.” The scout looks horrified. “You can’t seriously stick around the Decepticons after that.”
“Not a lotta options.” The bike shrugs, scratching her scuffed cheek. “Can’t get work, can’t hide out in the colonies forever, can’t stay here unaffiliated since we’d just be sitting cyberducks, so–”
“Join us! We can protect you! We’re not even allied with the Functionists any more, so if you don’t roll with those guys, that’s fine, neither do we!”
“Yeah, but you got cops on your team.”
“It’s not like we work closely together!”
“Still, that’s gross. It implicates.”
“Ugh. Yeah. I don’t like it either.”
Flamewar tilts her helm sharply to the left, until her neck cricks and she pulls a face.
“Sorry for, uh, the punch. Orion was scared and sick.”
“Nah, no sweat. I don’t hold a grudge for it. It’s cool.”
“Did Shadow Striker really poison him?”
“Technically, it was my idea, my poison.”
Bumblebee scowls now. “Well, you’re kinda horrible for doing that.”
“It won’t kill him. Probably.”
“Don’t even, dude. Please.”
“Anyway, you thirsty? Got loads of spare Energon in here.”
“I won’t accept anything from you.” The scout upturns his olfactory sensor in disgust.
“Relax.” The bike holds up her palms peaceably. “Boss bot won’t lemme poison you. How would I explain that to Slippy? You can have a little Energon, it’s totes safe.”
“No, thanks.”
“Suit yourself.”
Bumblebee shivers, then remembers the vent above his helm, casting airflow. He glances at the crates, their sharp corners. He tugs on his binds and realises these are not actual stasis cuffs, but something more akin to a firm, sturdy rubber, far more durable than the type used in his own construction, designed for much heavier use and evidently scrounged up in a hurry and hastily applied to keep him restrained for a short while. The lack of stasis cuffs tells him that the femmes truly do not mean to make him uncomfortable with total paralysis or bring him to any actual harm, just as they never intended to involve him at all. They have afforded their prisoner too much leeway in some twisted attempt at showing him kindness. He can exploit that.
“Chilly?”
“Stressed.”
“I’ll go see if I can scrounge up a tarp or something. Makeshift blanket for the time being.” Flamewar sighs, turns, and lets herself out. “Sit tight.”
“Sure thing,” the scout mutters. “Not like I can do much else. But a blanket would be nice. Thanks.”
The bike smiles at him.
“What.”
“She’s worried you won’t like her after all this is over and we let you go.”
How can one even reply to that?
“Just keep that in mind. You’re right to be mad, but don’t forget it.”
What could one possibly say?
“See you, Bumbles.”
Bumblebee stares after Flamewar, until she is gone.
The door reseals, locked.
“What do we do?”
The friends have gathered together in one place, tearing the habitation suite apart for clues. Orion and Bumblebee remain unreachable, their location unaccounted for.
Ariel grits her jaw when everyone looks to her for leadership.
The Seeker brothers stand guard, doing their best to appear imposing, although they are actually quite bored and they hate each other.
After taking a considerable amount of time simply standing in still silence, admiring her prisoner with a wicked glint to her scope, narrowed, Shadow Striker finally speaks. “Well, look at you! Looking good in bondage, big boy.”
Orion swallows thickly, blinking blearily. He wants to sleep.
“You’re supposed to be the Thirteenth Prime reincarnate, since you got to be the bearer of the Matrix and all, like the old stories said would happen. A real, living Prime, all trussed up in chains.”
He squirms feebly against his shackles, his huge, handsome body left lethargic and aching, drool slick on his chin, his chest.
“Optimus fragging Prime. When all hope was lost, you inspired new hope, fortified your allies, turned the tide of combat. Decepticons fled from you in terror, they murmur your new name in awe. Megatron is losing his mind over you, hence this job. But despite all that?” Shadow Striker huffs, setting her callused palms on her shapely hips. “For all they say about you, I thought you’d be more of a challenge.”
“…What… is… this…?” Orion groans, glossa thick and sluggish, his aching helm hung heavily on his slack neck, drooling over himself from a slack jaw. Dimly he realises he is suspended against a metallic slab by thickset chains that bind his arms, torso and thighs, rattling as he feebly struggles. He gags on air, nauseous and sore from his very core. “…Where… am… I…?” He can barely speak. Barely think.
“We did a real number on you.”
“…Help… me…”
“That’s on account of the poison. We were pretty gentle besides.”
“…Please… I… feel… sick…”
“Relax. It won’t kill you, or it shouldn’t. I assume it’ll just debilitate you for a few hours, maybe even a couple days. Uh, assuming it wears off. I’m not actually the expert in this field, but Flamewar sure knows her craft.”
He sobs wetly.
“Easy, now. You get to live, for now, at least. I won’t gut you, even if that’d be the smart thing to do. Primus knows it would make things simpler for me, but alas, I do what pays.”
He pants, sweat dripping from his bowed helm, joints creaking with the simple strain of existing in such a large, heavy, enfeebled form. His limbs tremble as he struggles pathetically, then promptly gives up.
“Megatron wants you alive. I suspect he’ll give some grandiose speech.” Shadow Striker shrugs, smirking as her muscular arms shift with utmost casual ease, folded against her ample bosom. “If it were up to me…”
The Prime flinches as the mercenary suddenly points a digit at his Spark, the Matrix that devours him from the inside, and mimics pulling the trigger of a gun.
“I’d finish you right now.” She looks so pleased with herself as she says that.
The Seeker brothers feel a collective chill. Their boss is really scary. Best not tick her off.
“…Shadow… Striker…”
The old mercenary huffs softly when the Prime can manage no more, turning from him dismissively. She has had her time to gloat upon a pinnacle moment of her long career. It is finally time to call it in. Bumblebee is hidden and safe, for now, but she cannot stall for long. She has a job to do. She holds up a forearm and brings up the hard-light holographic interface - this encrypted line does not rely on the machinery and software comprising of a comm link and instead channels through an alternative frequency, thus allowing for a brief message to be sent and received in an alternative format, bypassing the scrambler. She makes a mental note to compliment her best friend later for being such a fine communications specialist and spy, with all the nifty gadgetry and upgrades that entails.
Energon crates glow ethereal blue all around them.
“Megatron, Prime is secured.”
Twisted awkwardly upon his seat to provide better access to his back, Bumblebee winces whilst cutting his wrists bloody and raw in the effort of dragging the rubbery bindings back and forth against the corner of a crate, slicing through messily. He already had an ordeal of shuffling his chair across the small storage room without drawing unwanted attention to himself, realising he is locked away in one of many such rooms within what must be a compound of warehouses and sheds, set apart from the civilian homes for convenience, security, and discretion. The soreness and stress of it all combined makes him want to cry.
Decepticons like to secure buildings such as these, which means at least a few cursory guards may be on patrol at this late hour.
The escapee must be quick, quiet, careful.
Orion needs his brave little scout.
“Keep him alive. I have a few words for him.”
Shadow Striker dismisses Megatron’s leering face with a scoff, then turns back. “I told you.”
Orion is unresponsive.
“You two keep an optic on him. I’ll secure the perimeter.”
And go find Flamewar for a shared cy-gar under the stars, just to celebrate. She did a good job tonight and she deserves something nice.
The thought perks the old mercenary considerably as she confidently saunters out to meet with the bike, still patrolling outside, still in search of a blanket or something that would do.
Thus the Seeker brothers are left to their own devices, giving each other an idiotic look with the Prime suspended in their midst.
“Uuugh. I don’t even like being left alone in here with him,” grumbles one Seeker.
“I don’t like being left alone in here with you,” answers the other, pointing at his sibling.
Neither Seeker notices Bumblebee - his small frame stealthy and swift within the ventilation shaft, removing the vent cover and setting it carefully aside before dropping down from the opening in the vent above, optics aflame and stinger thrust like an assassin’s blade - until it is too late.
Within the hour, a massive search effort is launched.
Windblade and Slipstream scour the sky, searching for any sign from above.
Hot Rod, Chromia and Arcee scour the streets, searching for any sign from below.
Grimlock interviews passers-by and questions persons of interest, relaying strange clues from the vaguely prophetic Maccadam that must be deciphered to make much sense at all, the quirky old mech widely considered a bit crazy in a cute way in the best of times, frustrating at the worst of times.
Wheeljack is unable to pinpoint Bumblebee or Orion’s signals to determine their current location, which only implies bad things.
The police lend units to the search, including the likes of Prowl and his favourite, Strongarm.
Ariel contributes to the search efforts whilst coordinating the friends as a sort of team leader, her alt-mode a large, rugged vehicle capable of tackling all manner of terrain, allowing her to expand her search where the other terrestrials would struggle. As the search goes on, she notes how frightened the youngsters become, and in turn drives herself harder to be the fearless for them.
The smoke break is much-needed. For a while, nothing is said. The cy-gar is passed back and forth.
“Is he okay?”
“As okay as can be expected.”
Shadow Striker sighs as she passes the cy-gar over to her companion, at once relieved and anxious, a strange combination especially coming from her. “Ugh, frag me sideways.”
“He knows we don’t wanna hurt him.” Flamewar offers a fanged smile, blowing silvery smoke after a deep drag. “So there’s that.” She passes the cy-gar back, then resumes rummaging about in the open shed. She finds netting of some sort, sniffs it, and recoils. “Eew! That won’t work. That smells like aft.”
“Thanks, girl. You’re the best.”
“Aw, boss bot, anything for you.”
“I’ll take over your patrol for a couple minutes, run a more thorough perimeter check while you look for something suitable to keep him warm. That western wall is a bit rundown, best to check it over once more, just in case. Pretty sure I saw an opening.” The mercenary kisses the bike atop her sweaty helm. It comes so very naturally by now. “And remind me to buy you a bottle of high-grade for being the best, just for me.”
“You don’t have to reward me for good behaviour, you know. Pleasing you is my reward. I’m kinda like a cyberdog in that way.”
“My little glitch.”
“Absolutely. Buuut since you offered, I’ll never turn down a bottle of good booze.”
“Attagirl. Go on with your bad self.”
Flamewar salutes, then struts off, her shapely aft swaying on sturdy legs as she wanders over to the lockers mounted to the wall to rummage about inside, scarred black thighs lithely armoured and attractively muscular for a bike, speckled with dust. “Oh, cool, nothing useful.”
Shadow Striker feels the ache in her Spark and ignores it, or tries to. “Hey.”
“Yeah?”
“I like you a lot, Flames.”
“I like you too, boss bot.”
“I like you too much.”
“That’s cool with me.”
“You’re doing this for me, not Megatron. Showing Bumblebee kindness isn’t something you do out of the goodness of your Spark. You do it just because I ask you to.”
“And I do it for Slippy.”
“Yeah. You’re a halfway decent friend.” The mercenary says it all through the cy-gar propped between her smiling dentas, soft and sad. “That means everything to me.” She then turns and strolls off, intending to ensure the perimeter is secure. “I’ll never forget it.”
The bike pauses, turns to look back over her pauldron, sighs.
Those two Seekers will keep a suitable optic on Prime without too much supervision. With Orion bound in chains and heavily intoxicated, who could frag up such a simple job?
“The cops are involved,” Soundwave reports, leaving Soundblaster to his nap at the other end of their shared communications centre, snoring musically in the background. Tasks between them are not delegated fairly, nor are they considered equals. “I advise continued caution and stealth.”
“Bah! First, they take from me what is rightfully mine, then deny a fair trade,” Megatron rumbles back, his words hot with wrath. “And now, they dare to delay me.”
“Shadow Striker has the whole thing under control, darling,” Empress intones back, sighing. “Let’s not rush for no reason and risk a nasty altercation. We’ll get there when we get there and without a fuss.”
“I grow impatient. The Prime must be mine.”
“And you’ll have him, my dear.”
Recovering from the shocking effects of being stung, the Seeker has enough sense to stumble over to the panic button mounted upon the wall as a standard workplace safety feature, slamming a fist against it. With the necessity of comm scramblers in effect dulling most communications, he was instructed to hit the button as a last resort, if absolutely necessary, because the noise will draw attention to this operation.
It will also alert Shadow Striker and Flamewar.
“Scrap!” Bumblebee scrambles to somehow break Orion’s chains as an alarm blares. “No, no, no!” He only has moments to spare.
“…Bumble…bee…?”
“Yeah, I’m here, big guy!”
“…So… weak…”
“I gotcha! Just gimme a sec! Dammit, what do I do, what do I–”
Orion lifts his helm feebly and intones in warning, “… Shadow… Striker…”
A chill descends upon Bumblebee, turning rigidly in place before the platform and Orion mounted to it, to stare at the large, ominous silhouette of a familiar femme barring the only entrance and exit.
Shadow Striker scowls. It is the most terrifying expression.
“Ohhh, frag me.”
Flamewar appears close beside, claws keen, fangs bared.
“Ohhh, frag me!”
“Stand down, honeybee. Nobody has to get hurt.”
“We’re cool, Bumbles, if you are.”
“N-no! You can’t have him! I won’t let you!”
Shadow Striker turns to Flamewar. Together, they exchange a nod, then part ways, approaching from different angles, honed in on the same target.
“Stay back!” Young, generally inexperienced though dangerous and quite capable, Bumblebee presents his glowing, hissing stinger and waves it threateningly back and forth, as if scaring off wild animals. “Don’t come any closer! Don’t touch me!”
Shadow Striker advances with muscular confidence to slam her fist against the button, cutting off the shrill alarm.
Flamewar’s optics follow the back and forth motions of the stinger as she skulks closer, closer, closer.
“Sorry, Sir.”
“It’s fine. Take care of him. I got this.”
The Seeker stumbles for his brother, collapsed and groaning, attending to him.
Shadow Striker sighs, reaches into her kit, and withdraws a set of twin knives with a skilled flourish. “Last chance, Bumblebee. Stand down and step aside.”
“We don’t wanna hurt ya,” Flamewar adds in a low, calm undertone that has a creepy effect rather than a comforting one. “We’ll let you go unharmed, soon as Prime’s dealt with however Megatron wants.”
“This is wrong! You can’t do this!”
“We don’t do it ’cause we want to, Bumbles. Our lives are on the line.”
“You can help me! We could be a team! Join us and stop him from hurting anyone else!”
“Boss bot, you interested?”
Bumblebee has had his optics on Flamewar a moment too long, assuming her to be the more immediate threat. A critical miscalculation for solitary prey to make, when dealing with a pack of ambush predators.
“No,” Shadow Striker mutters, right against his neck. She closed the gap in a second.
Orion tries to break free with renewed vigour as Bumblebee yelps. It is not enough.
Shadow Striker is a lot bigger and heavier, despite her slender waistline and overall sleek design. She is also stronger, with performance enhancements built into the way she moves and fights, modified to excel. Older, more experienced, trained in battle and seasoned as a veteran soldier of a past war, the match-up is hardly equal. She overpowers Bumblebee with ease, pinning him to the floor beneath her straddling thighs, a blade held to his throat. Even now, she shows restraint.
“Please…” He squirms beneath her, then whines as the searing Energon blade nicks a fine, bloody groove in his fuel cable, fortunately only a minor cut in a minor line, but the lethal threat is implicit as heat trickles down his throat. The wound partially cauterises, painfully and only barely stilling the flow in bubbling rubber. This is not intended to kill, only to intimidate.
“Bumblebee, listen to me.”
His big blue optics stare up at his assailant with betrayal more than fear or pain.
“Here’s what’s gonna happen.” She speaks in a very assertive manner, raising a knife above his Spark chamber as if about to ritualistically sacrifice him, but he dares not struggle with another knife held to his neck. “You’re gonna force your systems to shut down by overriding your adrenaline protocols. Understood? Then you’ll pass out and I’ll secure you somewhere safe, somewhere hidden, so Megatron won’t even know about you.”
“It’s for your own good, Bumbles.”
“Exactly. You don’t wanna be out in the open like this, in sight, when Megatron gets here. When he’s done with Prime, I’ll come for back you and let you go free. But if you fight me on this, remember that I’ll fight back. It’s a fight you won’t win and I can’t promise not to maim, or outright kill you.”
“Same here.” Flamewar checks Orion’s chains, ensuring they still hold.
Bumblebee flinches as Shadow Striker leans slowly forward, bringing her face close above his own.
“I can only promise to fight for my life, since that’s what I got at stake here, and I’ll fight for Flamewar’s life just as viciously, plus she’s got my back all the same. So. Think about this. Between the two of us, you stand zero chance, boy.”
“I thought you were my friends.”
“Don’t make us hurt you.”
“I thought…”
“He’s breaking my Spark, boss bot.”
The old mercenary sighs, seated intimately atop the scout, scope fixed on him as she nods grimly up at the bike. “Get me some spare chain. We’ll tie him up properly this time, though it will be far less comfortable for him. No more playing nice. We get this done and we do it right.”
“Should have some spooled in the back. Be right back.”
“Thanks, toots. Don’t forget the cutter.”
Flamewar lopes off for a neighbouring storage shed, leaving the Seeker brothers to tend to each other’s wounds, groaning together in the warehouse.
Shadow Striker refocuses entirely on Bumblebee, glaring down at him from her sensual seat over his middle, thighs clenched tightly about his sides. “I hope we can, uh…”
He cringes as she attempts a smile.
“I hope we can put this behind us when it’s all over, honeybee. No hard feelings on my end.”
“We’re done.”
Her smile fades.
He looks away.
“C’mon, now. I’m just doing my job, sparing my life, Flamewar’s life. Your life.”
“Yeah. At the cost of Orion’s life.”
“His life doesn’t exceed ours in value. We just gotta do what we gotta do. Nothing personal. You got in the way, or you wouldn’t even be here right now.”
“But I am here. And it’s very personal.”
The mercenary’s perpetual scowl is softer than usual, sadder than usual. “I do regret this. Hurting you was never my goal tonight.”
“How do you wanna explain all that to Slip, huh?”
“I don’t know what I’ll tell her.”
“Well, could you do me a favour and please get that knife off my neck?” grumbles the scout, sniffing wetly, helm turned aside to glare tearfully anywhere else. “It really, really hurts.”
Shadow Striker sighs. “Behave, okay.”
“What exactly am I gonna do?” Bumblebee huffs. “You got me beat. I’m just a little guy.”
“Don’t disparage yourself. You escaped, disabled two Seeker units by yourself, almost set the Prime free. You’re a whole lot more than you think of yourself, Bumblebee.” The knife withdraws as the mercenary replaces the blade with her curled digit, gently hooked under the scout’s chin to turn his helm so they face each other closely.
His Spark skips a beat when she smirks.
“Bumblebee. The brave little scout.”
Perhaps the words seem goading, however sincerely intended they may have been, for he narrows his optics with newfound determination. “Yeah. That’s what they call me.”
This is cute, to her. She is about to speak again, perhaps to flirt or even say something fond, when he sits up suddenly and stabs her in the side with his still ejected stinger, injecting a potent dose of electrical charge into her bulk without shocking himself, as he is immune to his own sting. She jerks in place, gurgling with charge atop his lap, and goes entirely rigid, unable to move more than her wide, disbelieving optic and quivering scope.
He throws her off of himself with some struggle and wrestles her rigid digits for one of her twin knives, cutting himself in the process of freeing he blade and stealing it for himself. While she spasms on the floor, he hurries to the platform. “Orion!”
“…I… hear… you…”
“I’ll get you out, hold on!”
Orion feebly smiles, for he feels so proud of his brave little scout. “…Thank… you…”
Bumblebee crudely and clumsily attacks the chains with an unfamiliar weapon, focused on the padlocks binding them together. The heavy restrains are slashed, the knife of a military-grade, lethal concentration of weaponised Energon, quite capable of severing this heavy metal.
The stinger wears off and Shadow Striker snarls, regaining her full faculties with fury for being so ashamed. She is a mean, aggressive old thing, when the civilised veneer is rubbed away. She rushes herself to her pedes and rises as the padlocks fall and chain droops away.
“I gotcha, big guy!” Bumblebee tosses the knife away and does his utmost to scoop up Orion as he slides free, stumbling together. “Easy there, Optimus.” The name just slips out, tenderly. “I got you.”
Shadow Striker is incensed as she stoops, retrieving her fallen knife, clutching the hilt in her fist and wiping a strand of drool off her chin with her knuckles. She has been made a fool of, humiliated, and her quarry is escaping. She never fails a job. She does not want to die. She does not want Flamewar to die.
“Ooomph. Might need… a little help.” Bumblebee wincingly hooks a huge arm over his pauldrons and helps Orion limp for the exit, somewhat dragging the heavy mech along. “You’re a… big bot!”
“…Bumble…bee…” Orion turns his helm, peering foggily, optics narrowed. “…Shadow… Striker…” A warning, barely uttered in time. A reminder of the present threat, no longer neutralised.
Shadow Striker lunges, roaring.
Bumblebee has little option but to drop Orion and turn to face the threat, sidestepping to narrowly dodge the slashing arc of a knife as it barely skims his cheek, slicing a bloody line across.
“Bumblebee!”
“Aaah!”
The mercenary grits her dentas in a sort of sick grin, a part of her delighted to see his terror as she comes at him again, and again, taking almost playful swipes with her blades at his face, neck, breast.
“What the frag!” The scout is quick, agile, and small, allowing him to escape with criss-crossing cuts for his trouble, none of which will kill, all of which leave him wounded, leaking a trail of slippery Energon on the floor as he backs away, dodging the killing brunt of every stroke but unable to evade getting hurt. “You said you wanted me alive!”
“Sure I do! So survive!”
“Then stop tryna kill me!”
“I also wanna survive! Megatron wants Prime, I wanna live!”
“Then let’s figure out another way! Together! We can talk about it!”
“No time for talk, honeybee! I gave you a chance to surrender, but you’re wrecking everything!”
The Seeker brothers scramble away, cowardly, but they dare not flee from their station as desertion is death to the Decepticons, clinging to each other and witnessing this battle from a safe enough distance.
“I made you mad! I get that! You wanna save yourself and Flamewar, I wanna save me and Orion! Nobody’s the bad guy here, but Megatron! Help me stop him!” That said, Bumblebee manages to land a kick to Shadow Striker’s belly, throwing her back against the platform. “Uh-oh.”
“Raaargh!” She clearly does not approaciate that, especially when a length of severed chain falls from the shackle and lands on her helm, forcing her to buckle her pauldrons under the dropped weight. She is briefly immobilised, losing grip on her knives and clawing at the chains heavy around her neck
“Calm your aft down! Okay! We can still be fair to each other! We can work this out! It doesn’t have to end badly for us, I promise!” He still tries to appeal to her better nature, palms splayed to show he means no harm..
“You can’t promise me anything!” she spits through a horrific grimace, wrestling the severed chain off her neck and pauldrons like a dead serpent. “Your side keeps losing! The Decepticons are gonna be the only way, soon as Megatron takes out your Prime! There’ll be nothing left but this!” The mercenary slams a fist to her Deceptibrand, which evidently still hurts her, as she flinches. “It damned me, don’t you geddit? I got nowhere else to go, except places where I can hide for a little while, until the Decepticons eventually find me or flush me out! No more career prospects, and if I fail this job, I die!”
The scout feels so monumentally sorry for her, just then.
“We’re done, that’s what you said!”
“I still wanna save your life, dude.”
“Then give me the Prime!”
“I’m sorry. I can’t. I won’t.”
“For my life, for Flamewar’s…”
“Please.”
There is a flicker of regret in the predator’s play and an ember of disappointment in the strive to survive. Shadow Striker cleaves a complex figure of a femme torn between wanting to win, wanting to live, and wanting to love someone she should never have grown to like so sincerely all at once, as she draws her machete and lunges, taking a running leap for a downward slash. Best get it over with quick and clean, even as her guttural roar indicates only gluttony of combat protocols empowering wounded pride laced with adrenaline protocols burning under emotional and mental duress despite the professionalism. A monster awakened from a deep, cold, calculated sleep.
Bumblebee raises his arms and stumbles back. This is it, he thinks. It is over.
Orion lumbers forward on buckling knees and loose ankle joins, using his great weight to throw himself in the vague direction of his swimming vision, and in doing so he brings his fist before himself and clumsily swats the air with as much might as he can muster, but it is not his enfeebled reserve of strength that does it. It is momentum from mass in barely controllable motion. One of his arms is as thick as a torso on a well-built frame.
Shadow Striker is slapped aside and thrown against an Energon crate, cracking the crystalline casing and spilling its contents over her. She sputters and chokes, scrambling to sit up, slipping and sliding and shrieking her increasingly incomprehensible volatility.
Bumblebee and Orion come together, almost hugging each other as they opt to flee while they have the chance.
The machete sizzles in a pool of Energon, catches alight, spreads fire from a volatile reaction between cool consumer-grade fuel and weaponised fuel, highly flammable and explosive.
The Seeker brothers, despite being quite stupid, are the first to collectively realise what is about to happen. They stumble over each other in their haste to escape, intending to leave their boss behind, but they are not fast enough to evade the chain reaction of Energon crates bursting within this enclosed space.
Over in the neighbouring storage shed, Flamewar is buried in odds and ends, a spool of chains nestled among the rest of the junk to be kept out of the way. “Ugh, I should’ve called over one of those Seekers. This scrap’s heavy enough for little ol' me by myself.” She negotiates a length of thick chain from the spool. “Where’s that laser cutter? Dammit. I had it right - ah-ha! There it is.” She plucks up the tool, turns a dial, and adjusts the precise Energon flame for maximum cutting precision, then sets to work slicing through chain. She hums whilst she works. She intends to measure a length of chain, cut it to size, and bring back the more manageable segment to restrain Bumblebee. “He’s a little guy, not much bigger than me even. That oughta do it.” The severed chain flops to the floor and she pauses to double-check her work, nodding approvingly. “Yup. Shouldn’t need much more than–” Rising from the muffling crates and fixtures, pulling on chain and stepping out of the busy shelter and out into the night air, she now hears troubling sounds coming from the neighbouring warehouse.
Dull roars, yelling, something shattering in a cacophony.
“Oh, that’s not good.” She drops the chain and begins to sprint. “Boss bot?!”
There is a deafening boom, consuming a piercing scream.
Optics wide and wild, her brain module processes what has just happened, vents whistling with every frantic step. She can smell the molten Energon in the air, she can feel the temperature change, and she sees the light. “Boss bot!”
The figures of Bumblebee and Orion limp out, but Shadow Striker and her Seeker guards do not.
Flamewar does not even try to stop the escapees, as her priority has changed. She shoves past Bumblebee and Orion, throwing herself at the inferno. “BOSS BOT!”
The scout tries to grab the bike in passing, to spare her from the explosion, but she slips free and he must keep going, for the Prime’s sake.
A cascade of light and smoke and fire floods from the warehouse, consuming all in its path. Consuming all within the warehouse. The wave of sheer force cannot be overcome, it must be outrun.
Flamewar rushes to meet it, insane. She does not flee for her life. No. She flees for Shadow Striker, to somehow save her from destruction. Self-preservation entirely forgotten, the bike only cares for the mercenary, lost to the churning inferno.
Bumblebee cries out for them both, dragging Orion away in tears.
The explosion swells, growing on the fuel of bursting Energon crates, until it comes for Flamewar too.
She screams. Everything hurts in the heat. She is forced to close her optics, arms raised before her seared face. The force of it all throws her off her pedes like a carelessly tossed toy, screaming, and slams her against the farthest wall of the storage unit so hard, she ends up cleaving a dent in the metal. Something snaps within her with a shudder of agony as she slides down and collapses to the burning floor in a broken heap.
The Pits, here to claim two wayward souls.
“B-boss… bot…” A wet, ragged cough.
There is no answer.
Some paces away from the ordeal, Orion collapses.
“No, no, no!” Bumblebee collapses too, for he has exhausted his strength. “We have to go back for them, they… Oh, Primus… Oh, no…”
The comm scrambler is disabled in the fire, allowing for an SOS to finally be sent. The alarm is automatically triggered within the smouldering warehouse, blaring mournfully for help. All too little, too late.
Kneeling beside the Prime, the scout covers his face, staring at the horror through the gaps of his encaging digits.
Smoke rises high into the starry night sky, visible for miles around. Help will come, but so will danger.
Bumblebee must arise, before Megatron arrives. There is no time to mourn. Yet how can one refuse?
Orion fumbles to grasp his little friend and, in a crawl, drags the both of them behind cover. From here, they have a moment to rest, then move on, hidden from sight.
Escorted by the favoured pupil Empress and a regiment of attending Decepticon guards, Megatron strides into the compound, hellish optics beholding the destruction.
“Goodness gracious, how awful! None could survive such a thing! How could this happen? What shall we do?”
Decepticons hang their helms, murmuring their sorrow at the assured death of their comrades within the inferno. Even if Shadow Striker was generally unpleasant, she was still one of them, and everybody thought Flamewar was a charming little oddity. A pity about those two Seekers, whatever their names were. They will all be missed, in some capacity. Some, more than others. At least Seekers are easy enough to replace, but losing Shadow Striker and Flamewar will hurt the cause.
“It’s too terrible! Make it stop!” Empress covers her optics and turns dramatically aside, clutching at her Spark. “I can’t look any longer! My girls, my beautiful girls! Those adorable Seeker brothers! Perished! The horror! What shall I tell my cyberswan of her dead companions? I would break her Spark with this wretched news!”
“No,” Megatron utters, hollow and hoarse, trembling where he stands. “Prime lives. My Orion lives with him. I do not believe it, I will not accept death.”
The Decepticons, Empress included, all jerk with fright as Megatron turns sharply to address them.
“Douse the flames and search the wreckage. We will sift through debris all night if we must. Prime will be found and he will be alive.”
The group sets to work, failing to notice Orion, crouched behind cover, cradling the hyperventilating Bumblebee in a fatherly embrace, muffling his sobs against his broad breast.
Ariel, Windblade and the other friends have been sending worried texts and attempting to call for some time now. With the scrambler disabled, those missed calls and texts finally come through in a flurry of concern.
Orion groggily answers. “…Ariel…”
“Oh, thank Primus! We all just got Bee’s SOS! What happened? Where are you? Is Bee with you? Are you hurt?”
“…Megatron… happened…”
Ariel makes a strangled sound over the line.
“…Bee… saved… me…” Orion strokes Bumblebee’s door-wing, trying to be gentle, simply so weak that gentleness is assured. “…Not… safe… here…” Crouched together in their hiding place, they may take a moment together to rest, before they must flee to a safer location for extraction. They cannot risk their allies coming here.
“Prime! Pax!” Megatron rages against the inferno. He is not kept back by the flames, for he almost marches into that hell, but does not muscle through Empress’ anxious efforts to hold him back from engulfing himself in his own destruction, gripped by this frantic search for life. Digging through the outer melted rubble with his bare servos for some sign of the mech he loves, lost to the body of a Prime, he prays for more than a corpse. “Answer me! Please!”
“…Meet… us…” Orion hates to hear this anguish. Blearily, he looks about and distantly recognises the district he has been brought to. With what little focus he can muster, he thinks of a place close by that could serve as a distinct extraction point. “…At… the… fountain…”
“Our wishing well.”
“…Yes… old… friend…”
Indeed, Ariel knows the place intimately. Back when she and Orion worked the docks, they used to toss fragments of precious minerals and metals into the Energon fountain for good luck. They stopped doing that when Sentinel complained of waste and silly sentiment, secretly quite jealous.
“…Find… us… there…”
Pedes pass closely, too closely for comfort, Decepticon chatter giving a clear indication of their back and forth motions trying to put the warehouse fire out.
“Orion! Optimus! I beg of you, whoever you are!” Megatron hurls a sheet of partially dissolved metal aside with a ragged whimper with Empress anxiously clinging to his pauldrons to hold him back. “Rise up!” He will not listen to her pleas to let go. “What have I done? What have I done!”
“…Little… friend…”
Bumblebee looks up, tearful and pale, in a state of shock and unable to still the trembling or calm the hyperventilating.
“…Lend… me…” Orion kisses the little mech’s forehelm like a father comforting his son. “…Your… strength…” A huge servo gently fumbles for a far smaller alternative, interweaving their digits.
Megatron wails into the night.
“…One… last… time…”
The brave little scout shakily rises into a half crouch, helping the Prime to follow. Together they move as quickly and quietly as they can muster from behind cover, making their escape against a backdrop of grief and chaos, knowing that their friends will find them a safe distance off, where an old fountain still glimmers with recent tokens of good fortune and rusted wishes long wasted.
Megatron kneels, digging, digging, digging as he weeps.
Empress casts her saddened gaze beyond, as if to preserve his pride, when she sees movement in the flames. She does not believe her optics at first.
A small, solitary figure limps out of that inferno, carrying something large and heavy in their arms.
“Flamewar?”
Decepticons stop and stare as a very damaged femme approaches from the fire, recognising with horror the severed piece of another clutched close.
“By the Primes!” Empress hurries over, intercepting.
Flamewar comes to an unsteady stop, cradling to her breast a limbless torso she somehow found in the fire. “Help,” she croaks, her breath acrid, smoke rising from her dark shell.
Empress covers the lower half of her appalled expression.
“Help.”
“Oh, my…”
“Help.”
Within this embrace, the scorched remains of Shadow Striker opens and shuts her intake wordlessly, optic flickering, scope rolling madly about in its socket, sparks sputtering from her severed joints, Energon oozing from torn cables.
“Help.”
Empress is rather numb as she gently accepts what little of Shadow Striker is left.
Flamewar turns and slumps back into that hell with fearless determination.
“Wait! Don’t go in there! You’ll burn!”
The bike is grabbed by the scruff of her neck and yanked to safety.
“Shockwave will send in his retrieval drones!” the gladiator snaps, matronly. “Let the mindless things retrieve the rest of her! Silly girl!”
“Help.”
Empress softens, sighs. “Oh, darling, I know. I’m so sorry. Come.” A huge servo is more kindly offered, delicately taking claws still hot from the fire into a callused grip of iron.
Flamewar says nothing more as she is led away.
Chapter 77
Notes:
I've been given wonderful feedback and support. I just want to say thank you for that.
Potential trigger warnings: surgical gore and essentially Frankensteinian mad science as medical malpractice, mention of euthanasia, mention of suicidal intention, feelings associated with survivor's guilt for indirectly contributing to/causing death, deception (Decepticons, geddit - except they lie to their own, too).
Chapter Text
Bumblebee cannot articulate the horrors. And so his friends cannot know. Not yet.
Sitting upon an available gurney in the medbay, Windblade holds him to her breasts, assured that his wounds are minor after Slipstream assessed him. “Honeybee, you’re safe now.”
He makes the most awful sound.
Ariel grimaces, then refocuses on Orion, laid out with his vitals read from a terminal. “Hang in there, old mech. We’ve called for help. Your pal Ratchet answered. Can you believe that? Guy’s unstoppable. He’ll be here any minute.”
Slipstream has never dealt with a case of severe poisoning before. After hastily reviewing medical texts left little reassurance, she had called her mentor Red Alert for advice, the senior medic on the mend but unable to provide practical help, until Ratchet declared he would go in her stead. He would not be dissuaded, his legs be damned.
“I do hate to admit defeat, but…” Servos buried in gore, Knock Out leans into the sponge that Breakdown delicately applies to his husband’s glossy forehelm, absorbing sweat to keep the optics clear for surgery. “This damage is too extensive. She’s ended up worse off than Megatron was after that pitfall. We’ll lose her.”
Acid Storm grimaces, remembering that ordeal.
“That outcome is undesirable.” Shockwave’s tool hisses against a gaping joint, attempting to seal severed fuel lines hanging limp and bloody from haggard remains of burnt protoform, spewing inner Energon upon his bosom and belly, forming a growing puddle about his pedes. “Shadow Striker is a useful asset. I am not acquainted with failure.”
“I don’t like this either. It’s tragic, really. We don’t have the resources or the time to make such extensive repairs. I’m sorry. There’s nothing we can do for her, except send her off gently, with a potent, lethal dose of my medicine. She won’t feel enough to suffer as she falls asleep.”
Acid Storm swallows thickly, stood aside by Breakdown, in attendance as he is.
Shadow Striker is pale, losing her colour as her life leaves her a hollow husk, fading fast. Stubborn to a fault, even now she fights to live, systems failing.
Faced with the brink of death, Shockwave knows now that devising the technology to falsify a living Spark will be a priority endeavour to minimise loss, though he acknowledges that his experimental project must be kept secretive from the likes of most, perhaps even his own dear assistant who does not understand. Or perhaps Acid Storm might be persuaded too, after this night. But there is no such false Spark available tonight.
Shadow Striker coughs a spurt of Energon and manages to make optic contact with Shockwave, in unimaginable distress.
He almost apologises for his inadequacies.
Her helm falls back and she turns aside, optic rolling over to stare at the dead Seekers on the neighbouring surgical slabs, in pieces same as she.
Evidently the brothers could not be saved.
There she stares, seeing her fate, grimly resigning herself. She would speak, but the Energon has flooded her vocaliser. She wants to scream for Flamewar, whose fate is unknown.
Shockwave follows this stare, finials rising, optic widening. He has never been the reverent type, but it is as if Primus has illuminated an answer.
“Help me draw an intact vein, Breakdown, and I’ll inject her with three times the usual dose. That ought to do it.”
“Negative.”
“Pardon?”
“I have a solution.”
“I’ll run some tests, figure out what toxin those Decepticon assassins used. In the meantime, he’s to be kept stable in stasis. We’ll monitor his vitals and await the results. Hopefully this scrap wears off, or there’s an antidote.”
“And if not?”
“He’ll be like this for the rest of his life.”
“Oh, no.”
Ratchet never had good berthside manner.
Slipstream is just glad to have him back. Anxious as she is for Orion and Bumblebee, she sags where she stands, relieved to finally have some competent help. “It’s good to have you back, Doctor.”
“You sure about that?”
“Absolutely. I’m sorry it’s such short notice, but the other volunteers and I were out of our depth tonight.”
“You would’ve managed.” Ratchet hobbles on his freshly reconstructed legs with evident difficulty, rebuilt from being severely crushed. He must acclimatise to the limbs. He deems himself fit enough to return to work early despite the advice of other medics who refuse to taint their careers by involving themselves in Council business. “Did a damn fine job without me.”
“Thank you. I tried. We all tried.”
“Just you wait until this world regains its senses and returns to some semblance of normal,” the grouchy old medic grouses in passing, pausing to pat the Seeker fondly on the pauldron. “You’ll be the lead medic of your own ward someday.”
Slipstream smiles feebly at that.
“And then those damn fools on the University board will be all over you.” Ratchet scoffs, shaking his helm and waddling over to Orion to extract an Energon sample, plugging the needle into his arm. “Those old farts will invite you to give guest lectures for free, like Red Alert and I.”
“How is she?”
“A pain in the aft. She terrorises everyone around her and always has an answer for everything, the old coot.”
“Then I needn’t worry so much.”
As the surgeons argue, the assistant frequently glances at the severed arms and legs set aside, the dutiful husband preoccupied with cleansing sweat like it is a ritualistic anchor to sanity.
“Probability dictates–”
“I don’t care if it’s likely to work! It’s barbaric!”
“It may save her life.”
“And what about the preservation of life – of a life worth living?!”
“Our objective is to repair her. I have devised the means of repairs. Other matters are not of immediate concern.”
“Are you mad?!”
“I am a genius.”
“Oh, here we go!” Knock Out throws his bloody servos to the blistering white light above. “Scientific curiosity, all for the sake of progress, frag-all to do with ethics! There’s just no boundaries to people like you!”
“Your insults are useless.” Shockwave hovers over the twitching mass. “Acid Storm, bring me the Seeker’s left arm.”
“But Sir, I–”
“Do not delay.”
Acid Storm stutters and shakes, fumbling for the Seeker corpses, unable to actually get a grip, inadvertently dropping the severed arm with a clamour.
“Cold, calculated, curiosity! That’s all you are! I know your type! To even suggest such a thing is savage in the clever way of your kind of surgeon!”
“There is no time for argument. We must act.”
“And we will, but we’ll do something – anything – besides what you suggest!”
“You said it yourself, Doctor. There is no other way. Not by our means.”
“But we can’t do this! I won’t help you!”
Nauseous, confused and frightened, Acid Storm stands over the operating table, the lifeless optics of what remains of the Seeker brothers staring back. The orders to be followed are so awful to be rendered ridiculous, yet this is not a dream that can be discarded in disbelief.
“I may have lost my license due to a little medical malpractice in my day, fair enough, and I own that! Shamelessly in fact,” Knock Out blusters with a flourish, hip jutting, servos thrown above his glossy helm, perfect dentas bared, optics smouldering. “But what you’re suggesting we do to her is nothing less than brutality!” It is rare to see him so openly upset.
Breakdown mindfully dabs at the sweat with a little sponge, ever the dutiful and adoring husband playing assistant nurse.
“If you refuse to cooperate and lend your expertise to assist in this surgical procedure–”
“Experiment, more like! You’re damn right I refuse! I refuse something so unethical! I’m a surgeon, nay, an artist – not a butcher!”
“Then I request your immediate departure. You are distracting me from my work.”
“Oh, get fragged! If I can’t stop this madness, then I’ll walk away from it! But believe me, Megatron will be hearing about this, and I’ll give him a most scathing report!”
“You do that.”
“Breakdown, darling, come!” Knock Out sashays fabulously out, followed by his lumbering husband.
“Acid Storm, the arm, please.”
“I can’t…”
Shockwave looks up sharply.
“…I won’t.”
“You are to obey me as my assistant.”
“Your command is abhorrent!” the Seeker suddenly exclaims so vehemently, so out of character. “The Doctor is right! How can you make me an accomplice to an abomination you propose!”
The scientist’s finials lower, pressing flat to his helm.
“I’m sorry for her,” Acid Storm intones, stumbling past the dead Seeker brothers, hurrying for the door. “But I can’t, I won’t obey you.”
“Do not go.”
“I shouldn’t stay.”
Shockwave suddenly finds himself alone with Shadow Striker’s ailing remains. He stares into space for some moments, poised motionlessly.
She gurgles, which is enough to remind him of the task.
“Fine. I’ll do it myself.”
By the time morning comes, nobody feels rested within this cuddle pile. Their world feels strange and unsafe. The fragility of life is made blatantly clear.
Surrounded by friends who love him and thus worry, Bumblebee has not said anything about what happened last night. After enduring their tender fussing and forcing down a meagre breakfast without purging somehow, he meekly requests that they leave him alone for an hour or two.
Of course they all refuse.
He insists.
Flamewar rouses with a jerk of fright. “Boss bot!” Then groans painfully.
“Easy, sweetie.”
“Uuugh. Dreamboat?”
“I’m right here.”
“Boss bot, she–”
“Don’t.” Thunderblast easily restrains the smaller femme, doing so in a very patient, gentle way. “You’re hurt.”
“But boss bot!”
“She’d want you to heal, now. Rest.”
“I gotta see her!” The bike simply has no strength left to fight, her struggles to escape the sterile berth feeble. “I gotta go to boss bot, make sure she’s okay!”
It brings tears to the boat’s optics. “Oh, my darling girl.”
Flamewar squirms, but she collapses quickly, engine choking unhealthily. Just this meagre effort is painful.
“I’m so sorry.”
“Help.”
Thunderblast turns her regal face aside, golden optics squeezing shut. Never before has she felt so disgustingly bad. Not bad like a baddie. Just bad.
“I’m back,” Demolishor says from the doorway, carrying in his awkward servos a laden tray. “I got you some–” He sees Flamewar awake and gasps, almost dropping the laden tray. “Flames!”
“Big guy,” the bike croaks miserably as the tank hurries over, setting the tray aside to capture her in a big hug that swallows her whole. “Ow.”
“Gently, daddy!” The boat huffs. “Primus!”
“Oh, sorry!”
Flamewar rubs her cheek against Demolishor’s rough casing, managing a feeble purr that does not sound like her usual throaty rumble. “I need boss bot.”
He winces, turning to Thunderblast helplessly, but she does not look any better equipped.
“She’s… alive. Right.”
“Sweetie, um.”
“Tell me she’s alive, you guys.” The bike’s fiery optics wander from the wincing tank to the downcast boat. “She has to be. Boss bot’s not allowed to die without me dying too. We die together. She promised. You all promised.”
“We don’t really know how she is,” Demolishor confesses with a slow shake of his helm, broad pauldrons slumped. “We just know Shockwave and Knock Out were working on fixing her.”
“Oh.”
“But they’re both really smart, talented guys. Like, the best in their respective fields. Plus the old glitch is really tough, tougher than all of us put together, so I’m sure Shadow Striker’s gonna be fine. We just, uh, need confirmation of that.”
Thunderblast cannot fault the guy for being clumsy about it. He is trying. But she is quite certain Shadow Striker is not making it out of there and does not do much to falsely reassure Flamewar otherwise.
“If it turns out boss bot’s dead, I’ll kill myself.”
“Don’t say that, sweetie. Please.”
“Could you give us a minute?”
“That’s against regulations.”
Bumblebee slumps, then grunts as a large palm pats him roughly on the back in comfort.
“I wouldn’t be the first cop to bend the rules. Take five.” Strongarm dismisses herself with a sigh. “Hit the panic button if you need to.” She departs on tired, aching steps. “Someone should be able to help.” Once upon a time, she was vibrant and energetic and alive.
“Thanks.”
“Mmhm.”
He waits for her to disappear, then addresses the caged bird in a tone fringed with fragile familiarity. “Hey. Uh. It’s me. Again.”
Starscream is laid out across his shapely side, curled in a tight bundle on his bare bunk.
“I thought I’d, um… I dunno. Primus. I just dunno any more.”
He is deliberately turned away, facing the bare metal wall, in turn baring his wings that remain timidly folded against the muscular curve of his back as if to keep warm.
“I dunno what I’m thinking,” Bumblebee confesses quietly as he drags himself over to the cell, laying a palm on the flickering forcefield of Energon, rippling under his touch. “The reasons why I feel kinda compelled to come here and see you, speak to you. I dunno, but I have an ugly guess.”
The Seeker says nothing. He does not move. Yet he is surely awake, listening in some capacity, aware though pretending otherwise.
“It’s like I’m trying to escape my friends.” The scout’s vents hitch and he blinks rapidly, sinking to slowly sit with his back at rest against the barrier. Waves of flickering light form a halo around him, agitated by his contact. “My loving, supportive, concerned friends. I just had to escape them. Isn’t that just awful? Their worry for me feels wrong, like… I don’t deserve it, after what happened back there, in that warehouse.”
Starscream offers no reply.
“Gotta get away,” Bumblebee intones softly, feeling the wetness of his own guilt and shame rolling down his cheeks. “Just for a little while. I need to process… everything.” He rubs his face, sniffling, muffled. “Without their shelter, their excuses, like I’m the one needing comfort and protection right now, like none of it was really my fault.” A scoff. “But it kinda was, wasn’t it?”
The Seeker could very well be dead on that slab.
“Damn. I dunno. Why not? Maybe that’s why I’m here. This is a cold, dark, friendless place, a place of punishment. None of my friends wanna follow me here. None of them will judge me for what happened, but maybe I want that. To be judged. I guess you’re judgemental enough, right?” The scout sets to rocking himself, finds leverage in his bicep plating for his digits to sink painfully. “So, like, do me a favour that oughta come naturally to you. I might need it. Maybe I need you right now. Could you do that for me? Please?”
Nothing is said or done. Somehow, it seems quite cruel, but cruelty serves its purposes, there is a place for cruelty to exist and perpetuate itself.
Bumblebee figures his time may as well be up, but before he can find the strength to leave, a low rasp interrupts him from within the cell.
“And what would that be?”
“Oh. So you are awake.”
“And alive. Unfortunately.” Starscream keeps his back turned, keeps himself curled small, facing the wall. “You want something from me.”
“Yeah.”
“Ask, and you might receive, but do be specific.”
“Right. Hate me.”
“Done.”
“But do it for me.”
The Seeker makes a humming sound, resonating handsomely within his curves.
“You can be the guy that externalises and personifies the sheer burning hate I feel for myself right now,” the scout says quietly. “Make me feel bad. Criticise me, accuse me, condemn me. Make it outward. Then maybe I can look into the optics of the person embodying the way I feel about myself right now.”
“Wouldn’t it be simpler and more dignified to berate yourself to tears before a holomirror?”
“Nobody berates me like you do, Starscream.”
“I’m flattered you’ve noticed, bug. And what terrible thing have you done to deserve this projection?”
“Ah, you don’t know.”
“Of course I don’t know.”
“Being cooped up in here and all.”
Starscream’s humming devolves into a huff. “I don’t gossip with the cops, bug.”
“All that boredom. You don’t wanna hear it from me.”
“Then how am I to criticise, accuse, condemn? Shall I resort to old insults and generalised attacks on your character? Would that same routine still do it for you, after something far worse happened?”
“No, I mean… Yes? Frag me. I dunno.” Bumblebee rubs his neck, sighing. “You’re a bully. Or you used to be. Now, you’re in there, and I’m out here. You got some sick sorta amusement outta torturing me before, you even had a little fun messing me about from inside that cell for a minute, but you’re beyond that now. Your fire’s almost out. You sound tired.”
“So do you.”
“Yeah, exactly. I’m not entertaining right now. I won’t satisfy you.”
“Yet you have me curious. My standards are low, in here.”
“Then maybe you can find it in you to hate me, still.”
“Try me, bug.”
“Last night, I…” The scout drops his helm on his hanging neck. “I survived.”
“You sound unhappy about it.”
“Because she didn’t.”
The Seeker shifts now, the bunk creaking as he finally rolls over. “You killed someone?”
“Not on purpose. It was an accident. A terrible, awful thing that happened despite me, and because of me.”
Starscream is finally distracted somewhat from his own troubles, sitting up slowly to stare at the small, huddled form of Bumblebee beyond.
“I had to be there to save him, but if I hadn’t been there, sh-she…” The scout grips his helm. “She wouldn’t h-have…” Sobs.
The Seeker rises to his pedes and approaches the other mech with an arresting click-clack of his wicked heel struts.
“The fire. The fire!”
Starscream stares blankly down.
“It ate her whole,” Bumblebee warbles like a terrified protoform, rocking himself, hyperventilating. “I heard her s-s-scream… I left her! I let her burn…”
“Who?”
“Shadow Striker!”
“Oh.” The Seeker churns his jaw. “Couldn’t have happened to a nicer person.”
“A-and Flamewar too! She went in after her… I tried to stop her but… I let her go in there!” The scout writhes, clawing at his helm. “In all the f-f-fire! Two lives, gone! I got away, I got Orion away, and now he’s sick w-with poison, so sick we don’t even know if he’ll ever be okay again! I hate it! I hate my life! Why, Primus, why?!”
Starscream falls into place behind Bumblebee, sitting back-to-back with the Energon between them.
“The hot doctor won’t tell me anything.” Flamewar sulks in berth, too weak to escape. “I bet he told you what’s up, seeing as you’re the big boss when Megatron can’t be, so you gotta know.”
Empress sighs quietly. “Flamewar, dear, it’s not so simple.”
“Don’t patronise me. I’m actually really smart.”
“Of course you are, darling. But it’s really, truly not so simple.”
Thunderblast and Demolishor say nothing, anguished in their respective ways, comforting each other on the other side of the berth.
“I want to tell you, but it’d be cruel.”
“Then tell me anyway. Please don’t lie to me. If you really like me at all, you’ll tell me the truth. The truth sucks sometimes, but there’s value in honesty between friends.”
“Doctor Knock Out is more focused on your recovery just now, my dear.” Empress overflows from her seat in the little chair berthside, the unliving metal sagging dangerously under her immense aft, creaking its complaints as she shifts to take a small clawed servo in her thickset digits. “You are his patient, after all. He instructed me rather firmly not to distress you further. As a friend, I want to keep you safe for as long as I can.”
“Screw me. I don’t give a frag about myself. I just wanna know how boss bot’s doing. Gimme something.”
“You’re in no condition to–”
“Is she dead?”
The gladiator hesitates, her astonishingly pretty face soft with pity amidst the criss-crossing scars.
“Are you just tryna spare me the bad news for a little while?” The bike huffs miserably. “No need, right? ’Cause I’ll know eventually, anyway. Might as well get it over with. Did she die?”
“You break my Spark, little one.”
“She’s dead, right?”
“Please, darling. I promised the good Doctor that I wouldn’t bring this up, lest it impair you further. Can we not wait a little while, until you’re stronger?”
“I’m too weak to hurt myself right now, so there’s pretty much minimal risk in just telling me, while I’m stuck in this berth. She’s dead, isn’t she.”
Thunderblast inadvertently lets off an audible little sniffle and turns to bury her face in Demolishor.
Empress delicately plays with the claws laid over the scuffed black metal of her massive palm. “My darling girl, listen to me closely, now.”
Flamewar’s chin quivers adorably, optics huge and glassy.
“Shockwave assumed care over Shadow Striker’s repairs.”
“The crazy scientist guy who speaks in monotone and also lacks a face.”
“Yes, dear.”
“Oh, Primus.”
“And I have received his report. The procedure was…” Huge digits gently enclose over claws. “Successful, is the word he used, but… Doctor Knock Out is rightfully upset.”
Thunderblast peels her wet face out of Demolishor’s reassuring bulk. “What does that mean?” she croaks, thick with emotions she usually maintains strict control over.
Empress clearly is reluctant to say it, but she knows it is inevitable. “Perhaps I might lessen the shock, if I am upfront, here and now, before the inevitable comes.” She sighs, then says softly, “Very well, then.”
Flamewar feels an iron squeeze, consuming her claws in a manner intended to convey reassurance, only to shackle her to an unstoppable force that could destroy her.
“Am I the first person you’ve told all this to?”
“Yeah. Can you believe that? You’re my confidant. My friends don’t know what happened back at that warehouse, they only know Orion’s sick and I’m freaking out. Oh, Primus.” Bumblebee moans into his forearm, dragged across his optics to smear tears as he tries to compose himself. “I can’t tell them. I couldn’t face them if I tried. What’d they say? What’d they think about me? How’d they even be able to look at me after that, look me in the optic like a friend?”
“They shall find out eventually, you know.”
“I know.”
“I’m not usually one to vote for honesty, being a mech of selective discretion myself, but…” Starscream rubs his handsome chin, gazing up at the same oppressive, claustrophobic ceiling that has dominated his life of late. “Clear and effective communication I can abide by, if it gets done what must be done, with minimal mess and maximum personal benefit for myself. I suppose simply telling them would be best, before they find out through other means and seek explanations from you after the fact.”
“Ugh. That sounds horrible.”
“Indeed. I imagine having to explain yourself after being caught lying by omission might make this whole ordeal rather more awkward. Rather, find the ball-bearings to face your friends and admit to them what happened. They know you familiarly, they care for you most fondly, and so I’m sure they won’t look at you all that much differently than they did before, except perhaps with more pity. Time mends wounds. You’ll likely be traumatised for the rest of your life, but your friends will be the forgiveness you need, the forgiveness you can’t give yourself. Let them carry you a while.”
“That’s legit some decent advice, dude.”
“Lucky for you, I’m so dreadfully bored in here. I can humour you a little with my precious attention.”
“Okay, well. Cool. Thanks.” The scout sniffles, turning to peer over a pauldron at the bigger mech, who is physically very close, almost touching. “Am I still amusing?”
The Seeker smiles thinly into space.
“You told her?!”
“She took it surprisingly well, considering I told her very little. I didn’t describe the grotesque nature of the surgical procedure, of course. All the same, she seems to be simply grateful not to be abandoned through death. Poor little thing has issues with that. Death, as abandonment. I imagine she suffered in the past she cannot even remember.”
Knock Out seethes, rubbing his brows.
“I do apologise.” Empress demurely bows her helm. “She is so very small and sweet, so very persuasive. But this could ultimately make it easier for her to process all that’s transpired, before their tearful reunion and the big reveal. Now she has a little extra time to think about things and settle it all in her mind.”
“She’s suicidal, you ample imbecile. I’m trying to keep my patient alive until Shockwave unveils his monster to the world!”
“Flamewar wouldn’t take her own life. Not so long as Shadow Striker lives.”
“Bah! Life. What quality of life is that? Sometimes, death is preferable.”
“Hush. That is a wicked thing for you to say, good doctor.”
“Could you do me a favour?”
Soundwave is sat slumped over his console, helm in his servos.
Ravage is sat neatly upon the desk, watching his dad closely as he mourns his best friend.
“You’ve got the skills I need to mitigate the risk I’m taking. Now is really not the time to ask anything of you, I realise that. But I’ll make it up to you, somehow.” Acid Storm lingers awkwardly on the periphery of the communications hub, glad that the rather unpleasant Soundblaster is elsewhere, evidently fobbing off his duties to his alleged subordinate specialist. “Please, help me.”
“Shouldn’t you be doing your job,” Soundwave intones melodically, heavy with static, “attending to Shadow Striker’s surgery, with Shockwave.”
“I just couldn’t do it. I’m sorry.”
“How is she? Has she perished?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Shockwave did a stirling job of rebuilding Starscream. I should have nothing to worry about.”
“My superior Shockwave didn’t wholly rebuild Commander Starscream. My Commander is still a Seeker underneath the new kibble and ornamentation, just with a few performance upgrades integrated into a somewhat reconfigured frame, changing his outer appearance and shape with modest improvements to functionality. The internal components are generally the same, though - it’s mostly cosmetic. I saw his schematics. Theoretically, it could happen to any of us Seekers, but it won’t.”
“Why should I help you, without some reassurance? You’ve abandoned your post and you won’t tell me how Shadow Striker fares. Shockwave never tells me anything either. I must suffer in silence.”
“Yes, I left. I had my reasons. You’ll soon see why.”
“How foreboding.”
“She’s alive, if that’s all that matters to you. I have limited access to the drones. Despite myself, I did take a quick peek, just to make sure. I’ll have to relay as much to Slipstream.”
“Hence the favour you’re asking of me.”
“You can secure and hide our communications from even Shockwave’s prying optic.”
“Briefly. Do you no longer trust your superior?”
“I don’t see him quite the same way.” Acid Storm’s stoic countenance breaks down the middle. “Not any more. Not after that.”
Soundwave reaches over to stroke Ravage, who meows softly in comfort.
“I came to you hoping for condemnation. But I’m leaving you feeling weirdly reassured. Everything still sucks and I hate it, but still. You, uh…”
Starscream blinks his bejewelled optics, downcast, depressed. He stands before Bumblebee, much taller and comparatively quite slender, a shapely alternative against the stout, boxy frame, a thin Energon barrier between them.
“You didn’t have to sit there, listening to me. You didn’t have to say anything useful. I just thought you’d verbally beat me up. It’s what I wanted. This, though? This is… better, I think.”
“Bug, you may be disgusting, but you aren’t quite so bad.”
“I’m not?”
“You survived. You feel personally responsible, at least in some capacity, for Shadow Striker and Flamewar perishing in that warehouse fire. But based on what you told me, I’d say you’re a victim.” The Seeker inclines his helm a little to the left, birdlike. “Not a villain.”
The scout sucks in air, blinking rapidly, tearful all over again.
“You aren’t evil, Bumblebee.”
“Thank you, Starscream.”
They part ways soon after, with a nod and a promise to see each other again sometime soon.
“What’s the emergency?” Ratchet grumbles as Slipstream hurries over with a very anxious look on her hunky face. She has grown very capable and independent in most of her duties as she grows in experience, so he does not disparage her for approaching him as he might berate less capable volunteers for asking the same questions over and over again despite his clear and concise explanations. It is so hard to find good help nowadays and most trained medics are too arrogant to deal with the disastrous Council, or have left for profitable ventures elsewhere to escape the war.
“Um, it’s a personal, family matter.”
“Ah.”
“One of my Seekers sent me a message through a line I don’t recognise.”
“Well, it can’t be Starscream. He’s locked up, still.”
“No, this is someone rather special to me. I haven’t been able to contact them in ages and they wouldn’t have hit me up if it wasn’t important. Please, Doctor, may I–”
“Go. Take the rest of the day off.”
The Seeker looks like she could hug the surly old medic. She stops herself short and just smiles at him. “Thank you.”
Ratchet offers one of his rare smiles back. “Least I can do.” He hobbles off on his unsteady legs, too proud for a cane to support him.
Slipstream reviews the data packet in her mind as she navigates an exit between gurneys and bustling staff.
Acid Storm could get in trouble for doing this. They always were technologically proficient, so perhaps they have hidden their tracks somehow. Evidently, this is a very important meeting.
“You’re a decent guy, coming to visit me.”
“I have my moments.”
“You got the cat?”
“In here,” Soundwave croons, patting himself on his bosom. “Ravage, say hello.”
The prompted meow is muffled by metal, emanating from within the cassette compartment.
Flamewar giggles weakly.
“The Doctor would implode if I were to release the boy in this ward, but he’s here for you all the same, cradled close to my Spark.”
“Thanks, bro. Have a seat.”
The intelligence officer settles beside the bike, laying a palm on her scorched pauldron very gently.
“You heard about boss bot?”
“I’ve been lied to by omission.”
“Me, too.”
“I see and hear everything. I can access Shockwave’s drones without him noticing, if I do it very carefully.”
“It’s a big risk, dude. He won’t like being spied on. He seems super secretive.”
“For Shadow Striker, I’m willing to take that risk.”
“Is the big guy okay?”
“Ratchet did his thing. We’re still waiting on the toxicology screen to figure out what exactly is in Orion’s system, but for now, the old mech’s sleeping it off.”
“So we still don’t know whats making him sick or how to cure him or even if he can be cured.” Bumblebee stares at the huge mech on the gurney, Orion evidently lost to medically induced stasis. “At least he looks peaceful, so maybe it isn’t hurting him now.”
“C’mon, Bee. Have a little faith. You’re our ray of sunshine, our little optimist.”
“Not right now. Sorry. Primus, this is all my fault. If I hadn’t-”
“Oh, no, you don’t.” Ariel loops a big, pink arm around the youngster, pulling Bumblebee against herself, dwarfed by this muscular, motherly hug. “Listen to me, okay.” She sucks at pep talks. “You listening?”
Hugged like this, the little mech gives the big femme a fragile smile, turning to gaze dolefully up at her.
“Our big guy’s tough. Orion comes from the docks, where only the biggest, strongest of us survived. Academics made him polite, but he’s not soft. Besides, Doc Ratchet knows his stuff. Might take a few days to figure it out, but Orion’s gonna be just fine. I know it in my Spark.”
“I was so scared. I’m still scared.”
“We all wish we could be half as brave as you. You’re a hero, Bee.”
Bumblebee makes a soft sound as Ariel scoops him up with ease, drawing the much smaller mech off the floor and lifting him so that they are optic-level, held against her bosom in this big, burly hug, kissing him lightly upon his forehelm.
“We love you.”
He buries his face in her pink shell and tries to lose himself in the sensation of being loved.
“Thank you for saving my best friend. I owe you, Bee.”
Those words bring less comfort than intended and this sensation of love is not enough for Bumblebee to assuage his guilt.
Ariel means well enough.
“I’ve made a terrible mistake. He’s not the mech I thought he was, he’s not the mech I’ve come to care for. He was my inspiration, then my lover, and now he has become strange and sinister. A false spark, he proposed, and now he must construct an abomination. How could he do this to her, to those brothers, to me?”
Slipstream is bewildered, overstimulated, doing her best to be comforting as Acid Storm clings and quivers and says things that do not make much sense without context. But there are signs.
The warehouse fire doused deep into the night, broadcast across the news with much speculation as by the time the fire and rescue service members arrived, the site was swarming with Decepticons apparently already in search, Megatron in a state of delirious digging, dragged away before the police could arrive and make an arrest, late and incompetent as usual. Whatever happened to Bumblebee and Orion, surely it is no coincidence, to happen in that same district, on that same night. Not even Windblade could coax a clear answer from her traumatised best friend and Ariel shall not get any answers from the sleeping Orion, leaving the friends to worry and wonder.
“Sister, please.”
“I’m here, Acid.”
Chapter 78
Notes:
A warm word of gratitude to all of you for being so kind to me. Thank you.
Possible trigger warnings: suicidal ideation, body horror, mental and emotional anguish, consideration as to quality of life and the lack thereof.
Chapter Text
“It’s a Council safehouse. You can hide here.”
“Thank you.”
“But you don’t have to. I’ll take you home with me.”
“No. Please don’t. Let me go.”
“Acid.”
“You’ve moved on, Slip. I want to respect that and move on, too.”
“You’re family, Acid. I never left you behind, not really.”
“And I never hated you for fleeing. I just wish you’d got out sooner.”
The Seekers embrace, then ease apart.
“You have a life now.” Acid Storm peers about the unfamiliar space, stood close beside Slipstream, leaning against her, tucked under her sisterly arm. “A life of your own. Let me not invade that.”
“Windblade and Chromia won’t mind.”
“I’d like to compose myself before trying to properly ingratiate myself. Let me reside here.”
“Alright, if you’re sure, but the offer still stands and always will.”
“Thank you. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
The Seekers embrace again, then pry themselves apart with more difficulty.
“Now, go. It’s late. Return to your femmes and reassure them.”
“I’ll try to. After all you told me, and didn’t tell me, I’m not sure I’ll be reassuring at all.”
“It’s too awful for me to tell you more, Slip. I’m sorry, but this deception is necessary, at least for me. You’re bound to find out the truth about Shadow Striker on your own, but let me not be the one to reveal something so terrible to you.”
“I hate that you feel this way.”
Acid Storm nods distantly.
“I hate knowing you’d lie to me," Slipstream goes on with a sniffle, "just to avoid hurting me, when I’m inevitably gonna get hurt no matter what we do.”
“I’d rather sleep alone, if that’s okay.”
“Of course, sweetie.” Arcee kisses Bumblebee’s cheek in her big sisterly way, then steps aside for her best friend Grimlock to copy the gesture. “Call us in the morning, okay. Or sooner, if you need us for anything.”
“Indeed, our stalwart little friend. Do not hesitate to let us know how you fare. Know that we love you very much.”
“Yeah.” Bumblebee smiles up at them. “Thanks, gang. Love you both.” And then he shuts them out his habitation suite and collapses on the synthetic carpet, clutching his helm as Shadow Striker’s scream cuts through the hive of his thoughts. He does not know that she is alive.
What quantifies a life? A life worth living, or a life preserved for the sake of being alive?
He has yet to ask himself such questions, but he does feel distinctly like dying lately.
Slipstream comes home late.
Windblade had gently yet firmly instructed Chromia to go to berth and seek rest, thus maintaining a silent, solitary vigil, waiting for their lover’s return. As soon as the door opens and shuts and automatically locks with a confirmatory beep, the Cityspeaker is there, arms open to receive. “Come,” she says, “let me hold you.”
The Seeker smiles, or tries to. “My love,” is uttered painfully as she sinks with some relief into this embrace, bending to bury her face in that slender neck, surrendering to these deceptively powerful arms. “My light.”
“I’ve got you now.”
“Never let me go.”
“I won’t. I promise.”
The bike turns over, dreaming.
Windblade wants to ask about Acid Storm, recognising the delicateness of this family matter.
Slipstream is clearly unhappy even as she pulls back and dips close again to kiss the concerned words away, cupping pale cheeks in callused palms, inky dermas tenderly stifling against ruby.
Chromia’s face twitches.
Prying apart, the Seeker rubs her forehelm against the Cityspeaker’s, stooping to compensate, inhaling, exhaling together.
Silence, for a time.
“Is your sibling doing alright?”
“No. They’re really not.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
Windblade knows it is not okay at all, but she does not push it. “Cuddle?”
“Cuddle,” Slipstream confirms, allowing those dainty digits to capture her own, guiding her over to the couch where they collapse altogether.
“Do you want to tell me about it?” asks the Cityspeaker softly.
“Acid’s in love with their boss,” answers the Seeker with fatigue.
“In love with… Shockwave?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, then I guess I can see where Wheeljack is coming from. Sort of. Maybe.”
“Oh, no, don’t give Shockwave too much credit.” Slipstream scoffs scornfully now, gaze downcast. “Acid’s boss turned out to be a mad scientist after all, but they fell in love with him, so they had to walk away since he’s not just making Seekers, he’s desecrating Seeker corpses for his latest experiment.”
Windblade gasps, cupping a palm to her appalled expression. “Oh, Solus Prime, Slip…”
“Acid didn’t tell me much. They tried to spare me the gruesome details. But I’m not stupid.” The Seeker shakes her helm, wincing. “From what little they told me, I inferred a whole lot.”
The Cityspeaker’s big blue optics search that handsome countenance.
“Shadow Striker got hurt. Hurt real bad. She was gonna die, but she survived.”
“Why don’t you sound happy?”
“Acid said Shadow Striker would survive, at a terrible cost.”
“What was the cost?”
“They wouldn’t tell me.”
“Oh, Slip.”
“Acid told me Shockwave was the surgeon. It was his idea.” As Slipstream says it, her harsh crimson optics well, overflow. “But Shockwave didn’t do to Shadow Striker, what he did for Starscream. The guy desecrating my dead kin had my friend on his operating table, at his mercy, that very same night, and didn’t make her beautiful. He tried something experimental, Acid said. I dunno the details beyond that - Shockwave, Shadow Striker, Seeker corpses, experimental.”
Windblade’s jaw hangs stupidly in silent horror, imagining the awful possibilities.
“I don’t feel well. I think I need to lie down.”
Bumblebee insisted on being left to sleep alone last night. He recharges little and lies in berth wide awake for much of this morning, only roused when a concerned friend appears to check in on him.
“Hey, Bee.”
“Hi, Rod.”
“I brought you breakfast.”
“Awesome. Thanks.”
Hot Rod let himself into the habitation suite, assuming as much liberty due to their intimate friendship, and so he invites himself into his friend’s berth, snuggling up to the smaller mech with a peck to the cheek. “Love you, dude.”
“Love you too, bro.” The scout buries a yawn in the bigger mech’s pauldron, pressed against his firm, fiery bosom. “’Sup?”
“Nah, nothing much. Just wanted to make sure you’re, uh, y’know.” Hot Rod bumps his chin lovingly against Bumblebee’s horn, holding his stocky frame, giving him a squeeze. “Doing okay, I guess, or as okay as you can be, after all you’ve been through.”
“I’m managing fine. Don’t worry.”
“Can’t help it, Bee. You’re my little mech.”
“I wish you could. I’m sick of worrying you and the rest of the guys. I don’t deserve it.”
This makes Hot Rod frown. His frowns are so pretty, it borders on unreal. He truly is a gorgeous young mech, sweet at Spark, reluctant to cause harm yet capable of great bravery on behalf of those he cares for, loyal to a fault. Even then, for all his virtues, his love life is a tragic disaster of a sort.
Bumblebee sniffles, then scoffs. “I’m sorry. Just deep in my feels right now.”
“I’m feeling it with you. Or I’m trying to. If you wanna talk about it, maybe tell me or any of our other friends about–”
“C’mere.”
The bigger mech is led into a kiss by the smaller mech, silencing him for a moment. It stings.
“Mwah. Gorgeous guy, you.”
“Bee, we’ll love you no matter what.” Hot Rod does not give up so easily. “You know that.”
“I know that, Rod,” Bumblebee confesses quietly. “I’ll talk about it, I’ll tell you and the guys all about it, just… I feel so bad. I feel so, so, so very bad, it’s consuming me from the inside. I dunno how to go on.”
“You go on with us, together. Let your friends make things better. You have our, like, unanimous, unconditional support. Always, in everything.”
“Totally. But what if this is the thing that’s so bad, the one thing you can’t look past?”
“Bee. That’s not possible.”
“But I’m scared, Rod. If I tell you, will it come out bad enough to make you guys see me… differently?”
Hot Rod pales a bit, but he replies after a momentary pause. “Bee, I’ve known you since we were kids fresh from the Well. Nothing about you could ever be, or do, something bad enough to make me look at you with anything less than the love I’ve always felt for you. You’re not bad, Bee. Not even a little bit.”
“I’m… not… evil?”
“No. No! No way!”
“Even Starscream said so, so if you’re saying so, it’s gotta be true, right?”
“Uh, what.”
“Oh. Nothing.”
“Bee. You been talking to that guy?”
“Um. A little bit.”
“Bee. Seriously.”
“He’s been fine! Surprisingly! Not much he can do to me now he’s in a box, but even if he could use his words to hurt me, he sort of… chooses not to. I guess.”
“What. The. Frag. Bee.”
“Oh, shuddup. I’m not all sting. I got a soft, forgiving core under this chiselled, macho exterior. You know me.”
“I sure do, beautiful.”
Bumblebee is promptly tackled atop the berth, unable to resist giggling tearfully under the affection.
“You’re so nice, Bee! Giving the likes of Starscream a second chance? That’s just so nice!”
“C’mon, pal, I’m not as nice as you are. You’re nicer than, like, Cube.”
“Nobody and nothing’s nicer than Cube.”
“Okay, fine. You’re almost as nice as Cube.”
“That’s pretty damn nice, if I may say so myself!”
The mechs cuddle, laughing.
“You wish to review my work.”
“I insist.”
“Very well.” Shockwave steps aside, optic searing, arm swept out. “Behold, my creation. She lives.”
“By the Primes, it’s worse than I thought!” Knock Out stumbles for the gurney, optics wide with horror. “How could you?”
“I did what was necessary to ensure her survival, Doctor. I did what you would not, could not. I did so, unassisted.”
Acid Storm’s departure hurts the most. Their continued absence is judgment, critical and condemning. They have abandoned their post and they do not answer calls. Even their tracker is disabled, leaving their whereabouts invisible. They have abandoned him.
Shockwave had grown to appreciate the assistance, then grew fond of the companionship, and now loathes another severed link in the precious few relationships that his overruling logic processor had erroneously permitted he might entertain.
Wheeljack.
Acid Storm.
Critics in a world of critics, a world that declares geniuses as mad, then mutilates their faces and servos.
Shockwave is alone again. But what matters most are his successful projects.
Projects such as Shadow Striker, fused with her subordinate Seeker corpses, limbs restored with mismatched pieces, damaged organs exchanged for functioning alternatives sufficiently compatible to sustain life with permissible discomfort. A Seeker’s large, powerful fuel pump steadily draws said life about her now. Her Spark is yet her own, it would not be snuffed out, and so she survives partially out of her own stubbornness.
Knock Out gags, turns aside, glares at Shockwave.
“She lives.”
“At what cost!”
“She lives, Doctor.”
Slipstream keeps herself busy at work, but her thoughts are preoccupied.
Sickly Orion Pax remains laid out in silent stasis under Ratchet’s care, unable to explain, too weak to even commune with the terminal interface through connection to the brain module, almost entirely shut down to heal and detoxify. The Matrix yet burns inside his breast, bright and bolstering within the open cavity, until the breastplate is gently reset in place, resealing the Spark chamber.
“His Spark is gone,” Ratchet mutters lowly. “And yet my scans indicate a strong Spark signature - his signature, amplified.”
“No Spark?” Slipstream shudders, wings folding anxiously. “Then how does he live?”
“I think…” The elderly medic clears his vents, frowning down at the datapad. “I think the Matrix absorbed his Spark, containing it. They are seemingly inseparable, now.”
“He doesn’t want this. He never wanted this.” The Seeker bows her helm. “It’s making him miserable.”
“It’s also resisting, repelling the poison. My detox solution isn’t accounting for all of his recovery. The Matrix is no mere parasite.”
“So, he really is the last Prime.”
“Whether he likes it or not,” Ratchet intones.
“Poor guy,” Slipstream murmurs.
“I knew what you said you would do, but I’d hoped you’d come to your senses!”
“It is done.”
“And what am I supposed to tell the likes of Flamewar, Soundwave?”
“You may inform the concerned parties that Shadow Striker is stable and ready to be seen this day.”
“Butcher. Megatron will never permit this – this – this miscreation, shambling about! It shall terrify all other witnesses half to death!”
“I achieved my objective. It is you who is the failure, Doctor, for abandoning your post. I will state as much in the report to Megatron or Empress in his place.”
“Screw the report! Accept accountability! Don’t you feel anything? Look at her, at what you did to her, and tell me you feel something!”
Shockwave will not make optic-contact, now. He turns his back and busies himself at his terminal, dismissing Knock Out with a security drone to escort him away. But what are these feelings?
Wheeljack, then Acid Storm, gone, driven away by science too extreme.
“…Irrelevant,” the solitary scientist concludes quietly, speaking to himself. Who else would he speak to - the mindless drones who serve him?
There is no one else, now.
“Ariel gave us the whole day off. You sure you don’t wanna hang? Might take your mind off of stuff for a while.”
“Nah. I need a minute.”
Hot Rod accepts this with a hug and a kiss, sighing. “Okay. See you later, yeah?”
“Yeah. Later.” Bumblebee gazes guiltily aside. “We’ll, uh, have dinner together. Maybe go see a holomovie on the circuit, or something.”
“Cool. I’d like that.”
“Awesome. Me too.”
They talk some more, hug and kiss some more, then part ways barely reassured.
“Megatron, darling, I brought you a late breakfast.”
“Why do you bother.”
“Don’t ask silly questions, dear,” Empress chastises gently as she sets the laden tray aside, then goes to find her mentor in the bowels of his habitation suite, his personal quarters rather large and lavish by Decepticon standards, but Starscream had demanded no less and Megatron had wanted only to please.
Megatron is found slumped at his desk, trying and failing to find solace in his past publications, collections of poetry and prose written to withstand difficult periods of his long life, inspiring so many others. Perhaps he might inspire himself, as well.
Orion had been so encouraging.
Starscream had been a fan himself.
“Eat a little, at least,” Empress intones in a tone bearing no argument or disobedience. “You must keep yourself fuelled, or you’ll fade.”
“Yes, mother.”
“Watch yourself, now.”
Megatron grumbles as his mentee drapes her arms about his pauldrons and leans against him from behind, kissing him atop the helm as her ample breastplate presses into the back of his neck.
“How would you like it if I called you father, mm?”
“I would like that very much.”
“Would you, truly?”
“Yes, I would, truly.”
“Well,” she mutters softly to herself, “that’s just made this a tad awkward.”
He does not seem to mind, scrolling through lines of his own script with nostalgic lenses in his mournfully narrowed optics, thinking about lovers and friends.
“Do you suppose you’ll be available, today?”
“No. Attend to the Decepticons in my place.”
“Understood, darling. I’ll do my best to take your place.”
“See to it that you do.”
“Always, my dear.”
“Leave me, now.”
She sighs, but obeys.
He just needs a little more time.
“You got a visitor.”
Starscream is already sitting expectantly on the edge of his cot, facing the transparent Energon barrier, when Strongarm escorts Bumblebee over to the cell.
“You wanna be left alone with him?”
“Yes, please. Thanks. Take a wheel-nut on your way out.”
“Will do.” The police officer dismisses herself with a grunt and a bite from her fresh wheel-nut, leaving the scout with the Seeker.
“Hey.”
“Salutations. You look tired.”
“Yeah. Hardly slept. You look tired, too.”
“Indeed. I have barely recharged in days.”
“That’s not healthy.”
“I get by.”
“Well, I brought wheel-nuts. Want one?”
“Yes, please, I’m famished. Pass me one with copper sprinkles, if you’ve got one.”
“So you’re sleep-deprived and starving,” Bumblebee notes with some bitterness as he carefully pushes an appropriate wheel-nut through the feeding chute.
Starscream pounces upon the treat, snatching it up and inhaling the hot rubber deeply to sate the senses, before taking a savage bite out of it and chewing with relish to sate his hunger, moaning.
It makes the scout feel a little less bad about himself, because he feels a little worse for the Seeker. “You can have most of these, if you want. I’m not hungry, really.”
Wheel-nuts are junk food devoid of much nutrition, the sort of consumption that tastes good and satisfies chemical cravings within the addict’s brain module, yet adds plump, flabby mass to protoform mesh when taken in excess. Starscream is looking rather diminished, curvy though he may be, and so will benefit.
Bumblebee nibbles on just one wheel-nut, surrendering the rest of the bag.
“What’s that under your arm, bug?” enquires the Seeker eventually, after devouring three wheel-nuts without saying anything.
“Oh, this?”
“Obviously that.”
“It’s a gaming rig. An old one, admittedly. Clunky, but it works fine. These are expensive brand new. Thought we might try a campaign of Dead-Dark-Drone, if you want.”
“Hmm. I’ve never tried it, though I’ve seen the Seekers indulge. It’s a game of strategy, mmyes?” The Seeker rubs his chin as in in thought, discretely wiping the wheel-nut grease away from his pretty dermas.
“Yeah, it gets wicked complicated if you take it sorta seriously. Loads of layers to the game, really competitive scene among the professional players, and the rulebook gets updates, like, every year or so to stamp out the unfair exploits and cheaters.” The scout smiles down at his wheel-nut, soft and sad. “I’m pretty good, but not, uh, professionally good. Good enough.”
“I see. Seekers are appalling strategists. I’m sure they were playing it wrong, so I hardly picked any of it up from watching them play.” Starscream hesitates a moment, then clears his vents delicately. “Can you… teach me, perhaps?”
Bumblebee looks up, his soft, sad smile deepening.
“Say hi to boss bot for me, whenever you guys do visit her.”
“We will, sweetie. Love you.”
“Love you too.” Flamewar accepts a kiss on the cheek from Thunderblast, a pat on the helm from Demolishor, a squeeze on the arm from Soundwave, and general motherly fussing from Empress.
“Oh, my little one, you must focus on rest and recovery now. I’ll pop in and check up on you whenever my work allows me the moment, alright?”
“Thanks, big boss lady. You’re neat.”
“Let me give you a hug.”
“Gently, okay? Fragile.”
“Of course, sweet thing.”
Flamewar is utterly engulfed in Empress, managing to purr feebly.
“You’re not as rookie as you want me to think, are you?” Bumblebee surmises after a few hours of playtime. “Tch. No way. You’re totes testing out a strat on me, here. Am I really teaching you anything, or are you just messing with me right now?”
Starscream smirks coyly from behind the barrier, having resorted to dictating his moves for the other mech to perform upon the console on his behalf to overcome the prohibitions of this cell’s separation from the free world.
“Did you want me to feel cockier, assuming you couldn’t play, so I’d underestimate you and make mistakes?”
“Perhaps.”
“Sneaky fragger.”
“Or perhaps I’m genuinely just that clever and I catch on quickly, with minimal instruction necessary.”
“Heh, yeah, wouldn’t put that past you. Seriously, though, new or not, I can already tell you’ve got the makings of a great player.”
“Why, thank you, bug.”
“My darling, don’t go. It’s very upsetting. Please, spare yourself a while longer – even if it is inevitable, it need not be now.”
“I have to go, sweetie. I gotta be there for the old glitch when she wakes up. I care and she knows it.”
“The condition she’s in! I’m afraid simply to tell you what I know, so awful are those details. For you to bear witness to her, in that state! I can hardly stand to imagine what you’ll think and feel. But if you insist, I won’t stop you. Here we are.” That said, Empress reluctantly escorts the group to the recovery ward. “Ah, Doctor.”
“Pardon the interjection. A brief word.”
“I’ve already cautioned them against this, dear Doctor, but I’m afraid it’s quite useless. These are good friends, determined to face the unfathomable, together.”
“Now, I do realise that seeing her in such a state will be very upsetting – for which you have my sympathy, of course – but I want none of you coming after me when the shock wears off and you seek someone to blame. Know that I had nothing to do with this awful business, I chose to walk away rather than partake, and this was all Shockwave’s doing, so take it out on him if you must,” Knock Out intones lowly, barring the way to the ward. “You’re a dangerous lot, but I’m innocent here, so please leave me and mine out of it. Alright?”
Thunderblast and Demolishor exchange a grimace.
“I already know whom to blame,” Soundwave utters lowly, laced with static. He seems impassive to the sympathetic look and apologetic pat on the arm that follow, as if to soothe him.
“Good mech. I’ll do what I can for her, little things here and there to aid in her recovery, but I’m afraid there really isn’t much I can do for her now. I truly regret this ordeal.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
“Try to be strong, for her sake most of all. She needs you now more than ever.”
“Understood. Step aside, please.”
“Very well, then. You may proceed.” Knock Out cringes as he finally steps aside, allowing Soundwave to calmly stride into the ward, followed by the obviously anxious Thunderblast and Demolishor, Empress tailing the group. “Again, my condolences…”
“Now, this will be a terrible shock, my darlings, so do bolster yourselves and each other. I’m here for you.”
Thunderblast reaches back and grabs Empress’ servo for courage and comfort. “Thanks, sweetie.”
The stagnant air within the ward smells like inner Energon and sterilising chemicals. The lights are harsh white and irritate the optics. Steps resonate on the bare metal tiles, echoing against bare metal walls.
Shockwave is already here, minus his assistant Acid Storm, only the drones in attendance. He looks up, finials low, frowning deeply. “Greetings, designations Empress, Soundwave, Thunderblast, and Demolishor. You are within the parameters of visitation hours.”
Soundwave is the first to approach Shadow Striker. He settles beside the gurney, hissing static.
“Oh, Primus…!” Thunderblast gasps loudly, heel struts skidding on the floor as she stumbles beside him. “No. This can’t be. No, no, no…!” In turn, she drags Empress in, hugging her. “This can’t be happening right now!”
“Ugh, scrap. Hardly any wonder the Doc told us off.” Demolishor knots his tubular digits together, fidgeting whilst taking his place. “In all my many years of war and peace, all the maintenance I’ve endured trying to keep this old body ticking over, I’ve never seen a chop shop job like this one. Frag.”
Shadow Striker has yet to wake up, but her vital signs show life.
“You are the first visitors of this day,” Shockwave notes in his monotone, not in an effort to make conversation, but simply as an outward observation of fact.
They all know there will be precious few people willing to see Shadow Striker in recovery, as precious few people actually like her enough to bother caring about how she fares. She is only valued as a capable Decepticon, but generally disliked as a person. Her whole world could fit in this ward, but her world is rather small, despite living such a varied life. It seems it will shrink further, now.
“Was this necessary?” Demolishor turns his hulking, menacing physique upon Shockwave. “Did you really have to do this to her? Was there really no other way?”
“To ensure her survival, this was the only option.”
“You’d better hope so, for your sake.”
“Do not threaten me. Final warning.”
Soundwave clenches his fists at his sides.
“This is horrible! She’s… I don’t even know what she is, but she’s hardly herself any more!”
“Oh, cyberswan, please don’t say that.”
“Like, for real, are those Seeker parts, attached to her?! Where’d the rest of her go?!”
“Affirmative. The rest was deemed beyond use and discarded according to the appropriate guidelines.”
“Eeew! That’s so fragged up! You’ve turned her into a monster and just threw parts of her in the bin, like trash!”
“She will survive, due to my intervention.”
“Uh, yeah! And she’ll hate you for it!”
“In time, she may acquire gratitude. This is ultimately irrelevant to my function.”
Soundwave’s static rises in volume.
“The data readout indicates–” Shockwave glances at the monitor to confirm. “She is stable enough for revival. Would you require that I attempt to induce the boot-up sequence?”
“Errm, perhaps not now.” Empress soothes Thunderblast, gazing down at Shadow Striker with pity. “There’s a great deal of upset in this room. I think we need to find a way to constructively diffuse, before taking that step.”
“I don’t know if I can face her like that,” Thunderblast croaks, tearfully burying her face in Empress. “Frag. I’m gonna puke.” She gags wetly, but holds it in.
Demolishor tries to look tough, only to burst into tears himself, whining in his surprisingly sensitive way. “Ohhh, Shadow Striker, I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” He conceals his mismatched optics beneath his awkward palms and sobs over the gurney.
Soundwave had hacked into Shockwave’s drones discretely some hours ago, utilising them as spies, and thus saw the grisly aftermath of the experimental surgical procedure. This does not make the mech feel in any way prepared to face the femme he loves as a best friend, nor can he throttle his rarely roused temper as the spymaster lunges suddenly and pins the scientist to the wall.
“Release me at once.”
“I should kill you.”
“Ill-advised.”
“Bastard.”
“Security.”
Drones aim their weapons.
Soundwave only releases Shockwave because Empress grabs the smaller mech and yanks him away, holding him back whilst Thunderblast and Demolishor cling to each other, bawling.
Shadow Striker sleeps through the whole ordeal, none the wiser to what she has become.
“Or did you mean to set me at ease,” Bumblebee says suddenly, interrupting a rather tense turn where both mechs are poised in careful consideration over the campaign, “assuming I’d play badly, because you want this to be fun for the both of us?”
“Do I seem the sort to do something like that for you?”
“It it benefits yourself, yeah, maybe, I guess.”
“Don’t romanticise me too much, bug.”
“Oi! Romanticise! What do you mean by ‘romanticise’?!”
“You’re making something handsome out of me. Now, I am exceedingly handsome, as well as beautiful and charming, this is all undisputable.” Starscream sits back, tilts his helm, bobs his wings. “But you needn’t get funny ideas, bug.”
“Oh, please, as if I’d ever – stop that.”
“Stop what?”
“That.”
“What is ‘that’?”
“The thing. You’re doing the thing. Don’t you dare do it to me right now.”
“Do what? What thing?”
“That. That thing.”
“I’m doing absolutely nothing out of the ordinary, you absurd insect.”
“It’s cute, you big parrot. Stop it.”
“Oh, you mean this? Do I remind you of Slipstream, when I do this?” Starscream tilts his helm to the other side and bobs his wings again, the bastard.
“Ugh.”
“Is that what makes this cute? This is cute, as it is akin to her?”
“Yes,” Bumblebee grinds out through a grimace. “She’s adorable. Please don’t make me associate you two together more than I already do. Eugh. Stoppit already.”
“I’m not cute.”
“It’s a Seeker thing, okay.”
“Oh, so you have a fetish for fliers, is that it?”
“Frag off. I love two fliers, one of them is my bestie. It’s not a fetish.”
“I imagine you fawn all over Windblade and Slipstream like a pair of pretty birds.”
“Yeah, so what?”
“How demeaning.”
“Look, I’m sorry if you’ve been objectified, but it’s not like that with me. They’ve made it pretty clear they like it, or I wouldn’t fuss over them otherwise. I like a little fussing, too.” As if to express this, Bumblebee wiggles his door-wings. “You see this scrap? Windblade loves it. Drives her wild, dude. She is all over me when I do this.” Another wiggle, this time accompanied by a distinct buzzing sound, perhaps a peculiar quirk of the terrestrial’s engine.
Starscream tries to look unimpressed, but a faint quirk to the corner of his frowning dermas betrays him just a tiny bit. “Pathetic.”
“Whatever. It’s your turn. Make your move.”
“Do it again.”
The scout huffs, but obligingly wiggles his doors, very akin to wings in how they project from his back.
For whatever reason, it makes the surly Seeker giggle.
“What, you like that, too?”
“One more time.”
“Fine. One more, okay, and that’s it. One more, before this gets weird.”
Thunderblast and Demolishor have excused themselves as they are simply too upset, and Empress went with them to console them.
“How is she?”
“Alive, but…”
“…But?”
“Different.”
Flamewar swallows thickly.
“Knock Out and Empress kept the truth from us for a reason. I regret peering past the veil of their deception. Yet when I went there and saw her in person, it was somehow worse.”
“What did you see?”
Soundwave hangs his helm and bows his pauldrons. Silently, he finds Flamewar’s claws and grabs onto them, squeezing. He trembles to the touch.
“You’re scaring me. How could it be so bad? Yeah, Shockwave’s a psycho, but boss bot couldn’t ever be reduced to anything but the femme we love, no matter what the scalpel cuts. She’s alive and–”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.”
Soundwave hisses static, shuddering as his composure slips away, revealing a hurt mech.
Flamewar tries to drag herself out of berth, but finds her limbs leaden and her brain module swimming in painkilling chemical agents.
Bumblebee has not forgotten his guilt, but he is so very distracted that he is finally able to focus on something beyond feeling suicidally bad about himself. Somehow, this game of Dead-Dark-Drone has grown into a discussion about personal interests.
“Ahhh, I love the stage.”
“You do seem like a bit of a theatre kid at Spark. Thundercracker, too.”
“Thundercracker is, admittedly, more of the creative spirit than I. But he’s better suited to just that, creation – studiously working in the background, assembling together a story, setting the scenes, choosing his cast of characters. But I wish to be front and centre, illuminated.” Starscream flourishes elegantly. “The shining Star.”
“That’s cool. Windblade loves performative arts.”
“Mmyes, she has some culture, but she is also perfectly content to watch dull, boring Cube games, is she not.”
“You still bitter about that?”
“I shall die bitter about that.”
“Me too. Glitch.”
“Still sulking? How long have you laid in your berth since I last checked? Too long, I assume! Come now, darling. It’s not so grim.”
“I put Orion in grave danger. Starscream rots in a cell on my account.”
“We didn’t find a body. That was confirmation enough, but we got more confirmation that the Prime yet lives.” Empress sits on the edge of the berth, reaching over to run her palm soothingly along the slope of Megatron’s back strut, the mourning mech laid out on his belly and breast with his face buried in the synthetic pillow. “Soundwave is a bit, errm, indisposed just now, though his spies did report that Orion was rescued and returned to the other side. Sickly, perhaps, but alive. You know this, so believe it. Have hope. Cheer up. The Decepticon cause needs you, dear. I need you.”
“Grrrmph.”
“Yes, we lack your lover, Starscream. Indeed, we lost your lover, Orion. But they yet live and so do we. It isn’t all so bad, is it, my darling?”
The old gladiator rumbles miserably as his far younger mentee caresses the backside of his helm.
“Seeing you so sad is no good for the troops, dear. Yet locking yourself away like this, permitting none to approach you but I, in turn saddens me too. I do worry, you know. Is there nothing I could offer you here and now, that might entice a rise out of you?”
Megatron lifts his helm, turning to peer back at Empress from over his slumped pauldron, hellish optics swimming in tears.
“Oh, my dear.” She smiles prettily for such a thug, genuinely trying to adopt an expression of sympathy. She has a rather soft, ladylike face beneath the hardened edges and criss-crossing scars. As her hygiene has vastly improved – partially due to Knock Out’s cosmetic expertise, yet also a necessary consequence of having acquired a lady of her own to fawn over – she has come to smell rather nice, her cologne replacing the old sweat and bloodshed of the arena. “Let me soothe you, distract you. Lazing about in berth all day is of no use to such a brilliant mind and beautiful body. May I, please?”
“Perhaps.” He sighs quietly, managing to roll over with elderly strain despite being in such superb shape. Laid out on his back plates now, he gazes up at her, gazing down at him. “What did you have in mind.”
“A game of holocards over some high-grade, to start.”
“Very well, then.”
She stoops briefly to kiss his forehelm, then rises again and saunters away. “Get up and join me, then.”
He is quite fond of her, truth be told, though the pleasant fog she instils in him does evaporate eventually.
“You will come see me again tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir!” Bumblebee salutes ridiculously.
“Terrible form,” Starscream intones crisply, but he smiles with some relief.
“I’ll bring you some real food. Something healthy and home-made. I make a mean chrome-alloy pie.”
“Now, now, you needn’t go to the – well, actually, I am rather hungry and I do like a good pie.”
“Sure. See ya.”
“Errm, Bumblebee, one last thing.”
“Yeah?”
The Seeker looks rather uncomfortable as he confesses quietly, “I do enjoy these visits. More than you realise, I’m sure.”
The scout softens, suddenly tearful, but smiles all the same. “Yeah. I’ve needed space from my wonderful but sometimes overbearing friends, so you give me that distance I need. Helps that you’re being kinda… decent. Mostly.”
“And to think, you wanted me to hurt you with my most cutting quips.”
“Yeah. Funny how it’s worked out, huh.”
“Indeed. Most strange.”
A pause.
“Did you say decent? Mostly decent?”
“Oh, here we go.”
“I’ve been a gentlemech. You’re full of nonsense, bug.”
“And with that, I’ll be going, now. Until tomorrow.”
“Yes. Until tomorrow.”
Bumblebee walks away. The guilt consumes him again. He now has nothing else to think about, other than how he deserves to die.
Starscream is left behind, locked in his cage, wings drooped and pauldrons buckled. Nothing to do, nowhere to go, no one to comfort him. Because that is what he must acknowledge, in some deep, dark reserve within himself – he has found a curious, unforeseen, frankly scandalous little source of some comfort, these latter days.
Irritated by the interruption, Empress has left Megatron to attend to a security hazard, called upon by the guards to deal with an interloper at the gates. Her irritation abates as she encounters a femme bearing an astonishing resemblance Shadow Striker, albeit with some differentiation in vehicular kibble, less sinister colouration, and lacking the scope.
“I’m here for Shadow Striker.”
Empress gathers herself with a fluster. “Oh, my!”
“I’m family.”
“Why, you do bear considerable resemblance!”
“Let me see my sister.”
“Of course, dear! We aren’t barbarians here. Don’t mind the guards, they do their best. Come, follow me.”
Roulette follows in the huge femme’s wake.
“Now, I must warn you, she’s in rather, ahem, appalling shape.”
“She’s alive.”
“Yes, but this does come with a caveat, dear.”
At the end of another working day, Slipstream does not immediately head home as she usually would. She goes to another home, one she considers as much her own. She has a key to the door and permission to pass as she pleases, so she lets herself inside. “Bee?”
“Oh! H-hey, Slip!”
“Can we talk?”
“Sure! Just, uh… I’m kinda in the middle of…” Bumblebee’s voice emanates from the wash rack, but his small, modest habitation suite makes all the rooms feel cloistered close together, thus the barriers between seem so thin.
The Seeker hears liquid sloshing about and realises the scout is in the bath. “Sorry. I’ll come back tomorrow.”
“No! It’s cool! I mean, I don’t mind if you pop your helm in for a minute, if you don’t mind it too. All my naughty bits are under the oil, if that helps.”
Slipstream opens the door and stands huge in the aperture, her smile very tired. “Bee, I love you and your naughty bits, okay.”
“I love you too.” Bumblebee smiles back, but his optics are tinged with another prolonged bout of crying alone. “I love you a lot, dude.”
The Seeker’s smile fades. “Maybe I shouldn’t bring her up. After all she put you through, this is so hard on you.”
“Then you’ve figured me out. All I’m trying so hard to hide from our friends.”
“Yes, I think so. I’m sorry, Bee.”
“It’s okay. Don’t act like this isn’t hard on you, too. Shadow Striker was your old mucker from back when you were with the Decepticons, and more than that, she was a friend. Besides…” The scout pats the edge of the tub, inviting her to shuffle over and take a seat there. “This conversation is gonna suck for us both.” He sniffles, blinking rapidly. “Please excuse the endless tears. I can’t help it.”
There is no condemnation in Slipstream’s ruby optics as she perches with surprising elegance on the edge of the bathtub, dragging her digits back and forth through the surface of the lukewarm oil. “How long have you been marinading in here?”
“Uh. I dunno. A couple hours, I think.”
“Prolonged soaking can cause swelling under your shell, where the protoform takes longest to dry out. This sometimes leads to chafing and rashes and, at worst, infections requiring treatment.”
“All that would be the least of my problems right now, but thanks for letting me know.” Bumblebee chokes back a sob, then drags a slick arm across his optics. “Slip, I’m not gonna lie to you this time, I swear.”
“Bee, I’m not mad at you. I didn’t come here to interrogate you.”
“You deserve a confession. I did it, Slip. I got in the way, got Orion out of that warehouse, and in all the confusion, somehow, I… Oh, Primus, Slip, I didn’t m-mean to…”
The Seeker finds the scout’s bent knee bobbing near the surface and cups it.
“The fire. The fire! It’s my fault, Slip!” Whinging like a kicked cyberdog, Bumblebee digs the heels of his palms into his optics, shuddering a cascade of ripples across the oil. “Shadow Striker! Flamewar! Because of me!”
“Bee.”
“Please don’t h-hate me!”
“Shadow Striker’s alive.”
“W-what?”
“I don’t know if Flamewar’s doing okay, I just refuse to believe she could ever leave me, she promised me not to die,” Slipstream intones with a sob of her own, squeezing his knee tight enough to hurt whilst dragging her other digits down the angle of her helm, as if to dig out the terrible thoughts within. “Flames has gotta be alive. She has to be. And Acid said Shadow Striker survived that night at the warehouse. Shockwave did something to her. I’m gonna go see them, Bee.”
“But the Decepticons–”
“I don’t care. I need to see Shadow Striker, see what Shockwave did to her. I need to see my little Flames to prove I’m right, that she is alive. She has to be. I feel it in here.” A huge fist slams down on the cockpit, but the shielding holds. “In here, Bee. My Spark. Her h-home.”
Bumblebee rises from the tub, dripping oil, as Slipstream bursts into tears.
“And if I’d l-lost you, Bee… I couldn’t do any of this, any more… without you!”
“Oh, Slip. My love.”
“Your death would’ve destroyed me, all of us, but Windblade… Windblade! How could I ever face her w-without you?”
Slippery and clumsy with upset, they topple together into the tub and opt to lie there, soaked and sobbing together. The much larger Seeker crushes the scout below, but his helm is above oil and he does not notice any discomfort under her great weight, nor does she consider this position as anything more than mutually assured destruction as she allows herself simply to be held.
Chapter 79
Notes:
Happy Easter if you celebrate it. Alternatively, I hope you have a long weekend and find the rest you seek.
Next chapter is going to be the sharp descent into Shadow Striker's madness, whereas this chapter is another stepping-stone in Starscream and Bumblebee's shared fate (they're an endgame ship, they just don't know it yet). I did rush this chapter to get it out in time for my long weekend, since I have other plans that might detract from my writing for a bit, but I still think it came out quite nicely. Thank you for reading and please enjoy. You continue to inspire me, so I can only strive in the hope that I'll continue to entertain.
Possible trigger warnings: survivor's guilt, body horror, suicidal ideation, depression vibes, mental and emotional anguish.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Slipstream crowds the little berth, being as big as she is, but she is a wonderful berthmate to have, her boxy musculature bearing much cuddly comfort despite her scary shape and size, giving as much of her share as she takes. She makes Bumblebee feel warm and safe, without any of the distractions of attraction and desire and the consequential urge to interface. She just loves him and loves being loved by him. Of all his wonderful and precious friends, her companionship is in many ways the easiest to enjoy.
He rubs his cheek against the bulge of her bicep, smearing tears that must have come for him in his sleep, what little sleep his troubled hive of thoughts will permit even in such a protective embrace.
She vents deeply, slowly, with a humming sound distinct of such a large jet, like she might take off and fly out the open viewing port into the dark beyond, yet she remains heavily grounded here, with him, in his berth, holding him like a toy to her breast, so firm and broad. As he nuzzles her, so she nuzzles him, rubbing the handsome bridge of her olfactory sensor against his helm like a cybereagle dragging the blunt of her beak against a cybermouse, only this is a very gentle and kind cybereagle and the cybermouse has no fear of that beak and what nature intended.
Windblade is just as affectionate, although she comes across as aloof from the outset. As Bumblebee’s best friend, she has spent much of her affection on him especially, and in turn their intimate proximity has taught one another much about fliers and terrestrials respectively, all the little signs and tells and quirks.
For instance, Bumblebee knows that if he drags his digits over the vents close to Slipstream’s audials, she will inevitably resonate with a contented cooing sound, just like Windblade does when her audials are gently caressed about the casing.
Predictably, as those stubby digits pinch and fondle those sensitive vents, the Seeker begins to coo in her slumber, though her cooing is deeper and more resonant, more massive than the Cityspeaker’s pretty and musical coos.
It makes the scout smile. He closes his wet optics and tries not to hear the never-ending screams in his helm. And then he has a funny thought.
Starscream must coo, too. His coos could be lovely to listen to, perhaps sounding more raspy and suave. Not cuddly by nature, but still, surely if encountered in the right mood, in the right setting, he might indulge in a little affection, a little intimacy. A nice little scratch behind the audial could get the grouchy bird singing a bittersweet song.
Bumblebee opens his optics wide in disbelief at himself.
Oh, no.
Shockwave is unsure of why, but he has permitted Roulette to remain at Shadow Striker’s side beyond the limits of visiting hours, maintaining a quiet, tender vigil between sisters. It is a violation of code, yet he permits it, granting the femmes distance by stepping into a recharge pod to sleep for a couple of hours whilst standing up, tucked away in an unobstructive corner of the ward. His drones will attend to his work in his absence. His systems will notify him of any irregularities worthy of his attention. Until then, let the sisters be and let him finally rest.
Acid Storm smiles at Shockwave in a dream. Or is it a memory?
Night passes quietly. It is early the next morning, bringing with it a new day of horrors.
Casually stepping into the habitation suite, as friends are wont to do, Windblade smiles at the sight of Bumblebee bustling about in a stained foil apron with ‘kiss the chef’ boldly emblazoned across the frilly breast. He does love to bake, so perhaps it helps him heal, now.
He has not noticed her yet, humming an aimless tune as he checks the furnace.
Following written instructions to the very last letter, she deposits her kiss upon his cheek, in turn pleasantly surprising but not startling him.
“Oh! Hi, bestie.”
“Hi, honeybee.”
He stretches his small self to kiss her back. He has been crying recently, but he smiles up at her now. Her little ray of sunshine.
“Something smells good. Is that your famous chrome-alloy pie?”
“You know it, babe. Want some?”
“Yes, please. Is Slip sleeping in?”
“Nope,” Slipstream replies, returning from the cold storage unit with baking supplies in her arms. “Hi, honey.”
“Hey, handsome.”
“I’m being helpful.”
“I can see that. Good girl.”
It melts the scout’s Spark when the depressed Seeker finds the energy to do the most adorable little jig on the spot, entirely within her nature and unforced, always a sucker for praise.
The Cityspeaker giggles, covering her smile under a dainty palm. “Aw, Slip.”
“I am a good girl!”
“Yes, you are.”
“Best girl, even.”
“Aw, you guys, thanks.” Slipstream settles again, losing some of her light in the process, but her optics are warm and her posture is gentle as she sets the baking supplies on the counter and then captures her lover in a hug, kissing Windblade soundly.
“Thanks, Slip.”
“Mmhm.”
Bumblebee chuckles softly, watching the wing wagging that goes on between them.
Starscream lost a good chunk of one wing to Stormfall, but over that game of Dead-Dark-Drone, he still wagged what was left, as if having lost nothing at all.
“Primus’ sake, stop thinking about him, Bee.”
The Seeker and Cityspeaker pry their dermas off of each other, turning together to gaze confusedly at the scout. “Bee?” they echo with concern, in each other’s arms.
“Uh, nothing! Nothing at all. Hahaha. Ha…”
Windblade looks up at Slipstream with a worried frown, echoed.
Bumblebee busies himself with lining another baking tin with silicon wafer pastry, folding the overflow neatly over the edges to form a lip, upon which he will fold over a lid of wafer as a seal, but only after the chopped chrome-alloy pie filling in Energon gravy is poured within the mould and settles evenly. Only then shall the stuffed and assembled pie be ready for the furnace. He already has one pie baking away, hence the delicious aroma wafting about his little home.
That pie is for Starscream.
“Do you require sustenance? My drones can retrieve a suitable ration.”
“No.”
Feeling rather less optimized than the data of previous recharge periods would forecast, Shockwave nods once, then drifts sullenly away.
Roulette has not left Shadow Striker’s side in hours upon hours, sleepless and silent.
“That pie was delicious.” Windblade lowers her helm gracefully over her clean plate. “Thank you.”
“Bestie, you know you don’t gotta bow every time.”
“I’m honoured every time, hence the gesture, Bee.”
Bumblebee flops his wrist with a giggle, waving her off.
“Now, then. With our bellies full and time to ourselves, I must ask.”
Slipstream cradles her mug of hot Energon tea with a grimace, sensing the confrontation to come.
“You two sought comfort in each other last night. That’s beautiful. Now, I invite you both to seek comfort in me. I think it’s time we all talked.”
A pause, as if to clear the air.
“Do you two want to tell me something? Anything at all?”
“Uh.”
“Mm.”
“Talk to me. I’ll listen without judgment or interruption.” That said, the Cityspeaker becomes scarily intense all of a sudden, as she sometimes does. Her big blue optics determinedly rove between the grimacing Seeker and sighing scout, brows low in a soft but serious frown, palms laid upon the table to indicate a lack of ulterior motives.
“Nothing escapes you, bestie.”
Windblade nods once, then just looks at him, waiting expectantly.
“Okay. You got me. I can’t keep anything hidden from you, not for long. I hate keeping you hanging, like all our other friends, worrying about little ol’ me.” Bumblebee plays with his fork. He lacks an appetite and only managed to get half his fat, oozing slice of pie down before the nausea became too much. “It’s about that night at the warehouse, the fire, and…” Of course he feels his optics well, a painful lump swelling in his throat, a bottomless drop to his gut. “Shadow Striker, Flamewar, Orion and… me. What I did. What happened, because I got involved.”
“It wasn’t your fault, Bee,” Slipstream interjects gently, finding his digits and holding them in her much bigger servo. “You did your best, in a terrible situation, and it was an awful accident.” Her optics well, too. “Oh, Bee.”
Windblade aches for them.
“Still here, I see.”
“Nowhere else to go.”
Empress simpers in a manner meant to convey comfort, hovering hugely close by, though she tries not to draw too near. “I’m sure you two shall figure this out somehow. If we Decepticons can do anything to help, do let me know.”
“Who did this to her.”
“Oh, well, Shockwave was the surgeon, though his methods–”
“Not the surgery. The explosion.”
“Ah. Yes. Well.”
Roulette cradles Shadow Striker’s remaining servo. Not the Seeker’s servo crudely melded to her in place of her own. That foreign extension of her sister is stoically ignored.
“According to the only other Decepticon to survive that terrible night, there was an interloper.”
“Who.”
“A yellow fellow called Bumblebee, I believe. One of the Council’s little scouts. That’s a tragic unforeseen hitch in an otherwise well-coordinated plan, you must understand. Flamewar and Shadow Striker make a great team.”
“Where is Flamewar.”
“In the other ward, over on Doctor Knock Out’s side. This is technically a laboratory, not a medical bay, and Shockwave is technically not a medic, though he is a surgeon of some sort. For the rest, we have Knock Out, a most lovely mech.”
“I need to see her.”
“She’ll be delighted, I’m sure. Very in love with your sister, that one.”
“I know.”
“Oh, that poor little thing. Perhaps you could dispense a little comfort? I’m afraid the rest of us aren’t quite cutting it. Flamewar only wants for Shadow Striker now, or Slipstream, or ideally both.”
“The Seeker.”
“You’ve met? Such a handsome femme. They formed a throuple of a sort. Isn’t that just so progressive?”
Roulette says nothing, simply gazing down at Shadow Striker with deep, dark thought.
“I’ll leave you to it, then. But do call for me, if you require anything. Family is important to us Decepticons, you know.” Empress offers a light little pat on the back, then shuffles away. “We’re much like a dysfunctional family ourselves.”
For a while, Windblade says nothing, simply sat there, silently reviewing this confessional in her keen, careful mind.
Bumblebee is on Slipstream’s lap, and as she holds him close, she holds nothing but her entire self against him, shushing him softly with kissing and nuzzles and lowly murmured words of forgiveness.
Eventually, the Cityspeaker looks up, pale face barren of any expression. “Forgive me. It was hard for you to relay and relive that night to me here and now, harder than I can ever dare to imagine, and I grieve with you. I’m so sorry.”
The scout sniffles, managing to nod against the Seeker’s chin.
“And I pray that Shadow Striker and Flamewar are both safe and healing. Those are your people, but you both are mine, and your pain is my pain. I am here for you and I will remain by you, in all things, always.”
Slipstream and Bumblebee collectively whimper as Windblade reaches over and touches them.
“This isn’t something you should blame yourselves for. Nobody else blames you. You forgive each other, now forgive yourselves. I know self-love is often the most conditional love, the most strained relationship, but I can reassure you that you are both worthy of love, especially of loving yourselves. It’s just about trying, day by day, until it becomes natural. In times of grief, we can only try.”
The scout and Seeker do not resist the Cityspeaker, whose slender digits and silky palms brush over familiar faces and erase all traces of tears.
“We can figure this out, together, as a team, just as we always have, and always will. That being said, I beg of you to confide in me. I want you to understand that you should never feel the need to hide anything from me ever again. Take the time you need, but please don’t be afraid.” Windblade smiles now, handsome and invincible, yet gentle. “As Grimlock would propose – more tea?”
Bumblebee and Slipstream nod together. Their forehelms are kissed.
“My loves.”
Sentinel had claimed to invest a great deal of his considerable wealth into improving security standards within the Council chambers, so that cloaks would no longer deceive. And yet he has often told lies to save face.
Ariel returns to her office – cleared of all her destroyed organic projects since the Decepticon invasion and the Functionist uprising, her surviving research now sealed in a vault for posterity’s sake, Captain Snuffles’ cage left empty – and finds a messenger drone awaiting her. It automatically activates when she draws close to it.
“Ariel.”
“Megs.”
“You are hurt. You are angry.”
“Damn right I am.”
“I realise I have no right to ask this of you, and so I shall resort to begging.”
Ariel falls into her chair, creaking beneath her weight.
“We need to talk. I must see you. Please.” Somehow, the holographic Megatron still seems to gaze in her direction, though it cannot replicate his sight. “Let it all end.”
“Come out here, up to my doorstep, and say all that to my face.”
“I mourn him. I am rendered a cowardly old mech, alone in my room. I need you.” With sorrowful optics and a trembling chin, Megatron’s hologram bares his palm in meek invitation, reaching across the desk. “Let us meet and talk terms for peace.” A shaky exhale. “For Orion.”
“For Orion,” Ariel echoes, reaching back, laying her palm over the hologram’s own. “But I don’t forgive you so easily.”
Flamewar rouses, peering through the fog of drugs, and smiles groggily. “Boss bot?”
“Sorry to disappoint.”
“Oh. Right. Same face and body, mostly. Different details.”
Roulette’s visor is retracted, thus her optics are exposed, burning with anger and sorrow and fear and nausea alike, all tightly restrained and composed.
“Here for your sister.”
“She’s all I have.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me, too.”
“I tried to save her. The fire didn’t stop me from finding what little of her I could. I held her in my arms, like this.” The bike mimics cradling a great weight in her tired arms. “She looked right at me.”
“Hence why you’re laid out in this berth.” The bounty hunter grinds her angular jaw. “You went in after her and got hurt trying.”
“Yeah.”
“Idiot.”
Flamewar stiffens as large digits interweave within hers, then relaxes when it becomes apparent that Roulette has no intention of hurting her, at least not physically.
“My sister would’ve got out of the Decepticons and stayed out, but you convinced her to come back.”
“I needed Slippy, and dreamboat, and treads. But if I knew back then, that this was gonna happen to her now, I would’ve stayed away forever just to prevent it. My friends – my family – would’ve forgiven me for that distance. But nobody knew.”
“Shuddup.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Shut. Up.”
The bike feels the bounty hunter’s big, strong servo tighten, but it does not hurt.
“I saw her in that ward,” Roulette intones, deathly quiet. “My beautiful baby sister. My little girl. Are you aware of the… consequences, of that procedure? You have no idea what you’ve done, do you.”
Flamewar scrunches up her scarred, scuffed little face and weeps.
“And if you could find it in your Spark to show me the ultimate kindness, after all the pain I caused, I ask you – no, I beg of you – to bring me back my muse, my master. Return to me my love, my light. Pity an old fool. I am incomplete without him, my most crucial piece. He understands me, as you do, and so few can claim the same.”
“The twink?”
“My shining Star.”
“Dammit, Megs. You drive a hard bargain. Ugh. Prowl and Ironhide are gonna looove this.”
“I won’t stop you from doing what you feel you must do. Shadow Striker and Flamewar are your friends, even if I have my doubts about them, as much as I try not to disapprove.” Windblade sucks in air, lets it out slowly, calmly. “I understand. I support you. Know that you have my blessing.”
“I appreciate that, my love. Thank you.”
“But I’m coming with you.”
“Into the Decepticon compound?”
“Into the Pits if that’s where our path takes us.”
“It’s not safe for you.”
“Likewise, Slip.”
“I’m still a Seeker. I still bear the Deceptibrand. They might let me in.”
“And will they let you go after? You can’t promise me that and I can’t lose you again. I won’t let you go without me. You have my sword and I have your back.”
Unable to resist, Slipstream smiles wonkily at Windblade, a little flushed. “My hero. So strong and brave. So dreamy.”
“I’m coming too.” Bumblebee sits up straight, scowling his determination. “I gotta make this right with Shadow Striker and Flamewar. I have to prove I’m not their enemy, if only to prove it to myself. If they tell me to frag off, then that’s okay, but I want them to know I care and I never meant for any of this to happen.” He sniffs wetly. “I want to tell them I’m sorry.”
“This is a huge risk,” the Seeker intones to her friends. “I’m not comfortable taking you two with me.”
“I’m not defenceless.” The scout squeezes those larger digits. “And I need this, too. Please, take me with you.”
“I’ll keep you both safe,” answers the Cityspeaker with cool confidence. “I swear it on my Spark.”
And that settles it.
“How am I supposed to save her now? What little of my sister is left to save. You ruined her. She loved you, that fool. ”
“I’m sorry.”
“No. I’m sorry. I let this happen. I knew better. Should’ve killed you back on Velocitron. Should’ve killed you long before then.”
“I’m so s-sorry.”
“Shut your fragging–”
There is an almighty clamour of metallic impact.
“What is going on out there!” Knock Out pokes his helm out his office, struts over to investigate the commotion, and finds a chair buckled in on itself. “Hey! No rough-housing in my medbay!”
Flamewar still holds Roulette’s servo even as they both wail their anguish in very different voices.
“Before you try and dissuade us, know this. We’re not asking your permission, with all due respect, Councillor.”
Towering in muscular pink, Ariel’s bright blue optics narrow as Windblade confidently steps up to her, stopping close enough to touch.
“We’re informing you of our movements, so you can track us and keep watch here at HQ. Don’t worry for our safety. I’m ready and able.”
“You’re full of scrap, you know that. Dammit, I like a girl with guts.”
Slipstream is swooning in the background, only relatively upright and on her pedes because of Bumblebee helpfully holding her steady, mostly.
“Lucky for you, this aligns pretty nicely with my plan.”
“What plan?”
“I’ll tell you everything, but let’s save it for the meeting later, when everybody’s gathered altogether in one place. If this works out, and I pray it does, the war could soon be over.”
“Are you serious? You found a way?”
“Like I said.” Ariel rubs her brows, her intact sensory spire twitching irritably atop her helm, the other stub numb and mostly paralysed, courtesy of Empress’ parting gift. “I gotta pray about it. Primus knows when I last prayed about anything.” The old femme sniffs, then looks over at the others. “What’s that I smell?”
“Oh, um, pie, probably.”
“Smells fantastic.”
“Thanks. Want some?”
“Yes, please.”
“No time for pie,” Windblade interjects firmly, her slender, shapely muscles fully distended within her glossy shell. “Time for action.”
“Easy, hero. Cool your jets for a minute. The meeting comes first, so everybody gets involved. Team effort. Remember?”
“Very well. I’ll stand at the ready until then. My sword is yours.”
“Damn, girl. You sure are intense.”
“She’s sooo haaaandsome,” Slipstream croons, cupping her throbbing Spark.
“Heh, sure is. So. How about that pie, Bee?”
“I hope you like it,” Bumblebee intones with a soft, sad smile. “Just please leave some for him.”
“Him?”
“Um. Nobody. Just Starscream.”
“Well, fancy that. Maybe Primus is watching over us after all. Stuff’s starting to align.”
“The pie? Because I baked pie?”
“I’ll explain everything in the meeting. We’ll take a vote on it. Trust me ’til then. Can you do that?”
“I’m a little confused, but okay. I trust you.”
“Attaboy.” Ariel chuckles, ruffling Bumblebee’s helm in an abrasively maternal way. “I love you, kid. Gimme a slice, would ya.”
“Roulette.”
“Soundwave.”
“I see you met with Flamewar. She’s most upset.” Soundwave finds Roulette by an Energon dispenser. “Did Knock Out remove you from his medbay for causing a scene?”
“I left voluntarily.”
“What did you want with Flamewar?”
“To kill her. I couldn’t.”
“What stopped you?”
“My sister.”
“She loves your sister. My friend.”
“My sister loves her. That monster.”
“Don’t call her that.” Soundwave takes a step closer. “She’s still going to be herself when she wakes up. She’ll just look different.”
“Fool,” Roulette mutters through a very Shadow Striker scowl, “I’m referring to Flamewar.”
“Oh. What makes her monstrous?”
“The things she did. The person she was.”
“Does she still do those monstrous things?”
“She does other monstrous things now.”
“Is she still that same monstrous person?”
“Some part of her must be.”
“I find her very likeable. Your sister is committed to her.”
“That’s Flamewar. One thing she was always good at, one thing she clearly still remembers after that botched mnemosurgery - manipulation. Appealing to weakness and exploiting it, endearing herself to her targets, gaining their affection, their trust, then…”
Soundwave’s fixed expression impassively follows Roulette’s large digits as they enclose around a disposable tin cup tight enough to crush it, dribbling a puddle of Energon at her pedes.
“She toys with them, grows bored, and kills them. An assassin, a maniac, a servant of an old order, long gone. She remains. Other agents remain.”
“This is… a lot to digest.”
“I want my sister. I want her to be safe, and happy, and loved. Is that so wrong.”
“We want the same thing. She’s my closest companion in this world, except…” Soundwave briefly dwells on Hot Rod, then sighs. “My cat.”
Roulette quirks a sharp optic ridge, turning her helm with interest. “Your cat?”
“Ravage. He’s in his cat carrier, in here, close to my Spark.” Soundwave pats his bosom fondly. “I can feel him purring.”
“Can I see him?”
“Fond of cats, are you.”
“I’m a cat person, yes.”
Just like Shadow Striker.
Soundwave releases his breastplate and opens himself to Roulette, exposing a singular black cassette within the compartment. “My Ravage, arise.”
The cassette transforms into a sleek black cybercat, curled within Soundwave’s breast cavity, peering curously up at Roulette. Evidently her resemblance to auntie Shadow Striker is instantly noticed.
“Kitty.”
Meow?
“Hi.” Roulette offers her digits, dripping Energon. “Psss-psss-psss.”
Ravage leans in to sniff her, then licks her, his glossa abrasive and tactile.
“Oh, look at you. There’s a pretty kitty.”
“Congratulations.” Soundwave chuckles musically. “He approves.”
“I like him, too. Yes, I do.”
Meow.
“Sentinel. Alpha Trion. Orion Pax. We can’t go on this way. I can’t let things escalate more than they already have.”
The friends exchange sombre looks, respectfully silent.
“I won’t pretend to be much of a leader. I’m just an old dumbaft in a position of power trying to end a war none of you youngsters wanted. For the sake of peace, some concession must be made, but I wanna run this by you lot first so everybody has their say. I haven’t agreed to anything yet. It’s just a proposal - a plan,” Ariel declares from her place at the head of the table. “I say we return Starscream to the other side, and in exchange, Megatron has promised to parley, however long that takes to agree to a mutual pact that binds us all. Until then, both sides agree to a ceasefire and we go into a stalemate. Sentinel would’ve dug in his heels, but he’s gone, and with Orion so sick, I’m gonna be honest, but I feel pretty desperate. It’s the only shot we’ve got and I say we take that shot, I say we give it a chance, I say we should try. What say you?”
There is a low murmur that spreads across the meeting room.
“Pssst.” Hot Rod leans over to Windblade, whispering to her. “You’re smart, I’m not. What’s a parley? Is that a real word?”
“A meeting to negotiate terms. She means peace talks.”
“Oh. Okay. That’s good. Frag yeah! I say we go for it!”
“Agreed,” intones Grimlock sagely. “It’s about time we all sat down and talked sense over tea.”
“And it’d be a way into the Decepticon compound without any fighting or risk of capture,” Slipstream murmurs, squeezing Bumblebee’s servo. “We could see Shadow Striker and Flames.”
Windblade nods firmly at that. “You have my vote. I’ll still my sword, for peace.”
“Must we really relinquish Starscream?” asks Prowl with some fatigue.
“’Cause I know that’s gonna come back to bite us all in the aft later,” grumbles Ironhide, who grunts when Chromia elbows him.
“Returning Starscream would be a gesture of goodwill and an opening for further negotiation, if the first try goes sour.” Ariel scans every face in the room. “It’ll mean a lot, coming from us, considering all that’s happened.”
Prowl and Ironhide give each other a doubtful look.
“Councillor Ariel, with all due respect–”
“Ol’ Megatron’s gone mad. I reckon he’s long gone. Long, looong gone.”
Ariel narrows her optics.
Chromia elbows Ironhide again, harder. “Mind yourself, old coot.”
“Hey, like me or hate me, I am head of security. Just doin’ my job. And your elbows are real damn pointy. Ouch.”
“Ironhide is crude, but correct. Megatron certainly appears unwell. I highly doubt Starscream is entirely sane, either.” Prowl remains outwardly calm and composed when Ariel and Slipstream glare at him together, except for the way he fidgets with his stylus, a tell of stress that Strongarm knows intimately when nobody else can recognise it, soothing him with a light touch to his inner wrist. “We needn’t humour delusional thinking.”
“Starscream isn’t crazy. He’s eccentric. He can’t get any better in a cage.”
“And Megatron isn’t delusional. He wants to do a lot of good for the world, but hardly anybody ever really listened to him until he hurt people. Now the world fears him and the good he could do. He’s been trying to fix everything he perceives as wrong with the world, since we were young. The sheer frustration he feels is why he’s lashing out now.”
“What of poisoning the Prime? Is that part of this good that Megatron intends for our world?”
“Megatron would never hurt Orion on purpose.” Ariel lowers her piercing blue optics, narrowed. “But one way or another, Megatron did hurt Orion. One way or another, Megatron will answer to me, for hurting our Orion. I won’t rest until I'm satisfied. I won't let this go.”
“That's moderately reassuring. However, I'm not quite convinced.”
“I think we should let Starscream go.” Bumblebee straightens out when they all look at him. “Orion never wanted us to keep Starscream to begin with. It just seemed strategic, but it’s been cruel. It's the wrong thing to do. Yeah, Starscream should face justice, but that takes more than a cage. What's the law even worth, without compassion to balance it out, right?”
Prowl softens, sighs.
“It really is cruel. I've seen a lotta suffering in that cell. I don't enjoy watching Starscream suffer, no matter how badly he's made me suffer, or other people I love suffer. We should give him back. Set him free. Maybe this time, it'll turn out differently.” Bumblebee flushes, rubbing his neck shyly. “Maybe he'll be different.”
Slipstream and Windblade gaze tenderly down upon Bumblebee.
“Very well, then. I defer to you, Councillor.” Prowl lays his palms upon the table. “I will transfer containment of Starscream, despite my reservations otherwise.”
“Thank you, Chief.”
Ironhide huffs, but does not argue further.
“A lot’s changed since that motion to keep Starscream in custody passed without me. I’m here now. I accept full responsibility if my plan goes up in smoke or backfires somehow.”
“We trust you,” says Arcee with a soft, sisterly smile. “You got this, girl. Know that we love and support you.”
“Damn right. You got my vote.” Wheeljack offers a cheerful thumbs-up, mimicked by his service drone’s stubby limb. “Hey, uh, maybe Shockwave will finally answer my calls while the ceasefire’s on.” A weary sigh. “I miss my wife.”
“If this reduces the number of bodies in my medbay, I agree entirely.” Ratchet folds his arms in his grouchy old mech way, winking over at Slipstream, smiling fondly back at the senior medic. “Let’s parley.”
“I’m cool with it.” Cliffjumper leans casually against the wall, his vacuum drone nestled at his pedes.
Ariel looks to her people and feels her resolve strengthen.
“Hey, uh, just a quick question.” Hot Rod scratches his cheek prettily. “This parley thing, it’s, like, technically Megatron’s idea, not yours, right?”
“Right. Megatron’s the one asking to settle our differences amicably, for Orion’s sake, and I want that, too. No more death, or close calls with death. Almost losing the love of your life… That really puts things into perspective.” Ariel smiles ruefully up at the ceiling, now. “Megatron has no fight left in him now.”
“I’m afraid your last message might come across as a little… desperate, my dear.”
“I spoke from my Spark. I can do nothing more, nothing less.”
“Yes, well, I would prefer we approach the opposition from a somewhat stronger, more assertive position, for the good of our cause.”
“Our cause almost cost me Orion. He cannot hear me now, he cannot answer me.”
Empress cringes delicately, reconsidering her phrasing whilst massaging Megatron’s pauldrons.
“Our cause has cost me Sentinel. It has cost me Star. Ariel is all I have left.”
“She loves you. She knows you. Love must be the cure to this alienation that’s got you in its grip.”
“Love,” the old gladiator echoes dismally, “has come to resemble pain.”
His mentee rests her chin against his helm, kissing him softly.
“The bug is late,” is reported to no one.
What if Bumblebee does not visit today? What if he is bored, or simply dislikes this companionship? What if there is no promised pie?
Starscream’s tummy rumbles painfully. He gets flustered, wounded as his pride has become, puffing out as if to ward off a chilly breeze, his frame expanding until he is able to arch his pauldrons, tuck in his slender neck, and rest his chin atop his swelling breast all at once, his wings pinned close to his back in an unhappy expression, arms hugging himself. He thus forms something of a rounded shape from the waistline up, sat on the edge of his cot, scowling dejectedly at the Energon barrier. If he had synthetic feathers as some cyberbirds do, they would be very ruffled right now.
“You got visitors.”
The Seeker scrambles to his pedes, deflating his chassis and perking his wings, them reminds himself not to look too eager, assuming a cool posture of sultry indifference, lest his bodily language should give the impression that he is, like, somewhat excited to have pleasant company for a change, or even outright happy to see the little scout, or something equally absurd. Wait, did that cop just say visitors?
“He’s all yours,” Strongarm grunts, bringing the entourage before the cell. “Payment, please.”
“It’s pie this time. Is that okay?”
“That’s awesome. You bake this yourself?”
“I had some help.”
“Thanks. I haven’t had pie in forever. Not since Nightra. She used to – never mind.” Strongarm lopes off with a slice, munching sombrely.
Bumblebee gives her a worried look in passing, then smiles as he returns to the cell, and in turn, directs that soft, sad smile up at the likes of Starscream himself, who looks utterly stunned to find not just the expected visitor.
Ariel, Windblade, and Slipstream are here, too.
“Oh.”
“Hey. I have pie, like I promised.”
Dammit. That makes Starscream’s belly roar quite audibly to everyone else. He coughs as if to disguise it. “Errm. Mmyes. Greetings, bug. I see you brought… friends.” A flourish. “Welcome. Do come in, make yourselves comfortable. Might I get you anything? No?”
Slipstream looks so sad, her motherly gaze noting the weight loss, the lack of polish, the severed wing left in this diminished state as a testament to her brother’s villainy, like he deserves the mark of shame. She quickly averts her gaze.
Windblade is stern, wary with experience, distrustful by now, but there is concern in her gaze as she recognises the symptoms of neglect, the damage she dealt.
Ariel looks grim and resigned, but she does offer a nod. “Starscream, we have a proposal we imagine would be of great fragging interest to you, so listen up.”
“Pie first.”
“Excuse me?”
“Tell me, little bug.” Starscream pointedly ignores everyone except Bumblebee, bending a bit to level out their difference in stature, all fluttering shutters and puckered dermas, provocative. “Did you bake this just for me?”
“Yes?”
“How sweet. You shouldn’t have. But since you did, be a dear and pop that in my chute. Oh, my! That does sound suggestive, doesn’t it? You know what I mean. Wouldn’t want to worry the big bad Cityspeaker and her Seeker pet, now, would we? Never mind the imposing Councillor.”
Windblade and Ariel both twitch, but Slipstream just looks even more sad.
“Don’t be an afthole, dude. We were making progress, why you gotta act up now?”
“I just want my pie. Give it to me.”
“No.”
Cue the cute helm tilt and wagging wings, manipulative to a fault.
“That won’t work this time.”
“Are you suuure?”
“Ugh. Yes. I’m very sure.”
“And I’m starving, bug. You promised to feed me.”
“Apologise first. Pie second.”
“Then starve I shall.” Starscream rights himself, turns his back, and struts off to the farthest corner of his little cell, where he proceeds to sulk, pretending to inspect some spot on the wall.
“Please don’t be like that.”
“What was it you said, bug? And here I thought we were making progress.”
Bumblebee makes a strangled sound of frustration. He almost throws the pie at the Energon barrier, but Slipstream quickly takes it from him.
“Star, listen to me.”
“I don’t talk to traitors.”
“Then speak with your sister, Star.”
Starscream hisses, but turns to peer back at Slipstream from over a pauldron. “Speak, sister.”
“Thank you.” Slipstream ponders the pie in her palms. “You don’t have to apologise to me. I’ve got my life now. I’m getting over it, over all the scrap you put me and mine through, and I’m moving on. I just hope someday soon, you can too.”
“Humph.”
“Please consider the proposal.”
“And what would that be.”
“Your freedom, for an audience with friends and peace talks between our leaders.”
“My freedom, you say.” Starscream perks a bit. “Go on.”
“I want to see Flamewar and Shadow Striker. I need to get into the Decepticon compound. Hence you. An exchange might–”
“Flamewar and Shadow Striker! Whatever’s left of them, you mean. Did he tell you all about it?”
Bumblebee flinches, taking a slow, unsteady step away from the cell. “Dude. Not cool.”
And for a split second, Starscream looks sorry for something he said.
“Leave him alone,” Windblade snarls, her temper flaring as it sometimes does, though she is very patient at most times. “Bee is innocent in all this. He was in the right place, at the worst time. It was an accident that happened around him, but he was there on a rescue mission and he did the best he could with what he had to face without support. The fact that he survived and got Orion out of there in one piece is a testament to my best friend’s courage and resolve. I’ll hear nothing else.”
Starscream lowers his gaze.
“That’s better. Slip, go on.”
“Right. Um. As I was saying.” Slipstream winces, holding a lunch box filled with delicious home-baked pie, still warm and fragrant. “I need to see my friends. Councillor Ariel–”
“Just Ariel, please.”
“Sorry. Ariel has a plan. I’m getting a little, uh, choked up just now, so please let her explain it and listen. Just consider it. You’ll only benefit. Besides, I’m really not asking much.” Slipstream hugs the pie to her bosom, in turn prompting Windblade to draw closer, protective and comforting, pulling Bumblebee into their orbit as well.
Starscream remains silent, downcast, as Ariel steps forth, leaving the friends to huddle together.
“Megatron wants you back. I want Megatron back. We all want this war to end. Don’t we.”
Starscream nods slightly.
“Good. Then we want the same thing. We need peace talks for any of that to happen, though – together, we gotta figure out a way to end this struggle.” Ariel folds her broad pink arms, huffing. “Sentinel was our biggest obstacle to achieving peace and he’s gone, so he won’t, uh… be a problem. Not any more.” She sighs painfully, then carries on briskly. “With Orion so sick, it’s up to me and my dumbaft to do his job and try reaching out for the best outcome with my words, but words only say so much. I’m good with actions, I can do stuff. Megatron will listen to me, one way or the other. He always did, and I know him better than most. I know his language. You’re my gesture of goodwill. That’s huge. It’s important. You get that, right?”
Starscream nods again.
“So, then. You get to go free, I get to negotiate peace with Megatron, and my girls get access to the compound to see their friends. Oh, my girls and Bee, of course.”
“It’s okay. You can count me among the girls.”
“Does that suit you, Commander?”
Starscream has not been called that in too long. He inhales deeply, exhales shakily, straightening out. “Yes, Councillor, I agree to those terms.”
“And you’d better behave yourself.”
“Well, now that I know your terms and I find them agreeable enough, I confess, it’s not in my best interest to frag up my only way out of here, now, is it?”
“Do not screw up these peace talks for me, or else. Goddit?”
“Alright, alright. Just get me out of here. And leave me in peace to eat my damn pie, please.”
“Done. Let’s go find Prowl, get this transfer going already.”
“Hope you choke on it,” Bumblebee mutters, then slouches off.
Windblade shakes her helm and follows. “Come, Slip.”
“In a moment, my love.” Slipstream carefully slides the pie through the feeding chute. “Don’t eat too quickly, or you’ll get sick. It’s rich.”
Starscream’s belly cries out for sustenance, but he waits for them all to leave before he devours the pie in messy delirium. He does end up feeling sick after, but not because of too much pie too quickly, no.
Bumblebee had looked so hurt, and for some reason, that hurt back.
“Soundwave’s still sulkin’ and won’t do his damn job.” Irritated at being disturbed from his nap, Soundblaster tosses the messenger drone atop Megatron’s desk, activating due to his proximity.
Ariel’s hologram bursts forth, solidifies. “Hey, Megs.”
“Old friend. You answer me!” Megatron reaches for her, reconsiders, flinches away. “Do not be angry. Do not be hurt.”
“I’m sad, Megs, and tired, and tired of being sad. Not much anger in me right now. I bet you’re feeling a little lost, too.”
“I need you now. Come find me. I call and you answer.”
“Primus’ sake, you have gotta stop sneaking into my room whenever I’m out and leaving these damn drones for me to find. It’s weird. Hail our channel like a normal person next time, okay. Wheeljack’s our tech guy, he’ll get the message.”
“Help me, Ariel. Please tell me you shall consider my appeal. I must speak with you, face-to-face.”
“I consulted my team. It’s almost unanimous. We’ll parley for peace.”
“Excellent. Excellent! And what of my shining Star? Say you shall set him free. Please.”
“You’ll get your boyfriend back. He’s missed you.”
“I have ached, Ariel. Ached! Without him, I am undone. Thank you.”
“I know, old mech. So be ready to receive my team and I. Today, okay.”
“Let there be no delay. Today. Make yourselves at home in my refuge.”
“Then we’ll finish this, for the good of everyone, together. Too damn old to be waging wars anyhow. Let the kids have their futures. Let us step down.”
“Thank you. Thank you! Your mercy, your grace, your–”
“Okay, cut that out.”
“It’s almost like she can actually converse with him in real time,” Empress murmurs to Soundblaster, enthralled.
“Damn creepy, if ya ask me.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I find it cute. Familiar, you know. Intimate.”
Ariel’s pre-recorded hologram offers her large palm, splayed.
Megatron shyly lays his larger palm flat against hers, until their digits bend together, interweaving naturally.
“I love you, Megs.” A smile, then she is gone.
His palm phases through the void of empty air.
Silence, for a moment.
“Well, then. Now that business is finished - I shall spread the good news, get everything in order,” announces Empress with a sigh, sauntering out.
Soundblaster takes up the drone with a yawn and shuffles after her.
Megatron is left alone.
The good news spreads fast. A parley, possibly the first of many until a lasting peace is agreed upon and made a pact. In the meantime, there shall be a stalemate, a ceasefire, and family is coming home.
“We gotta get this place tidied up in time for the Commander’s return, so no slacking!” Nova Storm bellows bossily as her siblings hurry back and forth, bumping into each other in their chaotic efforts to clean the neglected barracks. “Do it like Captain Slipstream would make you do it! Or else!”
Indeed, normally Slipstream would be in charge to ensure such a thing, with Starscream only occasionally popping in unannounced to berate any imperfection whilst keeping a rather messy office himself. However, they have been gone for some time, leaving the Seekers to fend for themselves, stupidly.
“Make your berths and put your trash in the bin! I don’t wanna see any open tubs of polish left lying around!”
“Sheesh, sis, would you chill?”
“Shuddup, Thrust! This is serious!”
“Commander Starscream’s coming back, sure, but he never really cared. Captain Slipstream isn’t here to make things right like before. And you’re not the boss of us.”
“Oh, yeah? Yeah?! My fist says otherwise!”
“Nova, my delicate crystal flower, please don’t threaten violence. We’re family.”
“Uuugh. Sorry, Thunder. I’m just a little stressed just now. I want things to be perfect.”
“Tch. Perfect, around here? Yeah, right. As if.” Thrust rolls his optics. “She’s just posturing, you guys.” That being said, he still hurries over help the conehead brothers, who always struggle to make their berths as per expected standards. “Dirge, Ramjet, you big, beautiful brutes, you gotta go from the corners. C’mon, you guys, I already showed you this. Do it like I do. Watch.”
“This is good news, yes. What use do you have for me, if this is to be the end of our war? I am an old general. The battleground is my rightful place.”
“Good question.” Empress taps her chin with the corner of her datapad. “Hmm. We’ll need peacekeepers bearing armaments, I suppose. Imposing femme like yourself, I imagine you’ll keep them well-behaved.”
“And what about you? Is a potential alliance between the Decepticons and the Council the outcome you sought?”
“Oh, I have plans, dear General. Don’t you worry about me. Now, do pardon my rush, but I must make preparations for the Councillor and her team. And as for you, little cyberpigeon, I hope you’ll continue being such a good girl for the General. The Commander will be delighted to receive a positive report upon his return.”
Skywarp enjoys a nice little scratch under the chin.
“Oh, yes, you are a best case scenario. You’ve made your siblings proud with how nicely you’ve shaped up under this responsibility. More may follow in your stride, so keep it up, cutie-patootie.”
Alpha Strike quirks a brow as Empress makes an affectionate sound, as if talking to a pet, then promptly saunters off like nothing ever happened, hips swinging with purpose. “Mmm. That one is dangerous.”
Skywarp recovers from being fussed over and trills, nudging her superior officer with a sidelong look, as if to rebuke Alpha Strike for being rude.
“Oh, do not misunderstand. I like her, too.”
Optic ridges wiggle suggestively.
A rugged flush, a shy grunt. “Let us change topic. I trust you are excited for your Commander’s return. You have been especially bouncy.”
The Seeker bounces on her heel struts at that, agile and expressive.
It brings more tender warmth to the old general’s downcast gaze. “Like that, yes.” Despite the obstruction of her life support vents, distorting her voice and obfuscating her intake, her murmur is lowered fondly and she is smiling as subtly indicated by the little wrinkles this provokes at the edges of her smouldering optics. “Up and down. How does this not tire you? To be young.”
In the space of a blink, Skywarp has suddenly vanished and reappeared in a totally different spot, bouncing several paces ahead with a mischievous smirk.
Another blink. Alpha Striker relocates her assistant again, having relocated even farther away. There is no point in asking how this is possible.
The Seeker may as well teleport around. She will never tell.
The General just goes with the occasional jump scare at this point, laughing richly.
“Wanna hear my pirate voice?”
Confined to this gurney in the recovery ward, Flamewar looks up, sniffing wetly against Thunderblast’s breastplate.
“Been a while, so it’s probably a little rusty.” The boat smiles indulgently down at the bike, cuddled up to her on the slab they share. “I can sing you a sea shanty. My ex used to say I could lull a whole crew to their deaths upon the silver sea, and they’d all die smiling.”
Flamewar blinks cutely. “Are you a really bad singer of sea shanties, dreamboat?”
Demolishor giggles into a fist, then clears his vents to disguise it moments too late.
Thunderblast quirks an optic ridge. “Something funny, daddy?”
“Nope.”
“Actually, little dirt bike, my ex meant that my voice is as sweet as death because I can sing anyone to their most delightful doom. They die happy, thanks to me.”
“Wow. You offering to sing me to death?”
“No, sweetie. But you did ask me to do my pirate voice once, and if it cheers you up a little, I’ll sing you all the sea shanties I know. Would you like me to?”
“Aw, dreamboat, that’s real nice of you.”
“I know. What can I say. I’m a gift.”
“You don’t like being called a pirate, though. And you said pirates don’t really talk like that anyway ’cause it’s a myth. Besides,” the bike mumbles with a nuzzle to the boat’s ample bosom, “I don’t really like pirates, either. Not any more. Not since I found out.”
“Oh. Okay. Found out what?”
Flamewar hesitates.
Thunderblast frowns prettily. “Sweetie?”
“I, um… I didn’t tell boss bot all the details, but…”
Soundwave steps into the ward just then. “Pardon the interruption,” he croons musically, “but I have news. Good news. Cooped up in here, I doubt you have heard it.”
Thunderblast lowers her sensory spires cutely. “Damn. Not like me to miss some juicy gossip. Spill.”
“Soundblaster actually did his job in my absence and contacted the other side.”
“What did the Council say?” grunts Demolishor stoically.
“They’ve agreed to a parley to talk out the details of some sort of peace treaty. Ariel will be joined by a small team.”
“Wow. That’s huge. Guess Orion got Megatron shook.”
“Indeed. And it gets better.” Soundwave takes Flamewar’s claws, gently cradled in his larger palm. “I see, hear everything. You’ll be happy to know Slipstream is coming to see you.”
Thunderblast and Demolishor perk at that.
“Dude. I could kiss you right on your hunky face-guard. Glossa and everything. Kiss the scrap outta you, for real, trust.” Flamewar's optics are huge. “Help me get outta this berth. Right now.”
“Are you that eager to kiss me?”
“Yes. But I gotta be strong for Slippy. I can’t look strong, stuck like this.”
“Holy scrap, you’re bigger in person,” the Decepticon guard exclaims stupidly, craning his neck up at Ariel, stood boldly before the gates.
“I get that a lot. Call your boss. Tell him an old friend’s come to parley as promised. Also, I have Commander Starscream with me and I’m eager to be rid of him, so please hurry.”
“Let her in already!” Starscream snaps shrilly, wrists bound but otherwise mobile. “I want to go home! I need my bubble bath!”
“Yes, Ma’am! Sir! Right away!” The Decepticon guard is young and inexperienced enough to take his job seriously as he scurries off, gawking all the while. Other, less enthusiastic guards proceed to check the group for weapons.
“Uuugh. So hard to get competent hired help these days. Get your servos off of me before I bite. I am Commander Starscream!”
“Why’s it always gotta be about how damn big I am.”
Starscream sneers up at Ariel. “Pardon?”
“I damn well know I’m big. I’m a big girl.” Ariel sighs, shaking her helm. “Always gotta be about my size. That, or it’s my dumbaft tattoo of a saucy femme on my arm that I got on a failed bet, or my weird organic stink since apparently I smell funny.”
“That tattoo is rather silly and you do smell rather strange, to be fair, your size aside. But I do understand what you mean. Tch. Nobody has anything nice to say to me.”
“I’m just waiting for the day I finally get one complimentary comment - just one - on my pretty pink paint-job.”
“I like your pretty pink paint-job,” Slipstream says sweetly. “You remind me of Arcee, but bigger. She’s very pretty in pink.” Being suicidally depressed does not detract from being a good person, capable of uplifting others.
Ariel smiles at that. She kinda wants to kiss that Seeker, low-key.
Roulette has sequestered a quiet spot out of the traffic of roving Decepticons, yet still close to Shadow Striker.
Ravage is not permitted in the sterile ward.
The bounty hunter lingers within range of her sister’s Spark, sensing the connection between them, thinking lovingly about the mercenary with a lapful of purring cybercat for company.
“Is my Ravage being a good boy?” asks Soundwave, sauntering over after concluding some other business, hiding his misery beneath his impassive mask.
“He’s wonderful,” grunts Roulette. “Bit me, the scraplet.”
“Hence his name. You know, you sound like her. I take note of vocals.”
“Hardly professional of you to say that. You love my sister.”
“In my own way, I do.” The spymaster watches their play with fatherly fondness. “Cheer up. We are to have more visitors, two of whom care almost as much as we do.”
The bounty hunter tilts her helm, cradling the cybercat to her bosom. “Who.”
“Slipstream, the Seeker, and Bumblebee, the scout.” Soundwave scratches Ravage lovingly behind the audials. “The latter is of especial interest to us.” There is something suavely malicious in that dulcet, melodic croon.
Roulette narrows her harsh blue optics.
“Old friend, you have came to me. You are here.”
“You called on me, Megs. ’Course I showed up.”
“And you have returned to me my one, my only.”
“That’s me,” Starscream murmurs tearfully. “I’m home.”
Seekers cheer, Nova Storm the loudest.
“Daddy’s come home, my darling children!”
That garners a few weird looks, but most of the Seekers are still cheering the return of their Commander.
“Yes, my shining Star, you are home again! It is due to Ariel’s kindness, for which I must dispense my undying gratitude. Thank you, old friend. Thank you, forever!”
“Don’t mention it. Now, then. The parley.”
“Such kindness. I can barely stand it. No, I cannot stand it. I must fall before you now.”
“Megs?”
Megatron astonishes everyone by literally falling to the floor with a clamour, splayed out on his knees and thrown forward with his forehelm pressed to Ariel’s pedes, fists clenched around her ankle joints.
“Primus! What are you doing!”
“Forgive me,” he says, literally kissing her pedes. “I meant no harm.”
“Megs! Frag’s sake!”
“Forgive me! I am sorry!”
“Oh, goodness gracious, what a scene,” Empress murmurs with a palm to her breast, cringing aside. “Darling, do get up, you’re embarrassing yourself and, well, everyone else.”
“I hurt him!”
Ariel exhales shakily and stoops to stroke Megatron’s helm as he grovels before her.
“This horror, this anguish! My Spark burns, burns, burns with the undying embers of my thoughts! I must let it out, get it out of my soul, before I am consumed by the fire within, without!”
Starscream’s optics are wide with dumb astonishment. “Megatron, you’re scaring me…”
“I seek your pardon, Ariel! You know me! You know I did not mean Orion any harm, I swear it to you! I love him!”
“I know, Megs.”
“I merely wanted him to be mine, as he once was!”
“Megs, sweet Spark, listen to me, now. I can’t promise you that Orion’s gonna be entirely okay. That poison hit him hard.”
“He must recover from my sin! He must survive my mistake!”
“All I can say is what Ratchet knows. The Doc says the Matrix is doing something to Orion, something that looks like it might be healing him. I’m trying to have hope. Can you try that too, Megs? Please, old mech. Do it for me.”
“I wanted him so sorely! Our best friend! I miss him, as I miss you, and that damned Sentinel! Yet to actually cause harm to the gentlest soul I have ever loved, to sully the most precious soul in my collection with this poison of mine… I beg your forgiveness!”
“Hush, now. I don’t want your grovelling, old mech, I want your help.”
“My help?”
“Just work with me here. Let’s parley.”
“Yes. Yes! Of course! We shall talk it all over, old friend, you and I!”
“For Orion.”
“For Orion!”
Bumblebee sees the way Starscream pales and thoughtlessly reaches for a manacled servo, grasping the slender digits in reassurance.
With a flinching hesitation, the shackled servo grasps back, squeezing.
Windblade and Slipstream keep close to each other, evidently freaked out by this display of sheer emotion.
“Not to harm him, but to have him! I had to have him!”
“Megs, enough. Stand up.”
“No, I am not finished! I took Orion from you, as Star was taken from me! It was vengeance that fuelled that warehouse fire! Vengeance is mine!”
“Megs…”
“In my selfish desire, I hurt our dearest friend! I hurt you!”
“Gimme a servo here.” Ariel looks to Empress now. “We gotta get him back on his pedes. This isn’t doing anyone any good.”
“Certainly not. Right, then.” Empress saunters over determinedly and, in a joint effort with Ariel, manages to wrestle the prostrated Megatron off the floor and onto a chair, where he clings to whatever limb he can reach, pleading for the mercy he cannot bestow upon himself.
“I’ve never seen him act like that before,” Starscream nodes quietly, wings folded flat to his trembling back. “Sorrowful, yes, but not senile, never weak. And it is not for me. He does not grovel for my sake. First in his Spark, his shining Star. He said that. I always suspected it to be a lie. Now I know.”
Bumblebee sighs, glancing at their joined servos.
“I am home. This should be enough. Am I truly not enough, am I less than Orion? That constellation of their outstretched history outshines a singular Star that has burned only a moment by comparison. There is, and always was, always will be, another mech.”
“You’re so full of yourself. Why do I feel sorry for you.”
“Tell me something nice. Say something to make me feel better.”
“It sucks for us all. But things can change for the better. Yeah, your boyfriend never got over his ex, but he still loves you. If not for the war and all the hurt it keeps causing, you two could settle down, maybe start a family, and we could figure out a good future for everybody, including your Seekers. A happy ending is possible.”
Stood close together, servos joined, Starscream shakily turns to stare down at Bumblebee. “My happy ending.”
“Sure. Why not? You’re powerful, Starscream. You’ve got all those Seekers. Do something good with them. Stop the fighting and let them just be people.”
“My people. That’s why I started this war, Bumblebee. I only wanted to save my people.”
“And we’ll save your Seekers. I love a Seeker, remember? You think I want to see Slip miserable forever? No way.”
Starscream drags his big, glassy optics over to Slipstream, who has turned to seek shelter in Windblade, then befalls Bumblebee’s upcast soft, sad smile.
“I want what’s best for Slip. She’s a family femme, that includes all the other Seekers. That includes you. So let’s work together. Be nice to each other.”
“You want what’s best for my people… and myself.”
“Don’t sound so surprised. I joined the fight with only good intentions too. But this isn’t any good for any of us.”
Megatron is a broken old mech, clawing at Ariel for comfort as she tries to compose him, Empress looking on with daughterly disapproval that comes from a place of worry.
“I don’t like to see him sad,” Starscream says softly. “I thought this whole thing could make him happy. I just want to be happy.”
As that larger servo tightens its grip painfully, Bumblebee brushes his thumb soothingly against silky smooth metal, warm and firm. “Just be your best self for him and encourage him to do the same. That’s how healthy, happy relationships work, right?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Oh.”
Notes:
Would you give Starscream pets if he invited you to do so, even if he's liable to bite? Something to think about, dear reader. After all, things are going to get so much worse for the angery birb and he will be at once universally desired as an object yet starving for affection as a person.
Chapter 80
Notes:
Potential trigger warnings: body horror, physical/mental/emotional anguish, loss of motor control, shared trauma, threats of harm/death, feelings of alienation and isolation.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Flames!”
“Slippy,” Flamewar croaks, smiling in a very fragile way, out of the gurney and shuffling painfully with Thunderblast’s patient assistance, beneath Demolishor’s protective shadow.
Slipstream sprints the distance and throws herself before the smaller femme, stooping low and capturing her scorched cheeks in callused palms, kissing her forehelm with aching devotion, inhaling the stink of smoke and cleansing chemicals.
“Hi. Missed you, girl.”
“Primus, look at you!”
“You’re here now, Slippy. I’ll be okay.”
“My little one. My love. I’m so sorry.”
Windblade rubs Bumblebee’s pauldron, feeling how he trembles, hanging back anxiously, wanting to burst forth with apologies of his own. She knows how terribly he holds himself to personal account for what happened – that warehouse fire was not his design, never his intention, but he resents his own survival and embraces the ongoing guilt of living through something so traumatic. She hopes that this confrontation and whatever altercation it may provoke, though difficult, though dangerous, may be a step toward healing and forgiveness. For all the rest, he has her protection.
Demolishor’s emerald optics, mismatched, gleam with menace burning bright within his square expression of rugged stoicism. He turns his crude helm aside, giving Thunderblast a sidelong look, which she answers with a cutting sneer.
“Uppies?”
“Uppies.” Slipstream scoops Flamewar off the floor and holds her ever so gently, tearfully nuzzling. “All the uppies you want, Flames.”
“Nice. Love me some uppies. Mm.”
That makes Windblade smile, squeezing Bumblebee again.
“Boy’s got some nerve,” the boat mutters snidely, “showing up here, after all that.”
The tank tightens his jaw, clenching the tubes of his digits into huge, heavy fists that hang at his sides. The growl that utters from his old frame is not to be confused with his worn refurbishments.
The Cityspeaker bristles, but before she can defend her best friend, the scout meekly steps forward, hanging his helm.
“Flamewar?”
“Well, look at you.” The bike peers out from the Seeker’s muscular hug, manic optics swimming in painkillers. “You got out okay, Bumbles.”
“Flamewar, I…” Bumblebee cringes, rubbing his arms. “I didn’t want…” He shakes his helm. “I never meant to…” He shakes all over. “I’m sorry.”
“I believe you.”
“You do?”
“Yeah.”
Thunderblast and Demolishor exchange a look.
“You had the hots for boss bot for a while. Totes mutual, ’cause I saw the way you looked at her, the way she looked at you. Obviously you weren’t out to hurt her on purpose.”
“How can you sound so calm? Aren’t you… angry?”
“You mean, don’t I wanna hurt you, right?”
“Do you want to hurt me?”
“That depends on boss bot.” Flamewar blinks slowly, oddly feline. “You’re sorry and you didn’t mean to blow up that warehouse, maybe it wasn’t even your fault that it happened, but it happened and people got hurt, so what matters is you’re sorry. Tell all that to Shadow Striker. If she forgives you, I forgive you.”
“And if she doesn’t forgive me…” The scout looks up slowly.
The bike’s fangs glint cutely as she intones, eerily calm, “That’ll suck for you, Bumbles.”
“Do you think… she’ll want to hurt me?”
The Seeker pales at the pause that follows, turning rigidly to stare in dismay at her beloved Cityspeaker, big blue optics hard and cold in reply with the readiness to defend loved ones even in the core of Decepticon territory.
“If her new body can manage it, yeah, you’re definitely on the hook.”
“New body…”
“I haven’t seen her yet, not since the surgery,” Flamewar says softly, her endearingly gravelly voice especially rough due to recent damage incurred. She slumps over, rubbing her cheek against Slipstream. “The others saw.”
Thunderblast turns away, hissing softly, and Demolishor shifts with creaking discomfort.
“I gotta go see her, too. I’m guessing you feel you have to, yourself.”
“I just want to make sure she’s okay. Tell her that I’m sorry, and…”
Windblade draws Bumblebee against herself, protective and comforting as he hides his anguish in her bosom.
“Mmmph.”
“I won’t deny you that much, Bumbles. Maybe it’ll mean something to boss bot, having you there, feeling sorry for yourself. Maybe it won’t.” Flamewar looks up. “Slippy, I dunno if you’ve got the Spark, but I think we should go see boss bot together. Can you do that with me, Slippy? Be there for her, together. Like a team.”
“Of course. I’ll do whatever I can. Maybe my medical training could be helpful. It’s not much, but it’s something I can do, something I can give.”
“You offer a lot, Slippy, and you give yourself away so freely without expecting much back, you take so little in return. I love you for it. Boss bot loves you too, in her own way. Now we gotta be there for her, make her feel loved by someone else when she doesn’t love herself.”
“Love has to be enough.”
Left to parley for peace with her team occupied elsewhere, Ariel accepts the Energon tea to be polite, but watches Empress warily as she pours a steaming cupful and neatly passes it over.
“It’s not poison, dear.”
“Pardon my distrust.”
“I must see him,” Megatron interjects forcefully, in his thunderously soft-spoken way. “Let me see our Orion, the Prime, and verify for myself that he recovers.”
“I’ll speak to Doc Ratchet first.”
“Please, I must soothe myself.”
Starscream feels rather left out of the discussion, despite his rank and keen interest in the matter, intangible if not for the huge palm laid possessively over his thigh, pinning him prettily to his seat close beside his lover’s sagging chair, invisible if not for the offer of tea. He accepts a cup with a tired nod. “Thank you.” He drops two sweetened cubes into the hot blend and stirs most methodically, as if to find comfort in this ritual.
“You’re welcome, Commander.” Empress turns to Megatron, pouring his measure next, unoffended when he fails to notice the gesture. The poor old mech is rather preoccupied, after all. Finally, she fills her own cup and takes her seat with the heavy gracefulness of a huge lady from a rough background trying very hard to maintain her manners in the present company. The cup is comically dainty betwixt her digits as she blows softly upon the steam, projecting her littlest digit outward like fancy people do. “Ah, lovely.”
“For all that has been said and done, all the pain exchanged for pain.” Megatron seizes Ariel’s wrist and drags her arm across the table, clinging to her as he lurches forward in his chair. “Do you hate me at all, old friend? However slight, however you might overlook that resentment for the good of others, do you feel any hate?”
“Of course not. Don’t ask dumbaft questions.”
“Then you cannot deny me a place with Orion.”
“You’re majorly underestimating how difficult–”
“I will grant you the authority over my intrusion.”
“You’ve traumatised my people. They’re scared.”
“Then bring me to Orion in chains. I must see him.”
“No,” Ariel answers with her gruff, grumpy tenderness, squeezing Megatron’s bigger digits. “No more captives. If we’re gonna do this right, we’ll have to express mutual trust.”
Empress tilts her helm with quirked brow and a doubtful, “Mmmhmm.”
“Oh, shuddup.”
“I said nothing.”
Shadow Striker is inert, scope staring into space, searing red. Her mismatched limbs lie heavily upon the cold, hard slab. Her vents pass recycled air with a tinny whistle akin to a soft, steady snore. Something so beastly should not sleep so sweetly. She stinks of spilled Energon, of burning, smothered under harsh disinfectant and antiseptic solutions.
“She has remained stable since successful completion of the experimental surgical procedure,” Shockwave reports in his deep monotone, perfectly calm and seemingly unaffected by what he has done. “She is ready for revival.”
Slipstream sees the Seeker body parts, taken without permission from corpses denied rites of a funeral pyre – though she knows this privilege is reserved only for the few famous Seeker heroes who earn acclaim for their combat prowess and acts of valour in wartime – and crudely fused to the ill-fitting joints of that intact torso, pondering if she recognises these limbs and can recall the names of the Seeker brothers to whom those limbs belonged.
“Shall I initiate the boot-up sequence?”
“Won’t it hurt her?” asks Bumblebee in such a small voice, wringing his digits and averting his optics from the grisly sight, only to remind himself that he must look, he must punish himself by personally witnessing the horror, the harm. It draws out a sob.
“Probability dictates there may be residual discomfort.”
“Oh, Primus. Oh, no.”
“Do not concern yourself – this discomfort is within acceptable parameters and she will adjust to her modifications with use, failing which I will maintain her myself as a side project. I am interested to see how she adapts to Seeker constructs.”
“Megatron allows this.” Windblade’s expression is one of disgust at war with wrath, vying for self-control as her innate sense of justice bays with fury, refusing to permit that something so cruel could ever be so casually wrought upon someone unpunished. None could never deserve to suffer such a fate, truly these circumstances are worse than death, and so the Decepticons are worse than murderers. “He lets you do this to her.”
“Due to my documented success rate,” Shockwave pauses to calculate, as if for dramatic effect, “of ninety-nine point nine percent,” his optic narrows with some vexation at the estimation, realising that critics always challenge such a permissible imperfection though he carries his pauldrons with therightful dignity of a renowned scientific genius who is almost entirely perfect, “I am permitted to carry out all mission objectives with minimal supervision and interference.”
This makes Windblade swell with inward passion to right a most awful wrong.
“Megatron maintains trust in my capacity to carry out all functions,” another pause, this one especially bitter as Shockwave turns away and mutters quietly to himself, “unassisted and alone.” A huff. “The service drones do not count.”
“Madness. You’re mad. He’s mad.”
“I do not speak for Megatron’s mental fortitude, though I am reassured of his intelligence and the logical outcome of his campaign. Furthermore, I am not mad, I only appear mad to lesser processors, for I am the only genius-level Decepticon – my genius cannot be comprehended, though it cannot be contested.”
“I should cut you down where you stand. What you’ve done to her is evil.”
“You are not the first to threaten my life, nor do I anticipate that you will be the last. I disregard such threats with calculated self-assurance, as empirical data proves that none have been successful in dispatching me thus far. I do not intend for this data to change.”
“Better watch your back, just in case.” Thunderblast leans on Demolishor, his arm wrapped about her slender framework. “You’re making plenty of enemies.”
“And yet it is I who saved Shadow Striker’s life.”
“No, Shockwave.” Windblade shakes her helm slowly, her brows heavily bent, ruby dermas pulled taught to show flawless dentas. “You’ve just preserved her life, whatever life this is, and you didn’t stop to think about the quality of this life or whether she could ever consent to it.”
“Doctor Knock Out has already dispensed a similar rhetoric. I reiterate that I have successfully achieved the objectives of this project.”
“She’s a person, you monster, not a project!” Windblade finally loses her temper, turning upon Shockwave who regards his terminal with infuriating indifference rather than the femme who wants to lop off his helm with her sword. “How dare you justify yourself! Who gave you the right to decide for her!”
“This is not productive.”
“Turn and face me!”
“Stop,” Slipstream interjects in a painful way. “Please, stop.” She fumbles for Shadow Striker’s wrist, limp and foreign, feeling the pulse of her fuel pump, a Seeker’s donation, the flier’s organ oversized for a terrestrial chest cavity. “Shadow Striker needs to be treated like a person, not a project.” Seeker digits cradle Seeker digits, sister encountering brother. “Not a monster.”
Flamewar rests her chin atop Shadow Striker’s generous breast, gazing adoringly up at her like a loyal cyberdog.
“I repeat. She is stable and ready for revival from deep stasis. It is advisable not to delay due to degradation and atrophy from inactivity.” Shockwave ignores Windblade’s ire and shuffles forward, nudging Bumblebee aside to access a secondary interface linked to the gurney, in turn linked to Shadow Striker through wires and pipes. “Do you desire a reboot at this time?”
Judging by the silence that stretches on, nobody wants to answer that.
“I wonder what they’re saying in there.” Thundercracker presses his audial to the door, but the door is too thick, built for security as much as discretion.
“I bet the Commander’s whipped up an epic speech, telling that hunky pink lady all about how awesome we Seekers are and how we deserve so much better, really laying down the law,” answers Nova Storm with a firm nod. “The Commander is so good at giving speeches. He can convince anyone of almost anything. We’re so lucky.”
“Whatever.” Thrust scratches his chin. “Leave them to it. I wanna go see Slip, give her some grief. Been too long since I made her mad.” It is said with bittersweet affection. “I kinda miss the beleaguered mom energy she used to bring to the flock.”
“She didn’t say anything to us.” Thundercracker sadly shuffles over to his sibling Seekers, wings low. “Didn’t she see us standing there? I wanted a hug and a hello.”
“She’s being a coward,” grumbles Nova Storm with such obvious hurt, for all her bravado and pretence otherwise. “She gave up on us to go be with that hottie with the face paint. Imagine turning your back on family for a bit of aft. Couldn’t be me.”
“Jealous, sis?”
“Frag you, bro.”
Thrust snorts, dodging the attempt at punching him in the pauldron. “Losing your edge.” He has to turn and run when Nova Storm chases him, in turn necessitating that Thundercracker chase her.
“I’ll show you my edge, afthole!”
“Thunder, come get your girl!”
“Nova, cyberdove, please!”
Skywarp frowns thoughtfully at the door, silently stood in place, solitary in thought. Because she is a Seeker first, a prankster second, most people confidently assume she is also stupid.
Most people are confidently incorrect.
Shadow Striker revives with a gasp and a lurch, as if through an electrical pulse bringing vitality to her aching protoform muscles and stirring her leaden limbs to twitch, spinal strut arching sharply as she writhes atop the slab, scope rolling madly about in the socket, jaw flung open in a ragged exhale.
Everybody recoils – even Shockwave recoils from his creation – except for one.
“Boss bot.” Flamewar hugs that flailing body with her enfeebled little everything. “I’m here. I gotcha.”
Shadow Striker struggles so much, she almost slides off the slab. She would fall to the floor and spasm there, if not for this embrace, this smaller femme holding her in place.
Slipstream stares at the Seeker parts, rigid and jerky with unnatural life, ruby optics wide, angular cheeks pale. She knows enough about medicine to realise what an abominable act this is, but her feelings on the matter are tender, maternal.
The sniffling Bumblebee is pulled protectively against Windblade, cowering beneath her chin as she folds over him, squinting her revulsion whilst sheltering him from the brunt of it.
Thunderblast turns gracefully away, sensory spires flat against her gleaming helm, hiding her face in Demolishor’s bulk as he too averts his gaze with a quivering chin.
“Boss bot. I’m sorry. Please.”
Shadow Striker screams.
As Megatron continues to appear an emotional, enfeebled old mech begging Ariel for the love of all he has lost, Starscream excuses himself to go have that bubble bath, his optics downcast and posture strangely meek as he avoids anyone along the way, even the adoration of his own Seekers so delighted to see him, so innocently his to use and dispose of as he pleases, yet he finds he has no will for anything.
“Starscream? Oh, Primus, Starscream!”
He hears his name and small pedes hurrying in his direction. Distracted as he is, he barely stops himself as small arms are flung about his shapely, diminished chassis.
“You’re home!”
“Oh. Yes, I suppose I am. Hello, Sureshock.”
“I missed you,” the Minicon moans into the Seeker’s once glossy shell, now dull with lack of polish. “I was so scared they’d execute you!”
“I regret leaving you to simmer in such concern. Rest assured, I am… fine. Just fine. Mmyes.” He blinks blearily, refocusing upon her with a downcast sigh and a gentle stroke over her small pauldrons. “Forgive me, but I don’t feel very sociable just now. Shall we catch up another time, perhaps?”
She pulls back to gaze up at him, clinging to him from below. “Please. I’d like that very much, Commander.”
“Starscream, dear. We went over this, did we not?”
“You were angry with me before. You retracted permission to use your name.”
“Then be glad that I have neither the foolishness nor the fortitude to cling to that old offense. Much has happened since and you are far from the worst of my offenders.”
“I want to be a friend, Starscream.”
“Could you truly settle for that, Sureshock? I am criminally beautiful… though in dire need of that bubble bath.”
“I can be a gentlefemme,” the Minicon grumbles cutely, huffing as she gives the Seeker another tight little hug. “Being beautiful shouldn’t be a crime.”
He lays his palms over her helm and smiles, or tries to.
“Boss bot.” Flamewar does her best just to hold onto someone so much bigger and stronger, but Shadow Striker is not soothed, she is not stopped. “Please, boss bot. I’m sorry. Boss bot. Help.”
Shockwave is frozen, staring at his creation.
His drones hurry to sedate the subject, but as they crowd around Shadow Striker in an attempt to stab into her with their needles, she lashes out, knowingly or not, swatting and kicking the drones away as her combat protocols mistake needles for knives, her mindless agony shearing her voice and drowning out everything else.
Shockwave remains motionless, optic wide, until he is roughly shoved out of the way by Soundwave, drawn by that ceaseless scream, Roulette hot on his heels, Ravage yowling miserably within the cassette compartment.
Flamewar is crushed against Shadow Striker in the combined effort to subdue her. Their mettle proves true as together Soundwave and Roullete rush the gurney and pin down Shadow Striker between them, beneath them.
Slipstream’s optic catches the glimmer of a drone’s needle, dropped to the floor with the injection canister still attached and intact, rolling across the tiles amidst the chaos to draw to a gentle stop against her pede. She stoops to retrieve the needle, rises again with grim realisation, and pushes into the throng. “Move. Move!”
Shadow Striker’s scream morphs into a gurgle as the needle is jabbed into a vulnerable place where the muscular protoform of her neck meets the juncture of her pauldron.
Slipstream thus injects the sedative without knowing the composition Shockwave had concocted or how much would be safe to apply all at once, praying to Primus that this can only help.
Shadow Striker collapses beneath her friends and family, panting, sweat gleaming upon her shell, scope no longer madly rolling but instead wandering with returning clarity as her agony is quelled. She does not return to stasis, remaining fully conscious, but finally she can recognise the faces hovering all around, their palms upon her no longer perceived as threats of harm or instruments of torture. She blinks her intact optic and scowls familiarly, albeit foggily.
“Boss bot,” Flamewar croaks, bodily crushed.
“Little sister.” Roulette relaxes her grip with a broken smile, easing away.
“My friend.” Soundwave hisses static and withdraws slowly now.
Slipstream stands back with the emptied needle in her fist, resigned.
Windblade and Bumblebee peer across the ward from a safer distance, as do Thunderblast and Demolishor, unwilling or unable to approach just yet.
Shadow Striker looks from person to person, scowling sweatily, relieved with medicine, and gradually that scowl softens into something almost resembling a smile. “Bunch of fraggers,” she rumbles hoarsely, then coughs. “Ugh. This can’t be the Pits. Some of you don’t deserve to end up there. So that means…”
“You’re alive,” Roulette murmurs, dipping in to kiss her younger sister’s sweaty forehelm.
“And in recovery,” Soundwave adds through the static, doing his admirable best in resisting any open display of unhelpful emotions likely to incense his best friend rather than comfort her. He knows her too well. His helm bumps lovingly against hers.
“You guys are here.”
“Yes.”
“Here, for me.”
“Yes,” answers Slipstream deeply, bowing her helm in a demure display of pity as Shadow Striker looks over. “We’re all here for you.”
“Even those aftholes in the back, all the way back,” Shadow Striker croaks with humour, noting Thunderblast, Demolishor, Windblade, and Bumblebee clutched against her, all stood aside, away from the gurney. “I got these people, here, for me. Huh. Didn’t expect such a crowd.”
Flamewar is the last to be discovered, but her presence seems to have the most impact, because it is unmistakable when her scuffed, scorched little face is the only one to make Shadow Striker openly and unabashedly smile.
“You… I remember.”
Bumblebee is given grace, as Shadow Striker has not made any effort to acknowledge him beyond his guilty presence. He is not attacked in body, he is not assaulted with words. He is simply here, and he is guilty.
Everybody is here. Everybody is guilty, to some degree, because nobody stopped any of this from happening.
Shadow Striker looks down at Flamewar, pinned to her ample breasts, and that smile communicates more than these softly grumbled words. “You went in after me. You saved my life.”
Demolishor sobs loudly in the background, leading to Thunderblast comforting him as much as herself.
Windblade sucks in air harshly as Bumblebee pulls away from her, determined to face his guilt.
“Shadow Striker.”
Flamewar purrs as a palm caresses her atop the helm.
Shadow Striker is looking at Bumblebee as he shuffles bravely closer, forcing himself to do this even as her smile fades into a soft, sad scowl.
“I can never, ever apologise enough for everything that’s happened to you, and Flamewar too. I can never, ever make up for my part in your pain, not even a fraction of it. All I can say is that I’m sorry,” Bumblebee says with a trembling that overcomes his stocky, yellow frame.
Shadow Striker makes a rumbling sound, dangerous, but she does not react more strongly than that as Bumblebee’s tears patter upon the shell of her arm.
“I didn’t mean for this to happen to you. I didn’t want this.”
“You know, you’re within strangulation range.”
Windblade stiffens, quickly intercepting to draw Bumblebee back, leading him away from the gurney.
“I don’t forgive you,” Shadow Striker calls after them.
“You did your best,” Windblade reassures Bumblebee softly as she steers him out. “You can’t do anything more for her.” And so they go, leaving together.
Slipstream remains, pity in her gaze.
“Can you believe that guy,” Shadow Striker mutters. “Blows me up and has the ball-bearings to say sorry.”
“It wasn’t his fault,” Slipstream says softly. “It was an accident. A terrible accident.”
Flamewar is stroked over and over, without Shadow Striker paying any attention to this affection.
“You think that matters to me?”
“No. I don’t think that at all.”
Flamewar watches the Seeker’s mismatched palm as it fumbles for her again, roving from her helm over her face, tracing her cheek with a cold, callused touch. She does not recoil from the corpse limb, nuzzling into it with the same affection she would show any other part of Shadow Striker, for this is part of her now. Such devotion, such acceptance, surely can only come from someone insane.
Roulette grimaces, imagining how that must feel.
Soundwave is glad for his unchanging expression.
Thunderblast and Demolishor still keep distance.
Slipstream looks so pitying, pitiful of her brothers.
Shadow Striker jerks, her joints seized by an involuntary spasm, electricity sparking from the gaps as she briefly loses fine motor control.
Flamewar purrs even as a thick, blunt thumb jabs her roughly in the cheek, reflexive and unintentional, sore on her scorched synthetic skin, bruising. She purrs even as the Seeker’s huge palm encloses dangerously about her skull and clenches hard, as if to crush her to death.
“What is happening,” Soundwave intones dangerously to Shockwave. “Fix her. Now.”
“I… do not compute. My method was flawless. I have never failed in any endeavour.”
Slipstream and Roulette wrestle Flamewar free, extracting her with panic.
“Boss bot!”
Shadow Striker suddenly stops, slackening all over with a painful wince. As she recovers her faculties and regains control of her motor functions, she is forced to look down upon herself and see her contrasting palms and incompatible forearms held before her glaring scope and widened optic, her irreconcilable legs stretched out below and mismatched pedes scrabbling heel struts over the slab in a panic to sit up and escape the surgical gurney. All that she can call her own is the shell of her helm and torso, the intact sockets fused to parts her scanners identify as Seeker components. In the panicked seconds of dawning horror that follow, she realises it all goes beyond just the outside – running a delayed system diagnostics, her scanners bring up a scrolling log within her HUD detailing the unfamiliar organs taking place in her body, keeping her alive.
Flamewar dangles limply from Slipstream’s arms like a toy, reaching. “Boss bot?”
Shadow Striker would scream, except she wretches horribly, sat up on the gurney with her hooked digits clawing at her helm, her face, purging the remnants of her tank all over her lap.
Starscream emerges freshly washed and waxed and goes to get himself a drink to go with his snack. He wants a tall flute of high-grade to wash down the bowl of crystallised Energon candy he has dug up from his stash of treats, hidden from his Seekers and Megatron alike.
That meeting will go on for hours upon hours. Might as well get comfortable with the negotiated peace, if one cannot get combative. Such things require energy.
Starscream is tired, miserable, and allows himself to be weak in the privacy of his shared habitation suite, alone. He catches a glimpse of his severed wing in the holomirror in passing and shrinks from his own reflection. He makes a nest of anti-scratch blankets and synthetic pillows. He reaches for his datapad, so that he might read something or watch something or browse idly through his socials. Datapad secured, he finally settles down, dipping his digits to stir about in the bowl of snacks, only to find the bowl is no longer beside him.
Skywarp is perched neatly on the other side of the berth, munching cutely.
“How did you get in here without alerting me? How do you just… materialise, wherever you wish?”
She shrugs dumbly.
“Whatever it is you are capable of, you are mine and thus it is mine. We must weaponise that,” he declares flatly, too fatigued to get a fright and screech in tantrum as he normally would. “Whatever it is that you do, however it is that you do it, I shall use you. Now give me those candies, you gluttonous little thief. I am in no mood for your mischief.”
She is quick to stuff her face as the bowl is wrenched away from her.
“Brute.” He clutches his bowl of snacks to his bosom, glaring aside at her. “I could have you destroyed. I put you into this world, I just might take you out of it. You exist to serve me. Be good or begone. Am I understood?”
She mutely tosses a blanket over the both of them, ensuring that his pauldrons are nicely tucked in alongside her own.
He pulls a disgusted face, yet as she draws against him, snuggling into the crook of his neck, he turns a little to kiss her atop the helm.
She attempts to pilfer another candy, only to receive a sharp smack to the back of her servo.
“No. Naughty. Bad, bad girl. Do you listen?” The reprimand hardly stings.
She smiles against his throat, for she exists by his will, a symbol of his command, and she has sorely missed him.
“I don’t care if someone comes after me. I deserve it.”
“I do care. I won’t allow it.”
Bumblebee sits in the shade of a metallic tree, a rather charming addition to the Decepticon grounds that someone must keep lovingly maintained for the sheer pleasure in beholding beauty.
“None shall touch you with any intention to harm you. I swear it on my sword.” Windblade stands with her back at rest against the tree trunk, arms folded, optics sternly scanning their surroundings, audials keenly tuned for the slightest sound betraying an assassin or some other threat for her to swiftly dispatch in his defence. “All who dare to try, shall answer to Stormfall.”
“My protector.” He sighs.
“Your Amica.” She flushes as she says it.
“Yeah. We live it, but we never did the thing that sorta makes us official to everybody else. You wanna change that?”
“I love you, you love me, and that is all I need. My role as Cityspeaker brings so much formal ceremony to everything I am and everything I do. You know how hard I try to keep my other commitments simple. That said, would you… want more than this, with me?”
“We got it all, already, bestie.”
“Yes, my love, but would you like to, um… perform the rites… with me?”
“You’re so cute when you get all shy.”
“Bee.”
“Okay, okay. Our friends respect us for doing it how we want to, but they’d tease us and tell us it’s probably about time we proposed. Me, I’m cool with it so long as you’re cool with it. I’m ready for that next step if you are, but no pressure. We can carry on just like this, bestie. I like this. I love this.”
“You honour me, Bee. Thank you for being mine, with all the compromises that entails. Never doubt my commitment to you.”
“Nah, bestie. How could I? Damn. I’m the lucky one. Thank you for wanting me.” He turns to smile up at her, then finds his smile drawn beyond the ornate crest of her helm, pondering the mineral fruit hanging heavy within the gleaming bough above. “Doesn’t that scare you, though? Dedicating yourself to keeping me safe, with all those big, bad Decepticons wanting me dead.”
“I fear nothing.” This is, of course, a lie. A bold, bare lie, told with utmost conviction to prove somehow true.
It comforts him regardless.
Notes:
Feel free to skip. This is a dramatic retelling of a dream I had recently. It was kinda wild.
I, a saltwater crocodile, was the topic of a nature documentary being filmed in my tidal river. I was swimming around, sunbathing with my mouth open, doing crocodile things when I crossed paths with a shark that had found his way into my tidal river (as is entirely possible outside the realm of dreams and does in fact happen in real life). He was polite enough and we had a brief exchange as two apex predators sizing each other up, but ultimately we left each other alone, again rather realistic and reasonable - or so I thought. Days later, I ended up framed for the partial devouring of a human corpse found washed up on the shore of my river, but it was the shark who ate that man, not I. Of course everybody now assumed I was literally a man-eater (unfortunately not the fun and frisky sort) and man-eaters have a history of being hunted down and destroyed. In an effort to be helpful, I dredged body parts from the bottom of the river, swam up to the crew's river boat, and quietly began assembling the corpse parts in a little pile before these terrified yet intrigued humans, then squatted in the boat with the sort of expectation one might expect from a dog. Of course they were judgmental of the crocodile. Shoot her! We didn't bring a gun! Oh shit! Alas. The barrier between us was great. But a brave and compassionate cameraman examined a severed arm I had brought before them, observed the gaps between my teeth, measured my bite against that of the wound, and found I was not the one responsible. From there, he seemed open to my pleas as I tried my best to communicate my innocence by nodding or shaking my head as he interrogated me (crocodiles cannot talk and realism was crucial to the overall vision). This baffling exchange was all captured on camera, acquitting me of being a man-eater and in turn making me famous among crocodiles, a celebrity in scales. I handled my fame with grace and modesty. I was invited to a wedding by a rich, eccentric young lady and her subdued husband, claiming that I (the crocodile) was a very good friend of the family (we hung out all the time, she said, and I answered that I had no idea who she was, though nobody understood my speech, besides cake would be there and it would be rude to refuse the invitation). I mingled with the posh guests, waited patiently for the cake, posed for the camera. Nobody was eaten at that wedding and the shark made his escape into the sea unpunished, though I never resented him. I looked very confused and out of place in all the wedding photos, mostly because I was a crocodile posing between the blushing bride and her terrified husband, but also because a small gathering of nudists were there and I just found that odd. Please imagine a narrator's soothing voice in the background of every scene I just described with an instrumental musical score highlighting the fluctuations in movement and mood, plus everything is depicted in photo-realistic quality and taken absolutely seriously.
This is not my first stint as a crocodile in my dreams. Perhaps this is the echo of a past life. Perhaps this is a murmur of my inner creature. Perhaps it has something to do with the diet I started threeish weeks ago to soothe my stomach. Anyway, toodles and thanks for reading!
Chapter 81
Notes:
Potential trigger warnings: caretaker fatigue, allusions to bodily waste and involuntary uncleanliness, the ethics of euthanasia, suicidal ideation, body horror and physical impairment due to injury and medical malpractice, mental and emotional anguish, abusive relationship dynamics, murderous intention, corruption.
Apparently there's been a recent mass fanfiction scrape across AO3 for AI training purposes. I understand that millions of fanfics have been compromised, mine included. Many writers are privatizing/restricting access to their works until further notice to enforce signed-in accounts, thus locking out Guests. I don't plan to enforce such limitations myself as I prefer to keep my writing accessible, but the evidence indicates that locked/restricted fics have likely already been scraped anyway, thus rendering the effort moot. For those of you invested in my storytelling, rest assured, I'm very passionate about this project in particular and so I fully intend to finish Synchronicity and all the sequels. I understand AI is all but inevitable at this stage, so I might take a short break just to clear my head and process everything, but that's all. Thank you to those who have stuck by me and given me feedback, you make the struggle worthwhile.
Chapter Text
With Ratchet’s blessing, Slipstream is reluctantly released from her voluntary obligations to assume other duties, though these she cannot choose, she simply does what she feels she must out of love. Every day, Slipstream returns and attempts to help, for she has taken it upon herself to become Shadow Striker’s personal nurse, attending to her in every need, even the most humiliating. Knock Out supervises, as he is the most qualified, but he keeps his distance. Thus it is mostly up to Slipstream to somehow take care of Shadow Striker. Although a very capable nurse, it is a begrudging truth in life that one must sometimes feign confidence in competence.
“I’m sorry. Frag.”
“Hush. It’s okay.”
“It’s not okay!”
Flamewar never leaves. She is a constant companion and makes herself useful, even if that entails being little more than a body to bury ugly sobs into.
“You shouldn’t be doing this for me!” The old mercenary writhes as she is gently, patiently bathed with a damp sterile textile, clinging to the bike to hide the mortification, the shame.
“I’ll do whatever you need me to.”
“Kill me. Please. Kill me!”
The Seeker feels her throat ache as the constant lump of anxious pity within only grows. “Anything,” she croaks softly, “but that.”
“You’ll get better, boss bot.”
“Liar. I’m ruined.”
Slipstream hates herself for agreeing with that assessment. This quality of life is so appalling, she contemplates ending her own life just to escape being responsible in any way for keeping Shadow Striker somewhat functional in this state, because nursing to prolong her life in turn prolongs her suffering. Just giving up and walking away… Death seems preferable to abandonment, and preferable still to this mutual life sentence of shared suffering.
A medic would be shamed among peers and stripped of qualifications by the institution of medicine, for admitting aloud to ever having seriously contemplated killing their patient just to put them out of their misery. And yet this is so common a scenario to erupt in academic debate, articles arguing for and against. Perhaps the sentiment shall change, someday.
Until then, Flamewar is expected to watch her best friend suffer the agony of a botched surgery, unable to independently fulfil the basics of self-maintenance, requiring help to consume rations, daily bathe, and pass waste.
Shockwave has not returned to witness his work. He is in custody, or so Empress has so venomously reassured her girls. Whatever fate awaits him, she desires that it be brutal.
Slipstream derives little comfort from that. She thinks often about her beloved Acid Storm, so repulsed that they fled from their post as Shockwave’s laboratory assistant after having grown to love him, hiding with Jetfire in a Council safehouse, another Seeker victim of the Decepticons, the banner that claims ownership over Starscream and his Seekers. Slipstream has avoided Starscream like the rust plague since he was released and returned, but then again, she avoids their sibling Seekers too, and so she is robbed of family and gifted the filth she wipes off of Shadow Striker’s inner thighs.
Flamewar holds Shadow Striker’s sobs to fiery breasts, rocking gently back and forth, murmuring husky reassurances so unfounded by evidence that they may as well be lies, uttered with such faith that begs for belief.
“Let us conclude this quickly. I have other matters to attend to.” And by ‘other matters’ worthy of such impatient attention, what Megatron is actually referring to is another of his daily visitations at Orion’s berthside, permitted by a very surly Ratchet due to Ariel’s strict enforcement of the mutual ceasefire, with all the compromises necessary for the ongoing peace parley. “We have digested Doctor Knock Out’s impassioned testimony over the days since Shadow Striker revived, and it was compelling enough. I have seen her. You have seen her. Something must be done.”
Starscream finds himself looking over at Empress, who returns that look with a tightness to her jaw.
“Yet this testimony is damning when weighed against the unapologetic testimony of the scientist Shockwave, who proclaims that he did what was necessary and logical within such constraints at the time, so as to preserve Shadow Striker’s life.” Megatron sets the datapad aside, palms folded neatly together and brows solemnly low, giving him a very bureaucratic look. “Commander Starscream, your Seekers were fused with Shadow Striker’s construct. This was done unsanctioned, regardless of Shockwave’s reasoning, and Knock Out is morally correct in his appeal to surgical ethics, though I recognise the irony considering his professional history. It only seems fitting that Shockwave’s discipline ought to be left to your discretion, as the Seekers are yours to command.”
“Then why are we bothering with this meeting?”
“Ceremony, my dear,” answers Empress breezily. “And because I insisted on it.”
“Oh, did you?”
“Yes, I did. Our great leader would permit you your independence, to act or to fail to take action as you please, but I would prefer certain boundaries, you see, because I realise that you hold a certain special bias in the matter.”
“Obviously I’m biased. Those were my Seekers, mangled and reconstituted into… that thing, whatever Shadow Striker can be called.”
“Yes, but respectfully, darling Commander, that’s not the bias I’m referring to.”
Starscream grinds his jaw, prettily.
“I know you don’t want Shockwave to face punishment for it. For one thing, you despise Shadow Striker. For another, you are grateful to Shockwave - actual gratitude. Imagine that.” Empress purses her alluringly soft, sculpted dermas, littered with old scars that shimmer in silvery blemishes upon her synthetic skin. “After all, just look at the stellar job he did, putting you back together so nicely, so superior to all the other Seekers. What would you be without the cosmetics?”
“The circumstances were different. I wasn’t blown to pieces and halfway melted when I went under Shockwave’s scalpel. That isn’t an insult to his skill as a surgeon. You lot would villainise the unfortunate mech, but I rather sympathise with him, because I know he is capable of great work, restoring me, restoring my Seekers. So what of it?”
“You’ve made the good Doctor Knock Out rather sad with your attitude, dear Commander. Is he not your friend? Does he not attend to repairing and reconstructing your wing in Shockwave’s absence?”
“Do not goad me, femme, lest I slap a glitch.”
“Empress. Starscream. Do not reduce this disciplinary meeting to another petty squabble, please.” Megatron rubs his brows like a tired old patriarch. “Behave, both of you. Do not make me regret entrusting this matter to either one of you.”
“She started it.”
“And I am finishing it. Besides, I am rather compelled to agree with her. You surely shall not let this go unpunished. What message would that send to your Seekers? They would comprehend their lot and realise how expendable they really are.”
“Bah! You wish to shove the responsibility over Shockwave into her lap or mine anyway, so you might distract yourself with faaar more important matters, and so I declare this meeting is a farce. I grow bored of it.” Starscream tosses his helm aside with a dainty huff. “Run along and tend to your precious Prime! I will attend to Shockwave’s punishment myself, as is my rightful duty as Commander, do not fret about that!”
“And I will, of course, supervise and report the results back to you, Lord Megatron,” Empress gushes warm and sweet, cloyingly manipulative. “You may rest assured, knowing that the justice Doctor Knock Out demands will be dispensed forthwith, as a testament to all our little Decepticons that they are safe and cared for by those of us in charge. We rely on their trust in us to represent their innumerable multitude, as we fight their fight, even in these peace talks. That is what you have always said. Of course Councillor Ariel is delighted for the dialogue. You are ever so reasonable.”
Although deeply depressed and exhausted and elderly, ‘Lord’ Megatron smiles fondly. “You show me the proper respect, young pupil, and you duly consider the needs of those beneath you. I knew I was right to teach you manners. You shall do well.”
“You honour me with your mentorship, my darling.”
“It has been my pleasure.”
Starscream gives Empress such a dirty look. If looks could kill, she would vaporize on the spot in a spray of shrapnel. He certainly imagines it – making her smug face explode with the sheer force of his will. Oh, how he would laugh!
Sobs are discarded for snarled words suddenly and scathingly, rendering every visitation exhausting for a variety of reasons, flowing in and out of each other in a dizzying back and forth.
Slipstream tries not to take any of it the wrong way, but Shadow Striker has the capacity for cruelty even whilst suffering from it.
“Stop looking at me like that.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It hurts.”
The Seeker knows.
“That pity in your optics. It hurts!” The old mercenary bares her dentas, frothing between. “Frag you. Stop feeling sorry for me!”
“I love you.”
“Just lemme die. Please.”
“I can’t. I care.”
“Just go away.”
“You need care.”
“Go away!”
Slipstream flinches as a callused palm crudely covers her face, digits curling harshly over her helm, encaged.
“Leave me to die! Damn your pity! I don’t want it! Useless!”
She does not resist as she is pushed aside and forced to look elsewhere.
“Boss bot,” Flamewar pleads, creeping between them, gently inserting herself in the midst of it, bearing the brunt for herself. She is small, but sturdy.
The old mercenary snorts steam, but softens by a fraction.
The bike nuzzles into the palm that clumsily ruffles her helm.
“You should go, too.”
“No.”
“And don’t come back.”
“Nooo.”
“Don’t even bother missing me. We had a good run, think about that, remember us like that, hold onto the good times we had, all we were. Forget this part. This isn’t fair on either of us, toots.”
“You’re mine. I’m yours. Forever.”
“Do better. Not much left of me now. Not much left that’s worthy. I had my shot, Flames, I lived too damn long, lost it all. You’re young, you’ve got your whole life ahead. Don’t waste any of your precious time on my decrepit old aft.”
“Ride or die, boss bot.”
“Then lemme die.”
In a flush of anger, sheer frustration showing in an instant, the Seeker raises her voice. “How could you say something like that, to her, out of anyone! She’s willing to give you everything! Do you know how rare that is? How special she is? You can’t give up on her, you don’t get to discard her now!”
“Now? Now?! There’s no future, dumbaft! This is it, this now is all we got, and it’s sick! This can never work!”
“We gotta try!”
“Frag you! I’m tired!”
“I’m tired too! You think it’s easy being here, seeing you like that, trying my damnedest day by day to take care of you? But you’re worth it! You’re alive! You’re gonna live! I’ll figure out a treatment plan, get you off the sedatives once I solve your spasms, guide you through physiotherapy, the whole lot, anything you need! There’s hope so long as you survive!”
“Oh, please! You’re not even a real doctor. You only care that your precious Seekers are part of me now. That’s why you look at me like this, with all that pity. You’re sorry for them. You think you left those Seekers to die.”
“Boss bot. No.”
“Stop looking at me!”
Slipstream is silent, seething. She is shoved back, gaze obediently averted.
“Go frag yourself! Take that pitying gaze and shove it up your aft. Face it! If you really cared, you’d kill me.”
“I just want to take care of you. It’s in my nature to nurture.”
“Sanctimonious glitch. You’re doing it for these Seeker subordinates that share my lifeblood, and you’re doing it for yourself since I make you feel so bad.”
“Please don’t take it out on our friend, boss bot. Let her help.”
“She’s not my friend, you little idiot! I’m her patient, and she’s not even qualified to begin fixing me! Oh-ho, but she can keep me alive and make me suffer for it, while she looks at the Seekers stuck to me with all that burning pity!” Shadow Striker snarls, turning her acidic, impotent fury on Flamewar next. “And you! You should’ve left me to burn. That’d be better for me! You get that, right? Ride, or die. Die, die, die! I’d be better off dead. But oh no, you gotta play hero and save me. Do I look saved to you!”
“…Boss bot…”
“And for what? Nothing! I don’t even know who you are! Where you came from, what you did to my sister! Did you frag her? I bet you did! Why should I trust you! I’m stuck like this thanks to you, and all those other fraggers, keeping me alive so you can look at my suffering and feel bad about it!”
“She saved you because she loves you. Isn’t that what matters?”
“What the frag’s that gotta do with any of it!”
“Love has everything to do with it!”
“Then I guess love ruined me, afthole! Look at me, look at what love did to me, what love keeps doing! Love keeps me here, suffering in this prison, trapped with you! You hate me for it because love makes you linger, looking after me!”
The bike bites her glossa until it bleeds, raking her claws anxiously over her arms and breasts.
“But I hate you right back! I hate everyone! I hate myself the most!” The mercenary spits froth as she is wracked by another spasmodic fit. “Raaargh!” She cannot control her body. Her optic rolls back, scope bulging in the socket like it might pop out.
“You don’t mean that.” The Seeker adopts a very patient, unintentionally patronising tone, trembling as she stabs the needle into the neck and injects deeply, bracing the older femme to the gurney beneath a bent arm as the spasms die down, pinned firmly in place. “You’re only saying these things because you’re suffering.”
“Aaargh! Grrrmph! Frag!”
“I know what you’re trying to do to us. You won’t suffer alone. We’ll stick by you no matter how you try to push us away and isolate yourself.”
“Suffering!” Shadow Striker shrieks raw and hoarse, spittle bursting from her clenched dentas, tears mingling with sweat. “You don’t know… suffering!” Sheer pressure bursts a minor fuel line, bleeding. “I do, trapped in this patchwork of… corpses! Barely myself any more!”
Roulette stands silently in the doorway, staring.
“Damned Seekers, my arm, my leg! A Seeker’s fuel pump beats in my chest, too big to fit, fluttering so fast! And I can feel it! Every second! Never wanna see another one of your kind, never wanna know you!”
Slipstream says soothing things through a veil of calm, collected tears, only to be wrestled with, enduring feeble kicks and punches and a bite to the forearm at one point as she tries to comfort and subdue an unruly patient who is heavily medicated and miserable.
Flamewar sinks under a large palm that gently settles atop her helm. With a sniffle, she looks up, trembling.
“That’s enough,” Roulette interjects in her curt undertone, finally intervening. “Step outside and have a moment to yourselves. I’ll take over.”
“Are you sure?”
“She’s my family.”
Shadow Striker hurls curses at the departing femmes, then bursts into anguished sobbing once they have gone, left alone in the company of her older sister.
“When you arise again to meet me, I will be here to greet you with the warmest welcome, old friend.”
Orion sleeps peacefully. He has escaped the creeping crawl of death itself. A healthy pallor of colour has returned to his cheeks, the poison being steadily flushed from his systems and drained from his fuel lines, nourishment pumped throughout his body by the Energon feed infused with a detox solution and seemingly the Matrix itself.
“Do you think…?” Megatron exhales shakily from his battered old vents, fumbling to find Ariel’s digits, squeezing them tightly within his own. “Can it be, as it once was?”
“He’ll still love you when he wakes up, same as I do. Love is our foundation for the future. As for the rest, we’ll just have to figure it out as we go along, step by step, building anew and rebuilding what we broke.”
“Together?”
“Together.”
Ratchet squints warily from behind his datapad.
Ironhide folds his burly arms with a gruff scoff.
Megatron turns to bury his face in Ariel’s neck.
“I dislike this very much,” Starscream intones with his pretty chin at rest in his pretty palm, thoughtful in his abject boredom. “You are angry and my wing is at your mercy.”
“You should condemn him,” Knock Out grumbles back, yet his tools are applied very carefully to the task of measuring out a replacement for what Windblade cut off. Wings are precise instruments, filled with sensors to aid in flight. Not many surgeons can replace such a part. “He’s made an abomination out of your people and calls her a failed project. I almost took the blame.”
“You are as blameless as you are beautiful, my only friend in this world.”
“Oh, frag off, you cyberbuzzard. Your charms won’t work this time.”
“Pity. Remind me. How did you lose your license, again?”
Knock Out huffs, pokes and prods rather less delicately at the ruined wing stump.
Starscream jerks, grits his dentas, sinks his digits into his knees, seethes silently.
“You will get no candy at the end of this appointment.”
“Dammit! Can’t even walk!”
“Where would you go?”
“I dunno! Anywhere else!”
Roulette is there to catch Shadow Striker as she falls, scooping her into a hug that creaks.
“I’ll never be myself again!”
“You’ll always be you.”
“Frag off! This isn’t me! Don’t reduce me to this - this - this thing I’ve become! Monster, freak!”
“You’re still family to me.”
“Primus, sis! You were right, you were always right! Fragging know-it-all, always preaching right from wrong! Always right, to my always wrong! Why did I never listen to you?”
“Good question.”
“I should’ve left, sis! I should’ve… listened. I’m sorry. I’m sorry!”
The big sister rocks the little sister like a young protoform comforting a broken toy.
“I should’ve come to you when you called me, followed you wherever you’d lead! You never gave me a bum steer, sis, and I always knew that! But I had you looking out for me all along, following my dumbaft, cause I just kept running away. I can’t outrun this! I can’t do anything! Not even good enough for scrap metal and spare parts!”
“Be patient. Persevere. Do the damn physiotherapy and take the damn meds and tolerate your damn friends. You’ll grow stronger with practice. Then I shall come to collect you and bring you someplace safe.”
“Don’t gimme false hope, sis.”
“Hush. I’ll figure something out.”
Shadow Striker sniffles, curling her leaden limbs tightly about herself, feeling foreign and strange and wrong as she nestles atop Roulette’s lap, tightly curled beneath her sharp chin. “Are you mad at me, sis?” Such a small voice should not be possible, yet it is.
“Yes. But I forgive you. Most of my anger is directed elsewhere.”
“Don’t take it out on them, sis. They’re my torturers, but they’re good people.”
“No, not them.”
The friends take it in turns to keep close to Bumblebee at all times throughout each day and night, watching over him in case a vengeful ally of Shadow Striker’s might make an attempt on his life. It breaks Bumblebee’s spark, but he does not blame anyone involved except for himself. He tries to be useful without compromising his safety, permitting to constantly be shadowed by his assigned bodyguard without argument.
“You would be safest among the elite guard, or what remnants are left,” Chromia intones in her gruff but well-meaning way, thus diverting Bumblebee from the medical bay as Megatron and Ariel linger over Orion’s unconscious frame, closely observed by the distrustful head of security Ironhide and the grouchy senior medic Ratchet. “Come with me.”
“Can I make myself useful among your elite guard? Not exactly the strapping type.”
“I have stacks of datawork that need doing.”
“Cool. Lemme help with that.”
Chromia takes Bumblebee’s pauldron in her scuffed palm and thus steers him firmly but gently along, considerably taller than his stocky yellow frame, imposing in blue sheets of reinforced armour, suited to her position within the splintered elite guard remnants who are still loyal to the Council even after Sentinel fled.
“Those new upgrades look good on you, by the way.”
“Thank you. Windblade rather likes them.”
“Heh. Yeah. I bet she does.”
“Indeed.” The bike smirks, rather satisfied. “The budget is tight, but I expect our friends are also due upgrades. Wheeljack insists, with Ratchet helping with the installations. Are you curious what you might get?”
“Nah,” answers the scout in an effort to sound casual, “I wouldn’t wanna take any resources from the better guys. Give my upgrades to someone deserving of the performance boost.”
“Better guys?” Chromia enquires with a rare attempt at delicateness. She is known for being blunt at the best of times.
“You know. Stronger, faster, more useful. Guys like Rod,” Bumblebee explains with such fragile cheer. “He’s awesome. He can have my upgrades on top of his, he deserves the extras. Or give ’em to Arcee, she’s a legend. Hey, my twinsie Cliff’s a tough guy, real cool. He’d probably be compatible with any upgrade I could get since we share a frame type, except he’s got those macho sensory spires like cyberbull horns. I kinda wanna grab onto him and steer him around, but those things are sensitive, so better not.”
The bike utters a low humming sound. “That’s an interesting thing to imagine.”
“Ohhh? Gotcha thinking about me, riding Cliff,” the teasing scout quirks a brow and lowers his vocaliser, “rodeo-style.”
“Would he go for that, do you think?”
“Damn. Now I’m curious. I’ll ask him.”
The friends share a chuckle, then fall into silent step side-by-side. They eventually stride into an office, designated for security administration. The room is cramped, cluttered, stinking of muscular frames that sweat under armour badly masked by cheap cologne.
“Let me get you started. Can I get you a drink?”
“Something hot, please.”
“Got it.”
“Thanks.”
Returning with two steaming tin cups, Chromia sits Bumblebee down at a desk and takes the seat opposite him, datapads distributed between them.
“Isn’t this stuff, like, classified?”
“You’ll be gravely disappointed.”
The scout giggles at the look the bike gives him.
“We’re hardly organised at all. Ironhide inherited a mess and he already is a mess. I do my best to clean up after him. We wouldn’t know classified if it ran in on us and bit us on our afts.”
“Oh, dear. I guess he needs you as his second-in-command guy or the whole thing goes bust.”
“Not to toot my own horn,” Chromia grumbles gruffly over shuffling datapads, “but that is absolutely correct. He would hardly manage without me here.”
Bumblebee giggles quietly, then pales a bit as he scrolls through paragraphs upon paragraphs of security jargon he does not understand. “Okay. Gotta be honest here. I’m probably not gonna be much help.”
“Regardless of the outcome of the parley, I do not expect Ariel, Orion and the other fools on their side to permit my Seekers to go forth and multiply, nor do I trust their notion of peace - they will return society to the old ways and pin Seekers down as my people and I were pinned before, dwindling, dying out, a mere societal fetish for terrestrial fascination. Yet my position is tragic, for I cannot afford to restore my Seekers’ ability to reproduce of their own accord, as it limits their reliance on me and therefore limits my power over them. This was discovered long before I became Commander in Jetfire’s stead, even he told me as much. Therefore, the future of my people, firmly cemented under my benign rule, requires your scientific vision to bring my ends into fruition. In turn, Shockwave, you require my protection to go about with your experiments or whatever it is you do in your spare time, so that Empress cannot touch you and Megatron does not foresake you. We are allies, mutually beneficial. I do so admire your work. Such skill, without comparison.” Starscream indicates this by stroking himself across his breast in reference to his reconstruction, before reaching over and pinching Skywarp’s cheek to use the younger Seeker as a prop of his power and his privilege.
She scowls cutely, wings twitching their annoyance.
“It is all thanks to you, that I am as I am. And it is thanks to the combined brilliance of yourself and your wayward assistant, my dearly departed Acid Storm, that my Skywarp – the genesis of everything I fight for – lives and serves me as so many new Seekers do and shall forevermore. Acid may have fled, but you remain, and I need you to further my own influence so that I may achieve my agendas and fulfil my dreams. Alas, I am just not clever enough on my own, and I sense Megatron withdrawing, his preference shifting, thus I must consider my allegiances… just in case. You understand, of course.”
Shockwave says nothing, finials low, singular optic downcast, sitting on a chair before a desk with a datapad to occupy his mind. His room is simple, bearing an uncomfortable recharge pod in the corner and a few shelves set within the wall littered with scarce personal effects including mementos from Wheeljack and Acid Storm.
“I need you,” Starscream repeats, moving so that he stands over Shockwave’s chair, the Commander’s delicate palm upon the scientist’s bowed pauldron. “But that botched procedure, whatever it is that you ended up turning Shadow Striker into…”
“I have failed. I have never failed. Yet I have failed.”
“Yes, but nobody is truly perfect. We can look past this mistake, perhaps dispose of Shadow Striker in some relatively merciful manner and arrange for a proper funeral pyre for my dead Seeker brothers. Empress, however, poses a problem. She wants to punish you, permanently.”
Shockwave looks up at Skywarp, who pulls a somewhat uncomfortable facial expression and chirps lowly in reply.
“Keeping you close to myself and within Megatron’s favour involves somehow shielding you from Empress’ wrath. I’m not sure how to go about it, but I’m willing to try.” Starscream cocks his hip and tilts his helm, dragging a digit across Shockwave’s pauldron. “I had to steal Skywarp, here, and sneak our way over just to get to see you privately. I want her to be an example to you of the things you and I have achieved and a symbol of all we could achieve. Behold, for she is a perfect specimen of the once thought extinct Seeker, and she is the germination of our will put to work. Forgive yourself for Shadow Striker and focus on making many more of Skywarp, with improvements upon generational lineages, and innovate new Seeker models so that the sky will again be filled. Take strength from the pride of a job well done and know that I am an ally, for you have succeeded where even my beloved Jetfire failed, for which you do, in fact, earn my gratitude.”
Shockwave blinks slowly, thoughtfully humming in monotone.
“I need you, Shockwave. I need you alive and functional in order to help me continue to produce fresh Seekers, but this argument won’t satisfy Empress, the big brute, and she has Megatron’s sway to some degree, or so I fear. She bays for your blood and he may appease her. Alas, as I am not… the first in his Spark.” Starscream blinks rapidly, clears his vents, and carries on haughtily. “Ahem-hem-hem. Anyway! To ensure your safety and wellbeing, and in turn ensure a future for my people, I shall scheme and strive against Empress – the uppity slag – as she sways Megatron in her favour. I don’t come here with a plan, only a plea. Let us plot, and quickly. Give me something, Shockwave. You surely must have some theory that could be a boon to ensuring the Decepticon vision survives these peace talks with Ariel’s ridiculous Council, or else all is for nought. Give me something astounding, nay, miraculous!”
“Miraculous…”
“You have something? Something worthy of sparing your life, my Seekers’ lives? That would be a miracle in my mind!”
“Affirmative.” Shockwave suddenly pushes back his chair and stands, smouldering singular optic upon Starscream with such intensity it quirks the mech’s pretty brow. “I believe I have the very miracle you require, in theory. In practice, I will require test subjects and access to my laboratory.”
“Test subjects?”
Shockwave slowly turns to stare at Skywarp.
Slipstream comes home late, exhausted and utterly destroyed on the inside, where she can hide the sheer extent of the damage.
Windblade opens her arms and envelops her larger lover in a hug that ends up lifting her off the floor and carrying her over to the couch, gently laying her across the synthetic anti-scratch cushions, astoundingly strong.
“Oh, my love, I had the worst day of my life, again.”
“I’m here for you. Take my strength and have it all.”
Here, they collapse together in silence for some time, simply cuddled on the couch.
“She keeps telling me to kill her.”
“You can’t do that.”
“So I said.”
Chromia quietly comes over to join them, the couch protesting as she helps herself to their bodies, laid out over them. She kisses their forehelms and wraps her burly blue arms about their torsos, entangling her legs within theirs.
“Something smells good,” Slipstream says softly just to change the subject.
“Chromia made her famous casserole.” Windblade smiles like it does not exhaust her to try, but she is so very tired.
“Let us just hope it turns out edible.”
“Oh, hush. I’m sure it’ll be delicious.”
The bike kisses the Seeker, then the Cityspeaker, lingering kisses meant to reassure them all.
“I love you both.”
“We love you too.”
Slipstream rolls over now. “I wanna be the little spoon,” she declares, baring her back to them, nestled against the synthetic couch cushions, wings folded demurely. “The littlest spoon of our three spoons.” She sighs.
“Aw, Slip.” Windblade shuffles aside with a goodnatured chuckle. “You heard the lady. Go on, handsome. Be her big spoon.”
“And you?”
“I’m gonna go check in on the casserole, but I’ll be right back to be the biggest spoon.”
The bike envelops the Seeker from behind, smaller yet large enough to wrap rather snugly about her curved spinal strut and tucked thighs, burly blue arms ensnaring a boxy purple torso as audible kisses wander from neck to pauldron. A particularly noisy kiss garners a husky giggle.
The Cityspeaker rises with a soft, sad smile and leaves them to their cuddle. Indeed, the casserole is briefly inspected and seems to be shaping up rather nicely within the smelting process. There is time for a quick call before returning to join in on that cuddle.
“I’m okay, bestie. I’ve got Grim and Arcee with me tonight. I managed to rope them into a Dead-Dark-Drone campaign.”
“We’re getting thrashed,” Arcee calls over with a laugh, passing a bottle of mid-grade to Grimlock, sparing the need for cups.
“Don’t worry about me. They’ll keep me safe and sound,” Bumblebee says into his comm link, tearing into a foil bag of fresh Energon goodies. “Focus on your ladies tonight.”
Windblade reassures him that she surely shall and bids him a goodnight.
“Love you, bestie.”
Nobody notices the movement of something that lurks beyond the dimmed viewing port, slightly ajar to admit fresh air after another worst day of their lives.
Chapter 82
Notes:
Potential trigger warnings: suicidal ideation, toxicity, trauma, corruption, reproductive abuse, involuntary personality change.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Slipstream wakes far too early in the morning, emerging prematurely from her recharge cycle to the dreadful sensation of feeling drained mentally, emotionally, and physically. She wakes surrounded by loved ones and feels as if her life is over before it barely began.
Windblade likes to spread out when she sleeps, slender arms and shapely legs laying claim to all within her reach. She clings possessively, making an adorably petulant little whining sound as she is gently peeled away and rolled over into Chromia’s burly blue bosom, whereupon she settles again, comforted and comfortable, only to whine anew as this berthmate shifts as if to escape as well.
“Beloved?” grumbles the bike drowsily, lifting her helm to peer past the Cityspeaker with groggy concern. “You’re awake.” Charmingly blunt, as usual.
“Yeah.” The Seeker smiles at that, sitting on the edge of the berth with her tired gaze downcast to ponder her pedes as she rakes her heel struts back and forth through the anti-scratch artificial fibres of the carpet. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you, too.” Her vocaliser is rough and deep.
“Are you okay?”
“No, not really.”
Chromia shifts her large, powerful frame with astonishing care even as she sobers from recent sleep, knowingly reaching for something to replace her absence.
Windblade’s quiet, instinctual protestations are thus muffled by her stuffed singlehorn plush, which makes for a suitable cuddle companion and temporary replacement for her lovers. She ensnares the toy within her entire self and will not part from it so easily. It keeps her calm and quiet in her dreams.
“Don’t get up for me.”
“I’m already up, love.”
Slipstream slumps into the big blue hug, pushing her face into polished armour plates granting protection to firm musculature beneath.
“Hungry? Thirsty?”
The Seeker coos into the bike’s neck, enjoying a slow, steady stroke to the wing, fluttering against those callused digits.
“Your diet lately hasn’t been encouraging,” Chromia notes lowly, trying to speak gently about a genuine concern. “You haven’t been a healthy weight for your frame since… a while ago.”
“I’ve been pretty stressed out for a while. I guess it’s hard to keep anything down at the end of a day of nursing, with all I’m exposed to on the job.”
“No. I imagine that sort of thing doesn’t bolster an appetite. I have a strong constitution, but I couldn’t do it, those things you do, day after day.”
“You’re perfectly good at doing your own things.”
The Cityspeaker rolls over with her singlehorn plush, snoring softly into the synthetic mane.
“Ugh. I feel like scrap. Lemme fuel up. Go back to berth and rest. Keep her happy.”
“She can wait until you’re attended to, that’d make her happier. Me, too. Here.”
Slipstream accepts Chromia’s servo, at once reassuring and supportive.
“Let me take care of you, for a change.”
“Okay. I’d like that. Thanks.”
Windblade remains deeply asleep as her lovers depart from her.
The habitation suite is large, lavish, and lonely in a strange sense even when occupied. It bears the hollow wound of privilege, with the artistic flair for Camien and Cybertronian sentiments alike. It would not feel like home, except for the quirky personal touches of various trinkets gifted by friends and acquired from markets scattered throughout the shelves and other such surfaces offering that homely quality otherwise so severely lacking. Everything is far too clean and tidy.
“No need for the fancy stuff,” the Seeker intones through a yawn. “Municipal-grade straight from the tap is just fine.”
“Windblade is convinced it tastes funny.” The bike lingers before the Energon dispenser, turning the tap and pouring out a measure of Energon, chilled and clear, without any of the additives of the fancier blends. “I don’t know what she means by that.” A low chuckle.
“Heh, me neither. She’s so cute.”
“Mmhm. Such delicate sentiments suit a lady of her bearing.”
“She’s fancier than we are, that’s for sure.
“I love her so.”
“Thanks.” Slipstream accepts a filled cup and leans back against the counter, sipping slowly. Indeed, this most basic of processed Energon tastes perfectly standard.
Chromia tears into a foil packet and pops a mineral chunk into her intake, chewing with a healthy crunch-crunch-crunch. She approves of the nutritional value, especially in such a sturdy build physical lifestyle as her own.
“Hey, um, can I say something… potentially quite hurtful, but with the understanding that I really, really mean no harm when I say it?”
“Mmhm.”
“I’m not happy here.”
The bike gazes calmly at the Seeker from across the tiled space, metallic and cold and so very clean, more akin to a domestically demonstrative showroom than a place where meals are prepared, although they do eat very well here even if the lead sulfide crystals can cause tummy aches.
“I should be happy. I should be happier here and now than I’ve ever been. Windblade has shown me the peak of happiness, you’ve been a stable and sturdy foundation to build a happy home for all of us, but…” Slipstream gazes down into the depths of her cup. “I’m so far from happy. I got it all, all I could ever want, and I’m not even allowed to be happy about it. The war, Starscream and my Seekers, everything that happened with Bee and Shadow Striker and poor little Flames… Windblade knows it, too. She knows I’m unhappy and it hurts her a lot. She’s told me I can go if I have to, find someone who makes me happy or flee somewhere I can be happy, but then she cries and it kills me.”
Chromia has stopped chewing, swallowing the mulch with a quiet gulp.
“How can I reassure Windblade that it’s okay not to get married or have kids together, that I’m okay with her capacity for being violent and scary and almost killing Starscream, that there can be anything okay about this limbo of every day spent nursing Shadow Striker when she just wants to die and it makes me want to die? How can it be convincing to promise that our future is gonna turn out okay in the end, if I just stay the way I am the whole time – unhappy?”
“I don’t know.”
“I don’t ask with any real expectation of an answer. Frag me, I try not to even think about any of it, but I’m thinking about lots of stuff I try not to think about and it’s hard to stop thinking unhappy thoughts when everything is on fire and I’m so unhappy about it all. I’m just venting, I guess. Please don’t take it on.”
“I must try, because I love you and I want you happy here.”
The Seeker smiles wonkily over at the bike.
“Maybe that’s not enough, but I’m willing to try, and that’s something. I’ll do what I can to love you, look after you, honour you, and help you.”
“That’s all I could ever hope to ask for.”
Chromia takes the cup out of Slipstream’s servo, sets it carefully aside, then captures that wonky smile in a deep kiss that lingers on and on and on.
“…Mmm…”
The bike arches into the palm that glides over her spinal transformation seam, grunting hotly in reply to the firm squeeze to her shapely aft.
The Seeker tastes tears within this kiss. She is unhappy. She does not see an escape from this unhappiness. Sometimes she imagines that she is keeping captives, forcing others to suffer with her, for her, and it is a terrible guilt. But how can she walk away and leave behind the very people keeping her alive? Seekers do not survive well when solitary. What would be left to live for, alone? That requires self-love, the sort that grants the freedom of independence. Without it, one wilts.
Even Jetfire returned after a long absence due to his self-imposed exile in search of the peace he imagined could be found in attributing meaning to his old life and finding forgiveness within himself for participating in war, and even Starscream needs a friend to love him as much as he pretends to love himself and wants to love others yet cannot due to some inherent quirk of his character.
Chromia pries herself away with a throaty rumble of her engine, but does not withdraw very far away, gazing closely up at Slipstream, assessing her with care.
“I love you.”
“As I love you.”
They kiss again, then nuzzle, then embrace.
“Sometimes, you’re so much easier to love than Windblade,” comes the quiet confession, heavy with shame. “I could love her to death. I’ll love you until the day I die. But one love is easier than the other. Isn’t that terrible of me? I’m awful.”
The bike bumps her helm against the Seeker’s, their difference in stature not too pronounced to be insurmountable. “Hush.”
“Sorry.”
“Hush, I said.”
Slipstream sighs into the callused digit that presses firmly yet gently to her dermas, stilling her words. She kisses it, takes it shallowly into her intake, feels it brush against her dentas, tastes it on the silky stroke of her glossa, suckles softly.
“She doesn’t need to know that. Intelligent and perceptive as she is, I’m sure she’ll suspect something, but it’s not for us to say. We won’t tell her.” Chromia rubs her other palm over the glossy dome of the cockpit. “Therapy is needed for us all. The damned war won’t last forever, and if Ariel has her way, it’ll all be over soon. Until then, come back to berth.”
The Seeker wags her wings as the bike extracts her slick digit with a playful little tap to the olfactory sensor, smearing wet.
“My tits are down here. Suck those instead.”
“Yes, please.”
Windblade is drooling into the mane of her stuffed singlehorn as her lovers return.
“I envy her, seeing her so deeply asleep and at peace like that, because I can’t have what she has. And I’m also glad because I know she deserves it even if I don’t, so I can’t begrudge her for it, because I want her to have it.”
“Love is a complicated expression of ourselves in other people.”
“So then hate is an absence of ourselves in other people?”
“Perhaps.” The bike slides into place, pulling the Seeker in after. “We’ll save that notion for later.”
“Boobs now?”
“Boobs now.”
Apparently that is enough to revive the Cityspeaker, perking groggily to peer across the berth. “Boobs where?” she demands softly, clumsily.
“Go back to sleep, my love.”
“Boobs. Where.”
“The usual source.”
Slipstream drops her helm with a groan of amusement and relief, smashing face-first into Chromia’s sturdy breastplate.
Windblade blinks her big blue optics. “Awesome.” She promptly powers down again.
“Through much experimentation and careful study, Acid Storm and I–” Shockwave stops himself, sighs. “Correction – I have acquired some understanding of how to engage with Vector Sigma’s unique interface. Yet I have been unable to reprogram the AllSpark to create useful, sustainable life, as everything it spawns is unintelligent, uncontrollable, and soon self-terminates.”
“Abominations worse off than Shadow Striker,” Megatron mutters, grimacing. “I do not doubt your capacity for greatness, and so I have granted you freedom to experiment, but I do not appreciate your continued lapse of ethics. I had hoped the Seeker assistant might temper your endless scientific curiosity, especially in the wake of what you have done, yet I see you remain entirely unapologetic.”
“I am not used to failure. It shall not happen again.”
“Give him another chance, my love,” Starscream interjects smoothly, sweeping an arm across the laboratory. “It’s a miracle, what he proposes we do!”
“I do not believe in miracles.”
“Just listen!”
“I am listening.”
“Go on, noble scientist, tell our great leader of your divinations!”
“I have studied the Sparks still frozen within our dwindling reserves,” Shockwave intones in his calm, patient monotone, striding ahead so that the other mechs follow, steps echoing between rows upon rows of germinating pods. “These Sparks were intended for Seeker frames. As our supply is low, so the Seekers shall cease without remedy.”
“Then why not allow your people to reproduce as others do, Star?”
“We’ve been over that, darling, and even you agree that allowing such a thing would be a risk. We must maintain control, I must maintain control.”
“I believe that the Spark as a source of life – the very essence of the soul as more romantically attributed – is replicable through artificial means.”
“What.”
“I repeat – I hypothesise that I may engineer false Sparks, virtually identical in form and function. In vast quantities of renewable energy, artificial life becomes harvestable, easily replacing non-functional units.”
“You speak disturbingly to me.”
“It trivialises death and bolsters an army, my love! It guarantees Seekers for millennia to come, all obedient to me!”
“Indeed. Obedience is a character trait that can be taught, or preprogrammed within the assigned brain modules. It would be simple. Desirable personality traits, dedicated to service.”
“I said no to that.”
“Then reconsider!”
“You insult me,” Megatron bellows, sending Starscream recoiling by several steps, Shockwave drawing to a stiff stop with his singular optic wide. “Seekers are your people! You claim to care for them, yet you propose I permit the design and manufacture of slaves!”
“Don’t yell at me! I hate it!”
“How is this any different from the Functionaries, brainwashed and fitted with weapons by their Functionist masters!”
Shockwave looks from Megatron to Starscream, unsure of how to respond.
Starscream squawks, flinching as Megatron turns to glare furiously down on him, withdrawing further.
“Answer me!”
“W-wait! Don’t direct your wrath upon me!”
“Yet I ask, and you do not answer!”
“I am first in your Spark! Remember your love for me!”
“That is why I am so very angry, Starscream!”
“Be angry at them!”
“Them?!”
“Those fools who hurt you, hurt me, hurt us! Are you not sick of being betrayed by the people you let in? Orion, Sentinel, Ariel, their sympathisers scattered about the world! Haven’t they all rejected you, resisted your will?”
“You misunderstand! They misunderstand!”
“I misunderstand nothing! I understand with perfect clarity! It is their fault that you slayed Alpha Trion! It is their fault that I must weaponise my people to save myself!”
“I am here to help! Hurting anyone else… I have hurt myself, I have hurt so many more!” Megatron vents harshly, his fury abating a little as Starscream weeps. “I hurt you! I only do so out of my devotion! Please, do not cry, do not grieve!”
“Then stop yelling at me!”
Shockwave turns to peer warily over at the panic button mounted to the wall, contemplating pressing it for security assistance from automated drones.
Megatron gathers himself, softening his countenance, his bodily language, his voice. “Star, forgive me, I was out of turn.”
“How dare you!”
“How dare I?” A flicker of rage, returning. “I did not alienate myself from my friends, my family, so that I could become worse than they are. To stoop below even the Functionist filth? Unacceptable.”
“I will not die, my people will never go extinct, all because you got scared and weak!”
“We Decepticons must be better than the enemy! Do you forget, that you called yourself my Ascenticon brethren! To ascend above our so-called social elite, as Termagax taught me! To be better people than society’s best, as Terminus taught me! You defile their dream, my destiny, by making a mockery of everything I would live and die for! Orion lies comatose because of my failings in the shadow of my great mentors, so do not presume that I am in the mood to be made a monster among mechs! Stop cowering! I love you!”
“If you loved me, you would do this for me!”
“And at what cost?”
Starscream turns and flees, covering his face.
“Wait! I am sorry! Please! Let us talk more about– Star! Starscream!” Megatron reaches after him, then curls those digits into fists. “Why do I destroy everyone I touch - all I touch, is tarnished! Is it I who is wrong?”
Shockwave hovers before the panic button, staring silently.
Shadow Striker hobbles across the ward in an effort to relearn the basics of walking, bitterly clinging to Slipstream for support whilst resenting her for being so supportive, resentful that such support is needed. Dentas bared in agony, cheeks flushed with frustration, scope rolling shamefully away from concerned onlookers, she snaps harshly, “You lot got nothing better to do than gawk? Frag off!”
People disperse, eager to get away from the hideous, horrifying, pitiable curiosity, leaving only the most essential people behind.
“Bunch of aftholes,” Shadow Striker rasps, then shoves Slipstream away. “Enough!”
Soundwave pushes the chair over just in time for Shadow Striker to painfully collapse upon it, panting and dripping sweat.
“Uuugh.”
“I’ve snuck in a little someone in my cassette compartment.”
“The boy? Oh, my baby boy. Primus. He’ll be scared of me.”
“Ravage is far smarter than a cat should be. He’ll understand.”
“Cats aren’t very sanitary,” Slipstream interjects with a wince at the glare this garners.
“Shuddup. Lemme have one damn thing that makes me feel less like scrap.”
“Um, well, I guess we could decontaminate him.”
“Thank you,” Soundwave intones melodically, giving Slipstream a firm squeeze on the upper arm. “Don’t mind Ravage. He’ll behave himself.”
A faint, muffled meow emanates from the sealed cassette compartment.
Starscream has locked himself in his office with high-grade and junk food, ignoring all calls.
Megatron begs and pleads and threatens to tear down the door, but stops just short of actually doing so as Thundercracker gently intervenes.
“Maybe that Minicon can get through to him? I mean, it worked before, right? Star always liked Minicons for some reason. Not that I dislike Minicons, they’re cool. He really likes them though. It’s kinda weird. In a cute way?”
“Thundercracker, that is…” Megatron keeps his temper mild as he turns to smile down at the Seeker in question. “Not a bad idea. Can you retrieve the one they call Sureshock? I believe she is a favourite.”
Thundercracker perks at that, rarely granted any notion of actual intelligence despite being a skilled artist and creatively driven at his sensitive core. “Sure! Right away, Sir! Uh, Lord? Is that what you’re called, now?”
“Lord Megatron, yesss.”
“Uh. Oh-kay.”
Roulette sits with Shadow Striker, cuddling Ravage between them. He is on his very best behaviour, mindful of his fangs and claws, patiently permitting that the femmes handle him between them.
“She’ll be okay for an hour or so. Come,” Slipstream murmurs, gently taking Flamewar away. “Let’s get some fuel and fresh air.”
The bike does not protest, allowing the Seeker to take the lead.
It is a beautiful day and Decepticons do appreciate that, taking their meals outside.
The two young femmes share a bench with unsealed Energon cubes between them.
“You havent touched your cube, Flames.”
“Neither have you, Slippy.”
“Yeah.”
“You gotta fuel up, Slippy. Boss bot needs you. I need you.”
“I know, Flames. I’m sorry. I just… I don’t have an appetite.”
“This makes you so sad. I hate it.”
“Everybody’s sad right now, dear.”
“I hate it!” In a fit of aggression, Flamewar twists and shoves her face lovingly into Slipstream’s bicep, nuzzling hard enough to transfer paint. “Grrrmmmph!”
“Hush. It’ll all be okay, somehow, someday.” The Seeker smiles softly and shifts her large self to that her burly arm comes to rest over the bike’s smaller figure, then wraps firmly yet gently around her, drawing her into a smothering hug with a kiss atop the helm. “Gimme a minute. Okay? I’ll get the fuel down, promise. Just need a minute.”
For a time, nothing more is said.
“I love boss bot, but she says such hurtful things, Slippy.”
“She doesn’t mean any of those hurtful things she says.”
“She doesn’t even want us around any more.”
“She isn’t in her right mind. We must forgive.”
“But can we forget? I wanna forget.”
“Primus. I don’t know. I just hope so.”
They sit like this for some time.
“I gotta go back.”
“Okay.”
“Love you.”
“Love you too.”
Flamewar downs her share of Energon rudely, tosses the empty cube in a nearby garbage disposal unit, then gives Slipstream a quick hug before slinking off to rejoin Shadow Striker.
It is a beautiful day.
Left alone like this, one can only burst into discrete tears.
“You’re hiding something from me and I don’t like it,” Empress grouses, but she does not press further as Megatron limps away from Starscream’s office, knowingly leaving Sureshock behind to negotiate a way inside.
Starscream finally unlocks the door to his office, invites his Minicon friend inside, and promptly locks the door again.
“Why won’t you be honest with me?”
“Because I am tired and I have a helmache.”
“Humph!”
Windblade has elected to train Bumblebee in the art of self-defence, to better ensure his safety and her own peace of mind. She is a patient teacher, with a keen optic for imperfections in his stance, but their friendship will easily withstand the occasional correction and politely worded criticism.
“She’s being a lot nicer to you than she was to me,” Ariel jokingly intones, briefly supervising their training before another meeting with Megatron to further negotiate peace, followed by more time spent at Orion’s berthside.
“Bumblebee’s a delight, always,” Windblade answers with the flash of a grin as she gently rearranges Bumblebee’s limbs, bettering his sense of balance and stability. “So I can’t really be mean to him. Huh, honeybee.”
“You’re biased in my favour, bestie.”
“You’re still the best.”
“Thanks. You, too.”
“Damn. Alright. Fair enough.” Ariel sets her palms on her hips. “Aren’t I delightful?”
Windblade gestures for Bumblebee to make his move, casually answering, “You’re okay,” whilst dodging his jabbing fist with ease.
“Hahaha! Wow.”
“I’ve found you again, my darling.”
Slipstream hastily dries her optics on her forearm. “You sure have. Hi.”
Empress frowns prettily, then reminds herself to smile. She is not so easily fooled. There are things bothering her as well, but she shall hide those nuisances and act the part of the charming companion. “May I join you?”
“Sure, please do.”
“Hopefully this bench shall hold.”
Through some special power, Empress makes Slipstream feel better. The feeling lingers for a while upon parting ways, but it fades without her near, and so there could be an addictive quality to this relief. Indeed, they meet up as regularly as their busy schedules can afford, upon the fringe of friendship, often refuelling together and talking about whatever. Thunderblast is sometimes with them, sometimes not. Flamewar rarely leaves the recovery ward and when she does give Shadow Striker her space, these moments of reprieve are kept essentially brief. Roulette, who has begrudgingly come to anticipate Flamewar’s loyalty and affection, no longer has nasty things to say about the whole ordeal, instead focused on Shadow Striker’s care. None begrudge Slipstream for taking a break. Nobody can go on and on and on endlessly.
“You seem to have something on your mind, something different.”
“I talked to someone I love about how love is hard and unhappy.”
“Love shouldn’t feel that way, dear. Surely it shouldn’t. Hmm.”
Slipstream does not mind being crowded by the larger Empress, sat very close beside each other on that same bench, minus Flamewar.
“Are you conflating love with something else? Duty, sacrifice?”
“Aren’t those just the same thing – like expressions of love?”
“Love can be fun, it can be playful, it can be sore, I suppose.”
“Do you love in a way that I don’t? I mean, we’re different.”
“I shouldn’t say your love is greater or lesser than my love.” The gladiator folds one shapely leg over the other, propped by the knee. “But I don’t think I’ve loved anyone as fiercely as you do. Your love is service, but I dislike masters.”
“You called Megatron Lord the other day.”
“Yes, it’s strange, but he fathers me, see?”
“Oh, okay. I get it. You’re trying to…” The Seeker turns over an empty Energon cube. “Honour him, without letting him master you. Then I guess Lord is a strong word to use. Why not just call him dad?”
“His old gladiatorial stage name was Lord Megatronus, back when he was at his peak. It was shortened to Lord Megatron, and then just Megatron by the time he retired. I thought it might soothe him, a sort of nostalgic reminder of his former greatness, but I really don’t want to do too much to encourage the old mech. He’s a bit peculiar, dear.” The young gladiator wiggles a digit at her helm to indicate senility of a respected elder, her mentor. “There’s a fine line between flattery for personal benefit and fanning the flames of a dangerous mech in the hope that only my enemies burn.”
“You love him, though, don’t you?”
“In my own way, I think so, yes.”
For a time, nothing more is said.
“Love is difficult for me.” Empress rubs her massive thigh, an almost self-conscious gesture of some discomfort. “Mechs fear me, femmes desire me, and so few could claim anything else. Primus knows I encourage the way I’m treated, but sometimes I do tire of being like this.”
“It sounds lonely.” Slipstream looks up. “But you have Thunderblast. I think she could relate to a lot of what you just described.”
“Rather, she has me.”
“She’s got that rizz.”
The gladiator giggles, bumping pauldrons with the Seeker, who chuckles.
“Ah, I do love that girl. She’s my dreamboat.”
“She only says nice things about her sugar glider.”
“Hey. Did she tell you about her consortium?”
“Oh, yes! You’re to be among her consorts.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” Slipstream confesses with a flush, rubbing her neck shyly. “Dunno about her taking over Cybertron, that might be a bit much, but I’d retire happily as one of her consorts.”
“She has plans to use me to those ends. I have plans to be used.”
“And you say you don’t keep masters. She sounds like the boss.”
“She’s the only femme to effectively control me, dominate me.” Empress rumbles softly, her massive engine purring contentedly within her ample breast. “It’s different. Refreshing. New. I like it. I like it far too much.”
“No master. Only mommy.”
“Yes! You do understand!”
The Seeker manages a cheeky grin up at the gladiator. It fades fast. “She’s been a bit weird with me since she feels bad about Starscream.”
“I’ll never understand what she intended with him. Yes, he’s pretty on the outside, but he was so very cruel to you.”
“Hence why dreamboat can’t quite look me in the optic nowadays. I hate how guilty she feels. Girls like her, the baddies, aren’t supposed to feel guilty for girls like me, the unhappy.”
“Either way, I think being a girl is rather difficult.”
“In this economy? Yup.”
Another silent pause.
“I don’t like seeing you unhappy.”
“It’s not something for you to fix.”
Empress rumbles throatily as Slipstream suddenly slumps over, snuggling against the bigger femme.
“But just having you here, being nice to me, helps.”
“You want nothing more from me than my company?”
“I’d like for us to be friends.”
The gladiator rises from the bench, pulling the Seeker along, discarding empty Energon cubes to hold servos instead.
“Oh, um, hi? What’s this about? Not that I mind, but–”
“My darling, you’re like a kicked cyberkitten.”
“Nooo. Not the cyberkittens.”
“Yes, the cyberkittens!”
“Now I’m imagining kicked cyberkittens,” Slipstream whines with a pained grimace. “Why they gotta be kicked? It’s not right. Oh, Primus, I’m gonna cry. I don’t have the fortitude for this right now.”
“And the parallels between you and those poor, helpless, fragile little cyberkittens only solidify in my mind! I must comfort you at once. I can’t stand your sadness a moment longer. Let me work my magic on you, but this time, I’ll touch your broken Spark and hold it close to mine. May I?”
“You’ve been comforting me,” the Seeker interjects with a sniffle. “You’re doing great. This is a me-thing. I’m just sad now, all the time, but that’s okay, I guess.”
The gladiator huffs. “I can do better than that.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I want to,” Empress intones with the utmost seriousness, stooping her large self over until the broad expanse of gunmetal grey breastplate hangs heavy before Slipstream’s wide, tearful optics. “May I clutch you to my bosom? If only for a moment. Perhaps it might help soothe you. I’m told my bosom is most reassuring.”
“…I like bosom.”
“Oh, I’m so glad!”
The Seeker looks up as she opens her arms dumbly, evidently very receptive, and is promptly scooped up and held, giggling shyly into the crushing hug that follows.
“Ahhh, finally! Here you are, my little cyberdove, captured in the cage of my arms and held to my heaving breast.”
“Yeah. Wow.”
“I’ve wanted to do this with you for far too long, so forgive my fluttering Spark.”
“Really?”
“You sound surprised, dear. I rather like you.”
“I’m always surprised to hear someone likes me.”
“You have far too many loyal friends to think such a sad, lonely thing.”
“I’m always surprised to realise I really have all my loyal friends and it’s not a dream.”
“Poor little thing. The world has been so very unkind to you, hasn’t it, dear.”
“Not me, especially. Sure, it’s hard, really hard, but suffering isn’t a competition and everybody’s suffering something. Things aren’t perfect, but I’m very blessed and it keeps me going.”
“Blessed, because of the people you care for, darling? You are, after all, a very caring person.”
“Blessed, because of the people who care for me. I’m loved even when I can’t love myself.”
“Aw! Such a sweet way of rationalising ultimately senseless suffering we all endure and the strive we cling to if we must survive it.” The gladiator simpers, oozing sympathy. “Does this help? Is my bosom helping, cyberdove?” She pets the Seeker’s helm, easily holding her within one bent arm, palm splayed flat and wide across her back strut to pin her in place, pedes dangling.
There are many things a femme could say to that, in these circumstances. Nova Storm would lose her senses entirely and she is far from alone in that intense reaction. Thunderblast is known to speak her mind to flattering effect, or scathing effect, entirely dependant on the desirable outcome.
Flushed cheek pressed firmly against the Deceptibrand boldly emblazoned across Empress’ armoured cleavage, the shy and reserved Slipstream opts for a sincere, “Hugs are the best medicine,” and lifts her chin to gaze softly upward, smiling. “Thank you so much. You’re really nice and Thunderblast is lucky to know you so closely. I hope we can be good friends too.”
It strikes the gladiator in a rather tender place and leaves her a bit unprepared to respond, yet this pleases her. Some part of her realises that she is getting exactly the reception she wants.
“And I like the petname. You can keep calling me cyberdove if you want to. It reminds me of Jetfire, he used to sometimes call us that. I miss it. It’s nostalgic. Familial.”
The gladiator’s smile is crooked, calculated. “You’re so cute.”
“Oh?” The Seeker flutters her shutters unknowingly. “Thank you. I try.”
“It’s decided, unless you otherwise object.” Empress’ optics flare hellishly. “I’m keeping you. You shall be my Seeker and I shall enjoy you very much.” She drags her thumb across a wing, eliciting a shudder.
“Um. That’s very… forward. But you are very nice to me and I do like you a lot, so getting to know you would be great, especially since you’re with Thunderblast and she’s important to me,” Slipstream answers after a pause for thought, chin propped within cleavage. She is bizarrely calm, not at all frozen with fear of femmes, and she is not discombobulated with lust either. “You can borrow me for a bit, but Shadow Striker and Flames need me, and I’ll need you to give me back to Windblade and Chromia later since I’m theirs first and foremost, please.”
“For now.”
“Uhhh…?”
Before the Seeker can ponder the sinister implication with any depth of thought, the gladiator offers a squeeze and a radiant grin, her huge digit tucked behind the audial casing to wiggle against that most sensitive part in a most enjoyable manner. “Who’s a sweet little cyberdove?”
“I am,” Slipstream moans, wings bobbing happily.
“Who’s my prettiest bird?”
“I am.”
“You are, mmyes.” Empress giggles in a sinisterly motherly way. “I’m so glad we understand each other. We shall be the most darling of friends.”
“I’m so dead,” Bumblebee mutters, laid out in an aching heap on the floor. “Those Decepticons are gonna take me apart piece by piece.”
“Not if I have anything to do with it.”
“Bestie, I love you, but you took me the frag out today. I’m lucky to still be functional, sort of.”
“Like Ariel said, I’m a real taskmaster.”
“Yeah, but I’m supposed to get special treatment. You hit hard! Brute.”
“Sorry, Bee. I want you to be prepared for anything. I’ll try to be gentler next lesson.”
“Next lesson? Uuugh!”
“Hey, you did okay today. Loads of potential. Just a bit of polish and practice and bam! You’ll kick aft someday.”
“If you say so.”
“I know so.” Stood above with a canister of refreshing coolant in one fist and an absorbent towel tossed over sweaty pauldrons lending a very athletically attractive look, Windblade offers her free servo with a ruby smile, winking. “C’mon, sweet Spark. Let me help you up.”
The scout accepts the Cityspeaker’s help, hefted to his pedes with a groaning wince.
“Time to hit the showers. We reek.”
“Yeah, we’re super gross right now, bestie. Eew.”
Windblade patiently strolls at Bumblebee’s stiff waddle, emphasising how much fitter she is, as she remains generally unaffected by the severity of the exercise.
“Y’know, I thought I was a spry little guy. This is worse than our Cube matches.”
“I love you, honeybee.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Love you too.”
She giggles, offering her arm in the manner of a gentlefemme, which he grasps onto for support as he shuffles along beside her with a cute huff.
“I’m gonna go see Orion after a quick shower. You in?”
“Sure.”
The best friends find a cubicle and share the hot oil in a very familiar, intimate, easygoing way, allowing the Cityspeaker to help the scout rinse off the places he cannot reach, and in return he rubs solvent into her wings until she moans.
“Mmm. Right there, Bee.”
“Little circles?”
“Little circles. Deeper.”
“Goddit.”
Windblade turns her helm and clumsily kisses whatever bit of Bumblebee she can reach with him pressing in from behind.
He bumps his helm lovingly against hers, drawing deep little circles all over the span of her ejected wings.
“You’re gonna be so strong someday soon, Bee.”
“Only because you’ll teach me to be strong, bestie.”
She chirps as he runs a digit through her sensitive turbine, spinning the otherwise currently inactive blades with the motion of his swiping digit, set to turning for several revolutions, then slowing to a stop.
“Thanks for doing this.”
“It’s as much for my peace of mind as your protection.”
He gently pulls her wings back, manipulating their sheer range of motion to access the harder to reach places.
She exhales shakily, fumbling to touch him somewhere, anywhere. “Bee.”
“Bestie.”
“That feels so good.”
It is the least he can do.
“You’re worse today.”
“Forgive me, old friend. I do not mean to burden you more than I already have.”
“We’re best friends. It’s no burden to care about you.”
Megatron kisses Ariel’s cheek in reply.
“Something real bad must’ve happened to set you off like this. Can I help?”
“You are already helping me.”
They stand over Orion’s unconscious body, holding servos, digits interwoven as he sleeps.
“Once we have decided upon the best terms of ensuring peace for all our people forevermore, once he has awoken and I have made my amends with him, once this war is over, all that is left is to love.”
“Sappy old bastard. I love you a lot.”
“As I love you, my cantankerous delight.”
Ariel turns to smile up at Megatron, who in turn smiles down at her.
“We will be alright.”
“Yeah. It’s all gonna work out okay.”
Just then, Orion opens his optics, gasps hoarsely and jerks as if struck by an electrical surge, lurching off the gurney in a swift, sudden motion.
Ariel and Megatron exclaim together, reaching as one to stabilise their revived friend, only to be shoved out of the way as Ratchet interjects himself.
“By the AllSpark, Orion, you were supposed to revive gently!”
Megatron and Ariel cling to each other, gawking stupidly.
Orion shudders and groans, then grows eerily still under Ratchet’s attention, silently seated upright upon the gurney, his expression stern, vitals stabilising on the monitor to indicate that all is fine, but the hardness to those brilliant blue optics does not reassure anyone.
“Look here,” Ratchet commands gruffly, waving a stylus back and forth. “Follow the movement. Let your optics recalibrate. Tell me if anything looks off.”
Orion’s glare follows the motion obediently. “Yes, Doctor.” His voice is powerful, majestic as always, yet it resonates with something more. “I see.”
“Good. That’s a start. What’s your name?”
“I am Optimus Prime, leader of the Autobot faction.”
“What’s your real name?”
“Optimus Prime. I have no other name, Doctor.”
“Oh, that’s not good.”
“My Orion,” Megatron intones weakly, flinching when those optics are upon him, barely familiar, the focused, wise glare of a demigod, very little of their former friendship left behind. “I am sorry, I have harmed you, but…” A nervous gesture over at Ariel. “We are…”
“We’re in peace talks. You inspired us to settle our differences, once and for all.” Ariel tries to smile, but it comes across as timid when the Prime looks to her next. “It sure took us long enough, huh. Bunch of dumb old people, sending the young to do the fighting for us. For shame. No more. We’ll fix this, and this time, we’ll do it right.”
“All of this, whilst I slept.”
Megatron’s optics follow as a servo is laid upon Ariel’s forearm.
“Elita One, you make me very proud.”
“…Who?”
“I must see our Autobots. The scout, our Bumblebee, he saved me – is he hurt?”
“Orion!” Just then, as if called from the aether and manifested through a wish, Bumblebee sprints into the ward with Windblade hot on his heels and throws himself onto the gurney, caught easily in big, strong arms that cradle him in a fatherly way he craves. “You’re awake! Ohhh, Primus, I missed you!”
“Bumblebee, brave little friend, I owe you my life.”
“Aw, c’mon, I’m just happy you’re here!”
“Elita, please lend me your strength. I wish to stand tall, but without you, I do not believe I have it in me.”
Megatron dumbly keeps back, as he has not been called upon, his hellish optics brimming with emotions, chin trembling as he keeps quiet about it.
Confused and concerned, Ariel – Elita – helps Orion – Optimus – to his pedes, Bumblebee clinging to the bigger mech, buzzing happily as a massive palm ruffles his sunny helm.
“Thank you, my friends. Gather the others. I will address our fellow Autobots and assuage their concerns. Elita, would you kindly update me as to the progress you’ve made negotiating peace with Megatron and his Decepticon forces?”
“Uh. Yeah. Sure.”
“Elita?” Windblade echoes, but Ratchet just shakes his helm.
“Leave it. It’s a side-effect of the coma. The delusion will fade with time.”
Notes:
...Synchronicity is expected to end soon...
Chapter 83
Notes:
This chapter marks the end of any pretence that things might get better. Synchronicity is almost over and I just need to lay down a few more stepping stones to prepare for the sequel. I'm trying to stick to my planned word-count but to be honest I might exceed it a bit if I want to get it all in and rounded off nicely. A solution I'm considering is to shuffle around the plot a little and maybe push forward Synchronicity's outstanding plot threads into the sequel itself. Apologies for any confusion, friends - I do all this without a beta reader and thus rely entirely on myself and whatever feedback I am gifted courtesy of you. Thanks for being here and for being patient. I'm doing my best. Please enjoy. You like Bumblebee/Starscream? Have at thee!
Potential trigger warnings: caretaker fatigue, a near-death experience, attempted assault (not sexual, thwarted), toxic relationships, notions of betraying one's life partner for personal gain, personality change (multiple personalities vying for control), cosmic horror vibes (fate, higher power, mortal instruments serving unfathomable purposes against their will).
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Is there something on your mind, Elita?”
Two lifelong best friends linger alone together outside a crowded room, sequestering a private moment for themselves before addressing the others.
“Uh, yeah. Before the meeting starts, quick question.”
“Ask me anything, old friend, and I shall answer you.”
Within the crowded meeting room, Autobots and Decepticons chatter behind closed doors. Windblade, Bumblebee, Hot Rod, Arcee and Grimlock act as primary representatives of their half of this war, whereas Megatron is sponsored by Starscream, Empress, Alpha Strike who is never without Skywarp, and Soundwave. Shockwave and Shadow Striker’s combined absence is noted by all. It would seem the Decepticons are at a disadvantage today, but Megatron is so contrite that he accepts this with grace.
“There’s no delicate way to ask, so I’ll be blunt. Why am I Elita all of a sudden? You woke up and just gave me a new name. Elita One. Why?”
“I awoke from a great dream. Within that dream, the Matrix revealed itself. You have always been, and always will be, my Elita. It is destiny.”
“What.”
Lingering outside those closed doors, the chatter within the room sealed beyond muffled for discretion, the elderly mech remains composed to the point of statuesque stoicism, gazing calmly down at the elderly pink femme who searches his face for the mech he once was.
“Orion, uh–”
“Optimus.”
“Optimus, right. Listen, I love you, but you got me confused. Destiny? That’s a little… I mean… You know. I’m just some guy. I left Cybertron for millions upon millions of years to go study organics and by the time I finally hauled my aft back home, I lost any right to having a destiny here. Here never felt like home.”
“The Primes spoke of transformation, yours and mine. I must change. You will change.”
“That’s fragging ominous.”
“I thought so, also.”
“Ugh. Great.”
“Do you dislike it, Elita?”
“No! No. It’s… catchy.”
“I am Optimus Prime. Consider the meaning of that title and compare yourself to me, measure yours against mine.” He lays a solemn palm over his bosom, where the Matrix devours him, and lays another palm over her Spark. “You are my equal, my counterpart, my other half. You are Elita One.”
“Oh. Okay, I geddit. It’s in the name.”
“You are so much more, old friend.”
She grunts as he kisses her forehelm.
“You are…”
“Hey.”
“Elita… Ariel?” His expression seems caught between the stern countenance of a Prime – more suited to statues than a person – and the face of a friend – softer and familiar and sad. “Optimus… Orion? I awoke, yet I sleep. Where am I?” Large digits claw at the chest.
“Hey, hey, hey!” She quickly grabs his servo and stills him with a hug. “Don’t let this upset you. Ratchet said the, uh, delusion will fade in a little while. It’s the coma, he said it leaves some bots confused. Stress worsens it, prolongs it. Just do what’s easier for now. We can go with the flow until you feel better. I’m Elita, and you’re Optimus, until you’re ready to go back.”
A painful wheeze, and then a low hum.
She peers up at him, deeply concerned for his mental health, recognising his alternate personality and realising that it is divine providence. That does not make this any easier, it does not make this fair.
He hardens again, but gently strokes her burly pink arms. “Shall we proceed with the meeting, Elita?”
“Yeah, Optimus.” She sighs quietly, patting him on the pauldron. “Ready when you are.”
“Enough,” Roulette snaps with big sisterly impatience borne of a long-suffering Spark that loves fiercely. “They’re doing what they can to help you. You’ve redirected your anger at the wrong people.”
“I’m angry at fragging everyone, sis, can’t I get a damn break just to process my stupid feelings for once!”
“Not if you make enemies of your friends. You need these people now more than ever. Don’t slam the door shut in their faces after you finally let yourself unlock.”
“I was locked up all that time mostly ’cause you disapproved of anybody I’d ever dared to like, you self-righteous old glitch! Why’s anything changed, other than my life being over!”
“Speak to me that way again and I’ll take you over my knee and leave you with a smacked aft, little one.”
Shadow Striker scowls murderously at the floor. “I hate you.” It comes out so pitiable.
“For the moment.”
“Bah! Frag off, sis.”
Slipstream rubs Flamewar’s back, the shorter femme huddled close, mutually miserable caretakers with a patient that does not desire their care, no matter how tender or loving they may try their best to be.
“You two take a break. I’ll take care of her.”
The bike wants to protest, but the Seeker sighs and reluctantly escorts her out.
“Come along, Flames.”
“Oh. Okay.”
The mercenary snarls at her sister, then pouts when the bounty hunter scowls back.
“Yeah, right.” Elita huffs, shaking her helm, muscular arms folded on the table. “Like that’s ever gonna happen. Be reasonable.”
“It must happen,” Starscream answers bitterly, but with less bite than one would expect. He looks tired and stressed, which he evidently tries to conceal with more makeup than usual. “I’ll accept nothing less for myself and my Seekers. That’s perfectly reasonable!” He sniffs delicately. “For far too long, Seekers have been disregarded, discarded. No more! I, their resplendent Commander, shall break that vicious cycle!”
Hot Rod cringes over at Soundwave, who inclines his helm with a slight shrug.
“By the power Jetfire vested in me, I refuse to accept anything less than undisputed, universal–”
“Seeker supremacy,” Arcee drawls with an elbow nudged at Grimlock, sat hugely beside her, shaking his helm in paternal disapproval. “Sheesh, no wonder Slip wanted out.”
Starscream slams his palms on the table and glares.
“Oops.”
“Do. Not. Bring. Her. Up.”
“Oh-kay.”
Windblade shifts in her seat, bristling, but stills as a palm settles upon her thigh.
“Hey, chill.” Bumblebee leans forward, offering a calming look. “The meeting’s not over yet. We’re talking it out, okay. That’s the whole point – talk until we figure it out for everybody. Let’s just keep this discourse going. No hostilities in a parley, okay. Let’s all try to be nice.”
Starscream growls lowly, but settles again, simmering moodily. “Whatever!”
Bumblebee manages to smile, vaguely. “That’s better.”
Hot Rod gives his buddy a fond pat on the back, leaning over to achieve it.
Windblade turns to give Arcee a look which she reciprocates. “Wow,” the femmes echo under their vents together.
“More tea?” proposes Grimlock.
“Yes, please,” mutters Alpha Strike with a prolonged sigh hissing through her facial vents, leaning back in her seat with her neck slumped whilst Skywarp draws soothing circles into the old General’s helm to tend to the ache within, her Seeker assistant rather doting like that.
“Indeed, I believe that would be essential to continuing on our negotiations,” Optimus Prime intones with some weariness, his Primely glare upon Megatron who gives a rather puppyish look in return, utterly bizarre on the face of a warlord.
“Negotiations,” Starscream utters, repuled. “Negotiations only extend so far.”
“How far?” asks Elita with a huff.
“As far as I permit.”
“See, that’s the problem. Currently, you’re the one holding up the rest of us.”
“Bite me.”
“Star, that was rude. The good Councillor does make a valid point. I am trying to arrange a lasting peace, yet your inflexibility–”
“You know my terms. I needn’t repeat myself.”
“Star, we can be flexible,” Megatron intones in a manner meant to be gently chastising, accepting a fresh cup of tea with a nod of thanks. “Their terms are not set in stone and our terms are open to negotiation. So it must be.”
“The reason I joined you was to save my people!”
“And we shall. The Councillors merely ask for–”
“You promised me the world, not a slice of it!”
“Oh, please don’t argue between yourselves in front of company,” intones Empress with boredom, playing with her adorably undersized stylus betwixt her massive digits. “You’ll spoil our tea.”
“Hush,” Megatron grumbles like a beleaguered old dad, “and do not be so cheeky, yourself. Our tea shall taste sweet.”
“Insolent creature,” Starscream surmises, only to scowl as a digit wags at him.
“She is my insolent creature, Star. Now, then. Let us find a way forward. The Seeker issue shall be resolved this meeting, I insist. We cannot waste much more time on–”
“Waste time! On me, my people!”
“…Starscream…”
“I hate it when you say my name in that tone.”
Empress arches her brows over at Elita, then wiggles said brows, garnering an optic roll.
“I speak from the tired, tortured teacher of experience. I have been too rigid in my principles and it almost cost us all a most beautiful mech.” Megatron gestures graciously at Optimus, who remains utterly composed, granting a moment of hesitation. “Errm. Yes. My wrath, my rage, had all been so dark, but I have been shown the light in Orion’s return.”
“Optimus.”
“Oh, old friend, do not tease me so, please. I am trying for you, more than anyone else.”
“You should be trying for me!” Starscream snarls, then makes a wounded sound. “Your obsession with him… I am dying and my people need me.”
“Do not be melodramatic, Starscream, I have been nothing but devoted to you all along. It is because of me that you are so close to securing your Seekers’ future, yet you throttle my efforts at negotiating with–”
“I refuse to bend over on behalf of your old boyfriend, Megatron!”
“Starscream! Enough!”
“Yes, chastise me like a cyberdog, in front of everyone! Why not rename me while you’re at it, Prime – how does Buster sound? Thunder always wanted a dog called Buster, perhaps I suit the glitch!”
For some seconds, nothing more is said.
“That was supremely uncomfortable,” Optimus declares, eventually.
Ravage rolls onto his back and wiggles, purring.
Shadow Striker moves to rub his belly, only for her arm to spasm, digits forming rigid claws as a cry of agony passes gritted dentas.
The sleek black cybercat latches onto that spasming arm and holds tightly to it, flailing about far too roughly to be playful, at risk of injury. But he does not bite, he does not sink in his claws. He merely purrs with all his feline might, licking insistently at the wrist joint.
Roulette looks horrified, moving to intercept, and then astonished, pausing with her palms held out to behold in dumb disbelief.
The spasms settle, then cease entirely, leaving the limb limp and relaxed in a purring bundle of thoroughly ruffled but unharmed Ravage.
“Dammit! I could’ve hurt my boy,” comes a painful, tearful groan.
“He’s fine,” is muttered reassuringly. “Look. He has you, now.”
Meow.
The mercenary sniffles as the cybercat continues to hug her arm. “You’re not scared of your auntie, are you, baby boy?”
Meow.
The bounty hunter smiles at that.
Ravage chirps, nuzzling at the relaxed digits, his purrs penetrating those sore joints. He is a happy, healthy cybercat.
“Sis, I think he helped stop your tremors somehow.”
“It’s the purring.”*
“The purring?”
“Yeah. The boy always makes me feel better. Flames purrs too, it helps having her close to me when it hurts too bad for my body to-” Shadow Striker stops. “Oh, Flames.” Sobs. “My girl.”
Roulette nods in silent understanding. Of course she had noticed that already. She just did not wish to accept it. Now, she has little choice.
Starscream storms from the meeting room in a huff, punctuated by the click-clack of his heel struts.
“Is this gonna be a recurring thing or what?” asks Hot Rod in his endearly dumb way. “’Cause it’s kinda… disruptive, when he does that fashionable exit thing.”
“I apologise on his behalf,” Megatron rumbles hotly with a hue of embarrassment in his cheeks and fury burning brightly in his optics. “This is no way for my second-in-command to behave. I have indulged his temperament for too long. I shall retrieve him and bring him back… compliant.” There is a threat implicit within, made more concrete by the scrape of his huge frame rising from his chair. “My patience knows its limits. Such boundaries should not be tested. Reminders are necessary.”
“Hold up. I’ll go get him.” Bumblebee hops from his seat in a hurry to intercept, anxiously grinning at the others. “Carry on, guys. Won’t be long.” It would not be the first time Bumblebee has chased Starscream upon a rude exit. It seems like this indeed is a trend.
“Bee–” Windblade’s protests are cut off with a quick kiss and she sighs, watching her best friend go. She wants to follow, but she does take this disaster of a meeting seriously. So many meetings have ended in little progress thus far and the tensions surrounding this parlay have her feeling sick. Will she ever grow used to that? This sensation that something bad could happen at any moment to shatter their illusion of peace, perhaps permanently.
“Disgraceful,” Alpha Strike mutters to Skywarp, who chirps lowly in reply. “You shame your master and bring me great pride.” A huge digit rubs delicately beneath a handsome chin, provoking a metallic cooing sound. “Yes, very good.”
“Oh, I want one. Just the sweetest pet.” Empress sighs dreamily. “And I shall have mine.” A glance at Windblade. “Eventually.”
Optimus sighs patiently through his enstrils. “Let us continue.”
Megatron slowly sinks into his seat, wishing for all of this to end and for things to feel familiar again.
Slipstream flickers online with a low hum as claws pass over her again and again in a constant stroking motion back and forth. She realises she apparently drifted off with her helm in Flamewar’s shapely lap.
“You needed that power nap, Slippy. Sorry I can’t recharge you like a slab would.”
“You’re much comfier than a slab, Flames, and unlike a slab, you give me pets.”
“Good girls deserve getting pets. You’re the goodest good girl that ever gooded.”
The Seeker smiles up at the bike, smiling down. “I gooded really hard.”
“Yeah, you always do, Slippy.”
“Do you really have to sit so high up?”
“I didn’t ask you to follow, bug.”
“Well, here I am, again.”
“Indeed. Don’t fall.”
“Afthole,” Bumblebee mutters, inching his way across the gleaming rooftop that caps the Council chambers, the crucial infrastructure repaired since the Decepticons and Functionists. “Don’t fall!” is mimicked in a crude impersonation of that beguiling rasp. “Indeed!”
It makes soft, sculpted dermas curve into the ghost of a smile, sad and secretive.
“Y’know, I have to take the pedestrian route up here. That means I gotta climb a tinyaft ladder, then squeeze my voluptuous self through a tight little hatch, then navigate this bullscrap to reach you.”
“I didn’t know all that.” The Commander looks out upon Iacon City from above. “How difficult for you. If only you were the flying sort of bug.”
“Why do I go outta my way for you, doing this dumb scrap,” the little scout grumbles as he carefully shuffles closer to the perch at the very edge, then stops short, trembling. “Not like you’re unsafe. You can fly. You just hop out one of those bigaft fancy windows and rocket all the way up here, but will you give me a lift back down? As if. And up here is really… really up here, huh.” A peek over the edge. “Brrr!”
“Frightened?”
“Uh, not exactly. Nervous. I’m not scared of heights.”
“You seem scared now.”
“I usually have Windblade around when I’m high up. She takes me in her big strong arms and lifts me up. It’s fun, like a ride. She makes me feel safe.”
“That is unbelievably pathetic.”
“Says you. She likes it and I have fun.”
“And now, here you are, stood at the precipice of lethal range, with me. Do you feel unsafe, bug?”
“Real comforting question.”
“You do keep following me out of those revolting excuses for meetings, spent abusing me and humiliating me and breaking promises made to me. You follow me, even though I clearly ascend to be by myself. It’s taken you three tries to get this far. You could reach out and–”
Bumblebee prods Starscream in the pauldron from behind.
“It wasn’t an invitation, bug. Merely an observation.”
“Sorry.”
“Forgiven.”
“Look, uh, I got this far, eventually. Now, I could stick around, but if you tell me to shove off – okay, not that wording exactly, but tell me to buzz off and I’m gone. Be glad to leave this damn roof.”
“Why not sit awhile?”
“Okay, so I’m staying, then. Promise not to throw me over the edge and I’ll think about sitting.”
A hash wind blows this high above.
Squeaking, the scout flaps his arms desperately as his crouched figure stumbles over smooth, polished metal.
The Commander throws out his elbow and braces muscularly against the wind, neatly pinning the smaller mech safely in place atop the gleaming roof.
With a sigh the air settles again, carrying the distant call of traffic milling below.
“Primus’ ball-bearings, bro!”
“You’re fine. Calm down.”
“I could’ve died! Legit died!”
“Mmyes. Be glad you didn’t.”
Bumblebee clings to the rooftop, panting and staring into the void. He is sat on his aft and thus more secured.
After a moment, Starscream removes his arm with a sidelong look, as if to reassure himself.
“Put that back.”
“Excuse me?”
“Put it back! Please!”
“And yet you told me you don’t fear heights.” Obligingly, the Commander lays his powerful arm across the stout scout’s breastplate, bracing him beneath and thus forming a barrier between the roof’s edge and the yawning drop below. “Windblade shall surely chastise you, soon as I tell her of your daring antics.”
“And admit you sorta saved my life just now, huh?”
“…Right, then. Never mind.”
“Thought so. Jerk.”
They settle into silence.
Throughout these negotiations, a rather simpering Megatron continually attempts to find something tender, something distinctly Orion, within the stoic and stern figure of Optimus. It is maddening, because what seemed like the erroneous and perhaps desperate last act of a surely senile old Alpha Trion that could be mocked and dismissed even if dangerous, now bears the unanswerable weight of divine providence. This is no false Prime. This is no mistake.
Alpha Strike does not approve of the Decepticon’s most elevated leadership attempting to cajole favour from the enemy. Quite frankly, Megatron needs to get over his ex, but she keeps that obvious observation to herself as she does not doubt his power, only his sanity. She attends these peace talks to ensure that she knows their outcome and may at times speak her mind bluntly, but she might toss her datapad at the wall out of sheer frustration with these fools, if not for Skywarp’s adorable antics subtly occurring without anyone else’s notice, the Seeker assistant thus keeping the old General amused by doodling amusing caricatures of those in attendance on their shared datapad.
Empress buries her yawn behind a palm and internally sends a text to Thunderblast, bemoaning the state of things and declaring great boredom, thus burying a smile at the swift reply. Perhaps a naughty picture of those plump assets might be requested.
Soundwave, being their communications expert, reminds Empress that such naughty pictures are not appropriate on this particular line and to swap over to something private, for the sake of at least pretending that the Decepticons are a professional organisation.
Empress calls him a spoilsport.
“Well? Are you going to say something? Or perhaps my sheer beauty has you bewitched with silence.” Starscream preens from his perch on the rooftop’s edge, his shapely legs dangling. Still, he is conscious enough to keep an arm extended for Bumblebee to cling to in typical grounder fashion. “Mmyes, sometimes a little peace and quiet is best spent appreciating a work of art, such as myself.” Still, the urge to cry is there. Life is so unfair to the most fabulous.
“You got cat ears.”
“What?”
“On your helm. Cat ears.” The scout mimics this, holding up two digits above his brow and wiggling them. “Cyberkitty ears for a catty guy.”
“They are not cat ears. Ugh. I preferred you silent.”
“Or a little bow-tie. You’re ready for a formal function at all times.”
“It’s a crown, you imbecile! This is my CROWN! Fit for a QUEEN! It’s what I DESERVE!”
The viewing ports rattle in their apertures as that exclamation echoes into the distance with visible force.
“Wow. So that’s why you’re called Star-scream. I didn’t know you could actually do that, I just assumed you were a bit louder than normal. My audials hurt.”
“If you insist on lingering about me like a bad smell.” The Commander sneers sulkily into space. “Then at least endeavour to remotely amuse me, if you can’t make me feel a little better.”
The silence returns.
“Say something positive. Do something nice.”
“I cannot reveal that information to you.”
“Not even as a demonstration of trust?”
“No, it would be… a betrayal,” Megatron intones, laying his palm atop Optimus’ own. “Yes, I know the secret places, but Star revealed those secrets to me in confidence.”
“Jetfire may reveal those secrets as well. I merely grant you the opportunity to be forthcoming. However, negotiations shall continue regardless, old friend.”
“Thank you. But why are you so fixated on him, on his Seekers? There is so much more to talk about and it would be wrong to decide in his absence. They are rightfully his people.”
“I mean Starscream and his Seekers no harm. We of the Council provide safe shelter to Seekers we consider our own, as I would regard any Autobot. However…”
Windblade grimaces, thinking about Slipstream.
“So long as the Seekers are an active threat to us all, I cannot ignore any possible mitigating factors. Those factories must be monitored and production must, for a moment, cease.”
“We don’t like it any more than you do,” Elita interjects grimly as Megatron looks increasingly disappointed in Optimus. “It’s just a precaution. Starscream’s their boss, and no offence, but the guy’s–”
“Bonkers,” Hot Rod mutters. “But he looks good doing it. I wish I could be half as shiny as he is. I gotta ask what brand of polish he uses.”
“Volatile. I was gonna say volatile.”
“Oh. Yeah. That’s, like… I dunno what that means, but it sounds like Starscream.”
“You all fail to understand him,” Megatron rumbles with offence in his soft-spoken voice, turning his hellish optics from one friend to another, appalled. “I appointed my second-in-command with great forethought, because I know his venerable qualities.”
“You can’t exactly keep a collar on him though, old mech.”
“You know I dislike collars.”
“Sorry. That was crude of me.”
“So, you wanna be queen, huh.”
“Of course I want to be queen!”
“You kinda already are a queen.”
“Ahhh! I can see it now! Can you?”
Bumblebee quirks a brow as Starscream tosses a palm to the heavens above.
“A beautiful coronation! Myself, stood upon the highest step betwixt gleaming golden statues of great heroes, nay, the Primes themselves! My attendants gathered below me in throngs, bowed upon their knees in worship! Seekers filling the sky in their colourful gleaming trines, restored and resplendent, chanting my name!”
“You’ve really put some thought into this fantasy, huh.”
“In celebration, lines of loyalists play instruments to honour my ascension! But not for too long, because that would get annoying, and then I would be forced to shoot them.”
“Oh, dear. Do they die?”
“Perhaps! It is no matter. And someone significant would approach me in reverence to place the crown, bejewelled and aflame in the light of adoring jealousy, upon my delicate helm! Oh, and I would wear a badaft cape, lending my figure an imposing, lordly look!”
The scout purses his dermas with a pronounced pop in the pause that follows, the Commander left panting his excitement.
“I would rule the Seekers, the Decepticons, and the world. A benevolent, wise, noble, powerful, extremely attractive queen, bringing my light and warmth to all weary Cybertronians.”
“Hey, gotta have goals, right?”
“And yet… the factual evidence of my destiny through Megatron seems to withdraw from me as he does, though I still feel that cosmic pull inside myself drawing me to chase him. I cannot give up.”
“Then I guess you gotta figure out how to be a better boyfriend and hold him to those same standards.”
“Excuse me!” Starscream jerks with such heightened offence, gasping dramatically. “I am a wonderful boyfriend! He could do with some improvement, not I!”
Bumblebee just smiles. But it fades as those gemstone optics searingly flicker in and out with clarity and delusion, in a war for dominance over the whole. Broken bird. Orion - no, Optimus - is suffering a similar fate. Has Starscream been at war with himself all along? Slipstream seems to think so, only she said Megatron made things worse.
“And so I suppose I should feel wronged. He promised me the world all along, only to deem that price too steep, now that his priorities have shifted, rather, returned to those he loves more than he loves me. I am second-in-command, second in Spark. Optimus Prime and Elita One, as those are the new names that shall haunt my waking nightmare of a life, take shared first place in Megatron’s motivation. I cannot compete. I cannot reconcile. So must I surrender, give up on my dreams, let down my Seekers and fail myself, forsaking my destiny, denying that cosmic pull, to keep my Megatron happy? Do I love him so much that I could ever do that? Am I truly unreasonable?”
For a while, nothing is said.
“You’re actually more worried about what all this means for your relationship,” Bumblebee surmises eventually, in a gentle undertone, “than what these negotiations mean for your Seekers and the thirst for power and privilege you clearly crave, right?”
Silence, again.
“Riiight?”
“Don’t romanticise me.” Starscream’s crimson jewels narrow on the horizon. “I did say that, bug.”
“Use a different word, pal. Eeeugh. Romanticise sounds way too–”
The Commander turns elegantly in place to gaze upon the scout huddled close beside for security and shelter atop the gleaming roof so high above street level, wearing a soft, sombre frown straight out of Cybertronian cinema.
“Romantic,” Bumblebee finishes with a flush, hurriedly dragging his gaze elsewhere. Oh, no. He cannot even flee from this, as he might fall, and he does not trust this other mech to rescue him a second time today.
Starscream hums raspily in his throat, flicking his wings bouncily, the one maimed wing recently repaired and thus capable of flight.
“Don’t. Okay. Leave the damn wings outta this.”
Another flick. “I wasn’t tormenting you on purpose.” Flick. “They do that by themselves.” Flick.
“Grrrmph. You suck.”
“Sometimes, if the fancy takes me.”
The scout giggle-snorts despite himself, then scowls adorably. “No. That wasn’t funny. You’re not funny, you’re lewd and rude.”
“And you’re perfectly innocent.”
“Like an angel.”
The Commander sighs into the open air, his vents casting a silver plume of steam from the faint impression of a smile on his pretty face.
“Anyway, I think you need to learn to share. You’re possessing him too much.”
“I imagine that you know all about sharing. You and your lot are… chummy.”
“We love each other that much. I’m not saying you gotta share him like how Windblade shares me, but he’s got his best friends back in his life, with, uh, a few changes, so you should learn to let go a little and give your mech some space to see other people. As friends, I mean, and not like my friends, who are the sorta friends I frag sometimes.”
“I get the picture.”
“Then think on it.”
“And what of my Seekers, my cravings for power and privilege, the promises that were made to me and are being broken?”
“You can’t rule the world, dude. Seekers deserve all the same rights and freedoms as anybody else and it’s frankly evil that you guys have gone this long so limited. I think of Slip, that absolute darling of a Seeker, and it fills my little body with so much anger.” Bumblebee clenches a fist, then slowly uncurls his digits one by one. “But then I think of Slip, how she handles it all so gracefully and loves so freely after being limited that long, and my anger sorta feels impotent by comparison.”
Starscream widens his optics, opens his intake as if to say something back
A sleek jet ascends on rotors, evidently sweeping the Council chambers, searching the perimeter of the tower.
“Oh, check it! Hi, bestie!”
“Bee!” Windblade does a comical double-take and sharply returns, hovering a safe distance off so as not to risk disturbing Bumblebee’s tenuous perch beside Starscream. “You’ve been gone too long, I got worried! What in the Pits are you doing up here – with him! Is this where you two go?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“It’s not safe, Bee!” the Cityspeaker bellows over her rotors. “He’s not safe!”
The Commander sneers, but the scout intervenes.
“Aw, I’m fine! Almost fell to my death, but–”
“Oh, Solus Prime!”
“It’s cool! He grabbed me, well, no, not really, but he stopped my fall!”
“Off the rooftop, now!”
“Okay, I’mma need a lift, though!”
Windblade lunges, transforms, and lands neatly atop the roof, immediately scooping up Bumblebee and lifting him into her arms with ease, scowling down at the still seated Starscream.
“Yes, you’d better whisk him off, hero, and quickly. Who knows what this villain might do?”
“Skip out on those peace talks if you really want to waste everybody’s time, yours included, but leave Bee out of it. No more rooftop liaisons, am I understood.”
“Bestie–”
“Liaisons? That’s a lascivious word to use.”
“Shuddup.”
“Guys, can we just–” The scout is easily shifted into the crook on one arm, allowing the Cityspeaker to hold out her free servo in a gesture of warning.
“Tell him to stop following me up here, then.” The Commander sneers at the digit pointed at him in offence.
“Oh, this definitely ends now. Leave Bee alone, or else.”
“Hey, let’s not–”
Starscream pokes out his glossa. “Neeeuuugh!”
Windblade pokes out her glossa. “Neeeuuugh!”
Bumblebee just wishes they would kiss already, sighing quietly.
The Commander watches the Cityspeaker ascend on her extended wings in her root-mode, carrying the scout protectively against herself.
Windblade gives Starscream a nasty look, then gently lowers herself down, down, down, going slowly for Bumblebee’s sake as he clings to her neck, tucked under her chin.
Glossas are extended at each other, all the while.
“Neeeuuugh!”
“Neeeuuugh!”
“Okay, I think you scared the big bad Seeker enough for today, bestie. Put that weapon away.”
“Don’t drop him, now!” a raspy voice bellows from above.
“I won’t!” a feminine voice bellows from below.
“We shall convene again tomorrow. Though this meeting was not entirely productive, we have made progress in your second-in-command’s absence,” Optimus intones with a firm nod to Megatron, servo held out, palm presented in the customary greeting. “Perhaps reconsider his inclusion in future gatherings, until he is ready to cooperate.”
The old gladiator sags on his pedes, sighs, and lays his palm gently against the Prime’s, finding their scale far too similar. “Again, I apologise for him. I love him so, but he is wild, perhaps beyond my gentle domestication. Yes, a firmer touch may be required.”
“Spank the bastard,” Empress suggests snidely, only to pull a cute face when this garners her a paternalistic glare.
“As I regard you with fatherly affection, know that ‘the bastard’ may very well wind up as your other father figure through union.”
Empress promptly drops the cute act and looks so horrified that it makes Elita laugh.
“Ahahaha! Imagine that!”
“I fear I shall faint.”
“Come, Decepticons. Say your goodbyes, then follow me. Let us not occupy space for too long. We have taken enough already.” Megatron smiles at Optimus, who merely nods stoically in acknowledgment, then smiles rather more miserably at Elita, who lumbers over for a kiss to the cheek.
“Love you, Megs.”
“As I love you, old friend. As I love you both.”
Optimus softens, then turns away, gazing upon his Autobots.
Megatron is thus dismissed, all but limping from the room, followed by his lesser leadership, except for one.
“If he marries that winged beast, I shall coup,” Empress mutters to Alpha Strike. “Oh, no offence, Skywarp, dear.”
Lingering behind, Soundwave sighs into Hot Rod’s neck, embracing him.
“Give Ravage lots of kisses from me, okay.”
“I will. If you need him for a few days–”
“Shadow Striker needs him more.”
“You’re a good mech.” With a hiss of static, Soundwave reluctantly disentangles himself from Hot Rod, bumping their helms lovingly together in goodbye. “Too good for me. Take care, until we meet again.”
“I’ll miss you.”
Arcee and Grimlock are there to give comfort when Soundwave is gone and Hot Rod bursts into tears, as he is wont to do.
“Starscream, you have been summoned,” Megatron rumbles into his comms, lumbering betwixt the armed escort of Chromia and Ironhide, suspicious and doing their due diligence. “Do not ignore me. We are going home and you will join us.”
Skywarp feels a chill skuttle down her spinal strut. She keeps very close to Alpha Strike, who companionably lays a palm atop her Seeker assistant’s pauldron, the smaller femme sheltered in the General’s bulky side.
“You have been good today.”
As is a Seeker’s lot in life, if they do not wish to be deemed too volatile to be useful.
“She’s calm. We… had a talk.”
“Good. I need to get going soon, so… that’ll make things easier.” Slipstream shuffles past Roulette. “Just a quick check-over, then I’ll go.” Thus shuffling over to Shadow Striker, acknowledged with a low, angry grunt, but otherwise uncontested.
“Thank you.”
“It’s fine.”
Flamewar winces at the way fine, when spoken of in a particular tone, can sound so very not-fine. She looks up as a large palm settles atop her helm, peeking between digits.
“You love my sister. Genuinely.”
“Of course. She’s my boss bot.”
“Be with her tonight. Stay close to her. She needs you, she wants you.”
“I was gonna do all that anyway, unless she, like, sent me away herself.”
“Your purring helps.”
“Oh, did she tell you?”
“I had to accept it,” the old bounty hunter grumbles, smirking ruefully down at the little bike while the Seeker attends to the mercenary. “I just need to find it in myself to forgive you.”
“Do you think you can?”
“I think I can try.”
“Another pointless meeting, huh.”
“Yeah. It’s grinding my gears to bits.” Ariel washes her face at the sink, then stares at her dripping reflection, blue optics narrowed grumpily. “I’m not in your way, am I?”
“Nah. I just finished up this job.”
“A job well done. It’s spotless in here.”
“Heh, thanks. Sooo…” Cliffjumper feeds a mineral snack to his vacuum drone, to be dutifully sucked up like trash out of the palm of his servo, the identified litter disintegrated within and useful components converted to fuel the drone. It bloops cheerfully at him, as if to say thanks. “We committing to the new name or what? Does it feel good, Elita? Sure sounds good. Suits ya.” A wink. He is like Bumblebee, but with a thousand times more swag injected into that short red frame. Must be the bigger horns.
“You know what? I kinda like the sound of it, too – Elita One. Yeah. It has a lotta presence, doesn’t it?”
“Big name for a big lady,” he intones teasingly, grinning under the callused pink palm that descends upon him and fondly ruffles his horned red helm.
“Watch it, you little scamp. Anyway! Dignity, esteem, power – all in a name. And best of all, it’s got gusto! Makes me sound like the sort of lady who goes out there and gets scrap done. Damn. Wish I really could get scrap done around here. Those mechs are driving me nuts.”
“It’s a cool as frag name. Ariel’s pretty, but Elita kicks aft.”
“That’s what I’m saying, Cliff. Frag it, I think I’ll embrace it.”
“I like it, and I support ya, ’cept the ol’ Doc said we shouldn’t, uh, feed into the delusions for too long, or whatever. Can’t really make the change permanent then, right? Since Optimus is supposed to heal soon.”
“The Doc did say those delusions would fade with time. But our Orion’s still Optimus for now, and he keeps calling me Elita, so… I dunno, Cliff. Wouldn’t just going by Elita make things easier? He made the name sound important. Destiny.”
“Destiny? Mm. I don’t buy into destiny myself, but it’s up to you, girl. Do what feels right.”
“I dunno if it feels right, Cliff, but it does feel… me. Does that make any sense?”
“Maybe you know somewhere deep inside yourself that you’ll grow into being Elita One. But you oughta feel right, sooner or later. If you don’t feel right about yourself, that’s no good.”
“I’ll book myself in for a therapist soon as the peace talks are through and this damn stupid war’s finally over. Until then, call me Elita, I guess, and call him Optimus, hoping my Orion wakes up soon. Real soon. I can’t stand seeing the confusion in his face. I humour him, but am I hurting him?”
“I dunno. You always struck me as the type to prefer brutal honesty over, uh, social niceties or stuff like that.”
“I realise this isn’t ideal, Cliff. But I love Orion, and he’s in there, somewhere. We have these peace talks to focus on. I need to screw my helm on straight and keep focused. Optimus will do, for now. And for now, Elita will have to shape up enough to help out around here.”
Cliffjumper tilts his horned red helm a little to the left. “Ariel already did all that, though.”
Elita chuckles ruefully.
They have little to celebrate beyond being together and being alive. Sometimes, this is worthy enough of a party.
Hot Rod and Grimlock dance together, seeking relief from the stresses of today. They are not the only couple dancing their cares away, as a throng of bodies in motion around them would attest to the universal cure of all conditions that is dance. Decepticons dance with Autobots. Seekers dance with terrestrials. Mechs dance with mechs, femmes dance with femmes, mechs and femmes dance together in harmony, differences set aside for the simple act of healing through motion to music.
Slipstream is too scared to dance, in case she acts foolish and brings humiliation to herself or those who depend on her, but the booze does make her relax a lot and she is with people who are safe enough to be a little silly around, so she can watch from afar and feel contentment in that, idly playing with Windblade’s servo atop the table in the middle of their booth.
“I gotta take a leak,” Bumblebee announces with a belch into his fist. “Oomph. S’cuse me.” He kisses Windblade’s cheek as she turns to look at him, a little tipsy with drink. “Be right back.”
“Want me to come too, just in case?”
“Easy, girl. Nobody’s following me into the wash racks.”
“I’d feel better if–”
“Bestie, chill. Vibes are good tonight. Order us another round while I’m gone, okay? We’re here to diffuse and have fun. Nobody wants smoke.”
“Okay, Bee. Call if you need me.”
“It’s just a tinkle. I’ll try not to get lost along the way.”
“Har-har-har.”
“Love you.”
“Love you too.” She watches him go with a wary frown, guarded, protective. She watches the door to the public wash racks open and shut behind him, as if expecting he might be followed. She watches the door for several seconds afterward and nothing overtly concerning happens. Maybe she is being overprotective of him. Maybe he is not in as much danger as she thought. Maybe–
“Slip, wanna take a shot off my tits?”
“Uh. Wow. Yes, please.”
Windblade turns sharply in her seat, forgetting to be vigilant, big blue optics alight with interest.
In those moments of inattention, two Decepticons have left their place at the bar and are making their way over to the public wash racks with malicious intentions whilst appearing outwardly casual enough not to arouse much suspicion. Their danger passes by unnoticed, uncontested.
Arcee laughs delightedly at Slipstream’s flushed grin.
“What? You did ask.”
“I didn’t think you’d say yes! You’ve known me how long and still you’re so shy around me.”
“Well, I did say yes, so… I guess I’m getting better.”
“C’mere, sweet Spark. Take the shot off my tits.”
“Nice.” The Cityspeaker finds herself smirking. “Go for it, Slip.”
“I’m gonna try my best.” With a brave little inhale and exhale, the Seeker leans forward and delicately gnaws on the edge of the little cup, balanced upon the pink femme’s breastplate.
“You got this.”
“Frag yeah, Slip.”
Maintaining a firm grip betwixt smiling dentas, Slipstream sits back and tilts her chin to the ceiling, neatly tossing the shot down the back of her throat with a low grunt at the searing taste of it, muscular cables bobbing with the swallowing reflex before the cup is spat out and sat upon the lit counter top with a finite thud. “I did it!”
“You did it!”
“Yay! Ahhh! That burns, actually. Strong stuff.”
“Wow! Look at you, taking the titty shot like a pro! Attagirl!”
“Heh. My first titty shot, too.”
“And it’s with my titties!” A dainty pink fist collides playfully against the bigger purple knuckles offered in return. “I feel legit honoured, dude!”
“Thanks, bro. That was awesome.”
“Yeah? You wanna do it again?”
“I so wanna do it again.”
“And then I wanna take a shot off your tits after, okay?”
“Sure. I don’t mind if you spill, so get messy if you want.”
“Oh-ho! And Windblade can lick it off after so you don’t get sticky.”
“Damn right I will. You know me. You know what I’m like.”
“She’s terrible.” Arcee laughs, throwing an arm around Slipstream, their helms lovingly bumping together. “But she’s ours!”
“I’ll get us more shots,” Windblade intones teasingly, winking as she rises from her seat. “You two best be prepared for me by the time I get back.” That said, she saunters on up to the bar, none the wiser of the Decepticon threats cornering Bumblebee within the wash racks.
“Oi, you in here, Bumblebee?” demands Ransack, slurring drunkenly as he staggers over and knocks hard on the door to the cubicle. “Just wanna talk!”
“Wrong cubicle,” rasps a rather sullen reply from within.
“Sorry. Gotta be the next one along. CZ, watch the door. Nobody in or out ’til I’m done.”
“Goddit, Ransack.” Crumplezone obediently glares at the sole entrance and exit, huge and threateningly grinding his underbite.
“This you, Bumblebee?”
“Um, who wants to know?”
“A friend of Flamewar’s.”
“Oh. Okay. Well, um, I’m almost done, just gimme a sec–”
“Sure! I got all night, pal. I’ll be waitin’ for ya on the other side of this dumb door.” Ransack totters tipsily over to the tiled wall and leans against it, trying to look cool, but he just looks drunk. “Don’t even try to make a run for it, yeah? I got my boy CZ with me and we’re from Velocitron, so we’re faster than ya.”
Bumblebee feels a sickly lurch in his fuel tank, perspired coolant gathering upon his forehelm. Oh, no. He does not desire to go out there and meet a pair of thugs who definitely want to hurt him. He shall have to call for help. His digit hovers over his comm link.
Just then, the other cubicle unlatches and the door opens with a pneumatic hiss. Wicked heel struts click-clack on sauntering strides over to the sink, where elegant servos are washed with solvent, thoroughly rinsed, and dried under a vent of hot airflow. One does detest using public facilities, but sometimes the need arises to lower one’s standards.
“Oi. You’re fine as frag,” Ransack declares with a scoff, his speech slowed by inebriation. “Ain’t he pretty, CZ!”
“Oh, yeah, very petty. Uh, respectfully, of course.”
“Never gotta real chance to see ya up close like this before, flyboy. Heh! No wonder the big boss keeps ya around. Daaamn. Got legs for days. Whatcha need such long legs for?”
“Your makeup’s a wreck, though,” Crumplezone observes, surprisingly perceptive, even a little delicate. “Are you okay?”
“Aaaw! You been cryin’ all by yourself, beautiful? A real shame. Need a couple hunky Velocitronian mechs like us to make ya feel better?”
“No, thank you, I’d rather not.”
Bumblebee knows Starscream’s voice and for whatever reason hesitates to call Windblade for help.
“Suit yourself! Ey, Bumblebee, don’tcha go thinkin’ we forgot ya! You gonna come on out now or are we gonna break that door down to getcha? We got all night, but not enough patience!”
“Revenge, on a night like this?” Starscream inspects his pretty face in the holomirror, frowning at the trails that run like oil down his sculpted cheeks. “You thuggish types are all the same, really.”
“Uh. Dunno if that’s meant to hurt our feelies.”
“It’s not a compliment.”
“Hey, c’mon. Don’t begrudge a mech his needs. Flamewar’s a great girl and that yellow fragger almost took her outta commission for good! Just gotta settle the score. Talk it out.”
“Flamewar’s nice and I like her, but Ransack likes her a lot and I love Ransack, so I’m here to be my little buddy’s emotional support and to use my fists to do the talking to Bumblebee.”
“Attaboy, CZ! I can always count on my guy!”
“Cute. Be that as it may, you two shall forget this silly feud and you will both depart peacefully.” Starscream lowers his raspy voice to a threatening undertone. “Leave Bumblebee unharmed. This is my direct order.”
“Sorry, toots, but we got business to settle and we gonna settle, one way or another. Our old boss, Swindle, taught us that. Bless his Spark! What a guy. Pity that broad got to him. Knew she was bad news, but with tits like that, a mech takes his chances. Gotta live dangerously.”
“Do you idiot boys not realise my rank - to whom do you speak? I am Starscream, aerial Commander and Megatron’s second-in-command. You are both lowly Decepticon grunts and you do, in fact, answer to me. You must obey me in everything, because I own you by virtue of the Deceptibrands you both wear.”
Ransack flinches as the much taller Starscream possessively grips him under the chin.
“You are mine to use and dispose of as I please, and this little vengeance quest of yours displeases me, so do reconsider my displeasure before I dispose of you. Am I understood?”
“Alright, alright! Pullin’ rank on us. Sheesh! Typical flier. Kinda doin’ it for me, not gonna lie. That’s so hot.”
“Begone, now.”
“Eh, quick question.”
“You annoy me.”
“I gotta know! Why you gotta stop us? What’s it to you?”
“Well, errm.” Starscream hesitates, floundering for a reply that does not incriminate himself. “Obviously, I - he - the peace talks?”
“Huh. What about ’em?”
“You could derail negotiations with your thuggery, you imbecile! You could ruin any hope of ending this war!”
“Oh? Oh.”
“We didn’t think about that, Ransack.”
“Nah, we didn’t, CZ.”
“Unless you wish to reignite open conflict by assaulting the Autobot scout and derailing Megatron’s plans for peace, which would rather aggravate him, as I imagine,” Starscream intones smoothly, flustered as he turns back to the sink, rummaging about in his kit for something to sort out his makeup, calming his vents, “I suggest you two take your leave quickly and quietly.”
“Scrap. You ain’t gonna tell on us, right? We lost one sweet gig with Swindle, we don’t wanna lose this gig with Megatron.”
“Please, Mister Commander, we’re just a couple of industrious young mechs trying our best to make something of ourselves.”
“Bah! Very well, then. I won’t tell on you. Now go already! Primus.”
“Ugh. Frag it, CZ! We’ll get him next time. Hear that, Bumblebee? Soon as the war’s over and they finish up those peace talks, you’re a dead mech! Tch. My vibes are all off.”
“Let’s go get you one of those pretty pink drinks, Ransack, they always cheer you up.”
Muttering darkly with a dirty look tossed at Starscream’s aft, Ransack totters past, followed by the less drunk Crumplezone.
A moment of silence passes.
“It’s safe for you to come out now, bug. They’re gone.”
Bumblebee emerges meekly from the cubicle, shuffling over to the sink to wash his servos, optics downcast.
“Are you alright?”
“Um, not really.”
“But you’ll live, as shall I.” Starscream sighs through his enstrils. “A familiar feeling.” He attends to his ruined makeup. “Compose yourself and return to your friends. The night is young and salvageable yet.”
The scout dries his servos, but the roar of the hot air does not disguise his sniffling.
“If you burst into tears, do not expect me to comfort you.”
“Hey, you saved my aft twice in one day, and that came after being my worst nightmare for a couple million years. I dunno what to expect of you any more.”
The Commander stares at his own reflection.
“Forget the rooftop, we could chalk that up to reflex. You didn’t have to stand up for me like just now, though - you chose to. You’ve had your Seekers smack me around before, and they didn’t even know my name at the time. You’ve been a bully and a brute to me. So why choose differently?”
“You ask me this, bug, and yet you showed me kindness and compassion when I was trapped in that little cell, despite our history. I am equally confused.”
“Okay, so you’re a weirdo and I’m just a dumbaft.”
“You have a good Spark. That is a certain kind of foolishness.”
“I won’t apologise for that. I won’t change that.”
“Good. You shouldn’t. I confess that-”
Bumblebee bursts into tears beside a mech who has tormented him.
Starscream pulls an awkward facial expression, recoiling as if afraid of stepping in filth, hastily digging through his personal storage until retrieving an unblemished silky textile and awkwardly offering it from an extended arm, dangling before those tears. “Here. Take this. Compose yourself.”
The scout accepts this token with a wet hiccup, mopping at his face as he cries. People really do want him dead. All his life, he has been picked on, pushed around, and now his life could end in violence and murder. He deserves it, for what he did, what happened because of him.
The Commander watches the little mech utterly break down and feels no perverse pleasure. If anything, there is the sensation of pity, foreign and invasive. “I shall have those two ruffians punished. The small one won’t be worth much when smelted down, but the big one will do for spare parts.”
“No! Primus, no. Please don’t.”
“I can’t guarantee your safety if your enemies are permitted to exist.”
“I’m not like that. I don’t just kill people who wanna hurt me. If I did, you wouldn’t be here.”
Starscream has no response to that.
“Not like I make it any easier on myself. Frag me, I really am a target. Not even safe enough to empty my tank in a public wash rack without Decepticons wanting me dead. My friends can’t watch me all the time, they can’t be with me everywhere. What am I gonna do?”
“Defend yourself.”
“I’m not like you. I’m not a soldier, I’m not built to fight. I gotta improvise with my stinger and good luck. Luck runs out eventually. They’re gonna get me. If not those two, than somebody else.” Bumblebee mops at his tears, his drooling enstrils, snuffling and sniffling adorably. He is not a pretty crier, but he is not ugly either. “Someday, they’ll get me. I’m gonna get beat up until I d-die.” He chokes on that last word. “I can’t do this. I just can’t! It’s horrible and I hate what my life’s become! I had hopes, and dreams, and a future! All gone!”
“Bee?” Windblade enters the wash racks, walks in on this scene, and bristles. “You!
The Commander raises his palms and steps back, wings folded. “Wait, I-”
“What did you do to him!” The Cityspeaker heroically swoops in, pushing herself between the threat and her best friend, the distraught scout sobbing into her back strut. “You dare, after the kindness he showed you! You dare, after you tasted Stormfall!”
“You misunderstand! Do not hurt me again!”
“Bestie, w-wait.”
Windblade snorts steam, relenting with confusion as Bumblebee gently tugs her away, wrapping his arms around her so that she cannot draw her sword. “Bee…”
“There were two guys in here. Decepticons. They wanted to hurt me.”
“Seekers?”
“No.” Bumblebee tightens his hug, nuzzling into his best friend. “But he stopped them.”
Starscream has yet to fully fix his makeup, thus the inky trails of his tears remain rather obvious, staining his skin which trembles as he watches warily for any signs of an attack. He remembers Stormfall cutting his wing. All the pain, the humiliation, the unrelenting cruelty of being so disfigured and mocked within that cell.
“It’s okay, bestie. I’m just having a moment. Stress.”
“He didn’t do this to you – he didn’t make you cry?”
The scout shakes his helm below the Cityspeaker’s chin. “N-no.”
“Very well, then. My wrath is assuaged, for now.”
The Commander cringes, glancing at the door, planning his escape.
“Bee, my love. I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault, bestie.”
“I should’ve been here to protect you. I failed. Forgive me.”
Starscream begins to sneak past, assuming the distraction allows for his escape, only to stiffen with a squeak when a fist snaps around his wrist and stops him.
“Wait.”
“Release me.”
“Sorry. I’m a little intense right now. High alert.” Windblade obeys, exhaling shakily, bowing her helm so that her jaw rests protectively and comfortingly atop Bumblebee’s helm. “Your face. Your makeup. It’s…”
“I realise I am not at my best. I have not been at my best in some time. Do not mock me too, oh ye source of my disfigurement.”
“Bee’s not the only one here who’s been crying.”
The Commander huffs, his face reflected back at the Cityspeaker in the holomirror - how his stained skin reminds her of the Titan’s marks on hers.
“You’ve been crying, too.”
“How astute. Deal with him.” A nod to the scout, so small and shivering. “Do better as his protector in the future. As for me, I shall take my leave. Goodnight.”
“I will.” Windblade wraps herself around Bumblebee, kissing his forehelm and sighing her relief, but her optics are elsewhere, lingering on that holomirror. “Thank you,” she says softly.
Starscream makes a strangled sound, determinedly marching for the door.
“I’m really good with makeup. I could help.”
The Commander stops, sighs. “I don’t require your token of gratitude.”
“You could do with some help cleaning up.”
“I suppose you are right about that.”
The Cityspeaker watches him as he stiffly returns to the sink, back perfectly straight, chin proudly raised. She cuddles the scout to her breasts, feeling less threatened.
“Let me just try again… I can’t very well go out there, looking like this.” Starscream gently dabs at his stained cheeks with a damp textile, soft so as not to scratch. He pointedly ignores the big blue optics watching him in the holomirror.
“Let me help.”
“And risk losing my entire face to your butchery?”
“I can be gentle. I won’t hurt you tonight.”
“Why would I trust you?”
“Because of him.”
“Him. The bug.”
“I don’t understand that in the Pits is going on between you two, but he’s been worried about you and you were here to intervene on his behalf when I wasn’t.”
Bumblebee is gently brushed aside, allowing Windblade to step forth.
“I’d like to at least thank you by fixing your makeup. We can call tonight a truce and see how we go. After all, our factions are negotiating peace, so… I guess we need to try.”
The Commander turns to give the Cityspeaker a look of evident surprise. “You’re suggesting we actually try to get along, after everything.”
“Yeah. I know, right.”
“You just have to be the hero, don’t you.”
“Pretty much sums me up.”
“My bestie really is amazing with ink,” the scout speaks up with a wet, broken smile. “She’ll fix you up real nice.”
“And I won’t be terribly mangled in the process, correct?”
“Correct.”
“Very well, then.” Starscream surrenders with a flourish, his tears very obvious by the lingering trails of ruined makeup so stark in contrast against his smooth, supple synthetic skin. “Have at it.”
And so Bumblebee sits himself on the lid of the garbage receptacle and watches Windblade gently and carefully cleanse and reapply makeup.
“This colour suits you. Brings out your optics.”
“Mmyes. So I thought.”
The Cityspeaker cradles the Commander’s handsome jaw in her slender digits to keep him very still and angled into the light, allowing her better control and maximum visibility as she traces colour neatly around his optics, his cheeks clean and faintly damp to her touch. “How are you so soft?” she murmurs with a tinge of appreciation for beautiful art.
“I have an array of potions I apply religiously.”
“So do I, but your facial membrane is like silk.”
“Jealous?”
“Shush.”
The scout watches this with amusement and intrigue combined. He kinda thinks it would be really, really hot if those two would make out, though he could readily discard such a silly, strange fantasy.
“Guys? You good?” Everybody stiffens as Slipstream, tipsy and in a good mood, swaggers in to check on her friends. Her good mood immediately dissipates.
“Yeah! What’s taking you two so oomph!” Arcee crashes into Slipstream from behind, having drawn to a sudden, sharp stop. “Slip, babe, watch the - oh! Damn! Something is happening in here!”
Starscream and Windblade are thus caught in a very intimate situation, Bumblebee waving from his seat close by.
“Hi, girls. Sorry for worrying you. We’re fine.”
“Seeker,” Starscream greets stiffly. “And friend, of course.”
“Uh, hey,” Arcee says, but Slipstream remains eerily silent, staring. “Sooo… I hate to ask, but that’s all this about?”
“A truce. Beyond that, I really couldn’t tell you.”
“Ah, gotcha. One of… those.”
“Mmyes, quite.”
Slipstream assesses Windblade, pressed against Starscream, attending to him so prettily, and says nothing.
“Truce,” Arcee echoes with a hum. “Riiight. Okay, so, like, I wanna go back to the booth and take up more titty shots off your girlfriend, if that’s cool. Feel free to rejoin us when you’re, uh… done here… with that, um… truce stuff.”
“Thank you.” Windblade inclines her helm gracefully, offering a wonky smile. “Have fun.” Almost as if needing to defend herself, she adds quickly, “I’ll explain everything. We’ll talk about this.”
Slipstream tightens her jaw, turns, and lopes out with a huff, followed by a rather awkward Arcee.
Starscream actually flinches. “She looked at me just now. My Seeker. My sister. And I didn’t recognise that heat in her optics.”
Windblade bites her ruby derma, unsure of herself.
Bumblebee buries his face in his palms. He seems to frag stuff up a lot.
“C’mere, Flames. I need you.”
Flamewar obediently approaches the heap of mismatched, assorted limbs crudely melded to the torso, upon which Ravage sleeps neatly curled, purring. She knows what she must do. It is as if the cybercat can somehow find the painful places and soothe them specifically, but he is small and can only cover so much space. She covers the rest, being bigger than he is, but not large herself. She is quite conveniently sized for a cuddle.
“Primus spare me,” Shadow Striker grumbles achingly as the engine’s rumbles permeate, emulating a feline purr more powerfully. “Get on top.”
The bike arranges herself around the cybercat, purring as he does, soothing the old mercenary’s broken body.
“Uuugh.”
“Try to sleep, boss bot.”
“Uuugh. Uuugh. Uuugh.” Shadow Striker turns her helm aside, slick with sweat, grimacing.
Ravage licks her chin, cheek, curled upon her bosom to soothe her fuel pump, a Seeker’s ill-fitting and poorly timed replacement.
Flamewar finds a servo and allows those larger digits to crush her claws until she hurts too.
Two jets soar side-by-side.
“Slip, about before, what you saw–”
“I’m tired, dearest. Let’s not.”
“I need to explain–”
“Later, please.”
“I hate it when you’re mad at me.” Windblade makes a soft, sad sound over their interlinked comms. “I hate it more than anything. I feel it radiating off of your field, burning me by proximity, but you can get so cold.”
Slipstream sighs huskily.
“I keep ticking you off lately, I know that, and I don’t mean to be difficult, I promise. You’ve got so much to put up with. Chromia seems to have a handle on what you need. I’m your partner too, I should be helping you, not… whatever it is I’m doing to you.”
“Windblade, I gave up my family of Seekers, my rank in their guild, my entire life as I knew it back then, all to escape him and run away with you.”
“That was a huge risk you took for me. I’m deeply grateful.”
“I carry this Deceptibrand like a mark of shame, just plodding along day by day, doing my best to help people and not harm people, but I’ve been harmed, I’m constantly getting hurt. I can’t escape it. Shadow Striker, Flames, and now Bee’s getting closer to Star, and you’re doing my abuser’s makeup when even my dumbaft knows makeup isn’t just ornamentation to you, it’s special and sacred and I miss our old intimacy like all those early mornings I sat and painted your face.”
“Oh, Slip. I’m awful to you. The whole world is awful, but… I’m no better.”
The jets turn together gently, not in any rush to get home, enjoying the night air.
“I’m supposed to be your hero.”
“It was hurtful, but simple enough, when you called Star a villain and I defended him as my brother, but now he’s worming his way in through my friends – Bee, you.”
“No, Slip, never. I tolerate the guy, but you’re my girl and I won’t forgive him so easily.”
“Bee used to be Star’s biggest critic. Is the world going mad?”
“Bee’s just as confused as we are. Our little guy has such a good Spark. It’s just pity for the monster.”
“The monster I call family. Starscream – my beloved Star – has the power to destroy me.”
“No. Starscream had that power, but you broke free.”
“And what happens to Bee if Star has his way?”
“I kick some aft, that’s what’ll happen.”
“Maybe Star could be… decent, someday. Maybe he could learn to let go of all the awful things he thinks and feels and just be a little happier. Maybe then I could have him, hold him. Maybe then he’d be safe for Bee, safe for you. Maybe Star could be a friend.”
“You’re such a beautiful person, Slip.”
“Thanks, but it’s just because I’m in your radiance. Without you, I’d be hideous.”
“That’s not true.”
“Can we let this issue rest for a while, please?”
The rest of their flight home is awkward. Any attempt at conversation at all leads to grunts and sighs and huffs.
Chromia is already here, bundled in a blanket within the embrace of her favourite armchair with her saucy romance holonovel and a tall flute of mid-grade to keep her occupied. She looks up as the door chimes. “Ladies, welcome home.”
“Hey, honey.” Slipstream trudges over and kisses her cheek, evidently flustered judging by the irritable flicking of her wings.
“Dinner’s still hot. I didn’t ruin it.”
“Thank you. You’re wonderful.”
Windblade meekly inches closer, embodying the posture of a guilty femme who knows she is in trouble.
“Uh-oh. What happened?”
“I, um–”
The bike hikes up a brow as the Cityspeaker kisses her next, flinching into it whilst the Seeker trudges off again, huffing moodily, skipping another supper to go straight to sleep most likely.
“Starscream happened.”
“That bastard. What did he do this time? Who has he hurt? Let me chop him in half with my axe.”
“Hush, beloved. He helped, actually. He helped Bee. Twice, today, apparently.”
“That’s… strange.”
“They’re both being really weird. They’ve been really weird. Slip saw Starscream and I together, in a, um… compromising position, so now she’s giving me the cold pauldron and silent treatment. She opened up a bit, then slammed shut in my face again.” Windblade lowers her gaze sadly. “Not that I blame her. I wish I could make her happy like you do.”
“Comparison is the thief of joy.* Explain it to me - compromising position, how?”
“I did the glitch’s makeup.”
“Applying ink is a sacred act to a Cityspeaker. I know that. Slipstream knows that. What you’ve done with Starscream, you’d usually do as your daily ritual, with me, with her. He’s invaded something very private between us.”
“Solus Prime, Chromia, I do realise that. I fragged up, okay. I just felt a truce was the right thing to do. Starscream’s agreed to no more nonsense whilst the peace talks are happening and that seemed to perk Bee up, so… I’m sorry.”
“I don’t trust Starscream to keep his word.”
“Neither do I. I’m just trying for peace.”
“Fine. Don’t let her skip another meal.”
“I’ll try coaxing her to eat. Or maybe you could? You’re good at that sort of thing. She’s not mad at you right now, so you might have better luck with her diminished appetite.”
“Don’t cower from your duty to look after her.” Chromia returns to her holonovel with a sigh. “You loved her first. Step forth and take ownership of your mistake and make amends – tonight.”
“You’re right, even if you’re harsh.”
“I want to make love. Fix this.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Slipstream has retreated to the balcony, where she sits folded over the little chair and table with her helm in her arms, wings flicking her agitation.
“May I join you, Slip?” Never mind that this is the Cityspeaker’s property. This is their home.
“Okay.” The Seeker grunts as the other chair is promptly filled and a slender arm wraps lovingly around her, ruby dermas depositing apologetic kisses on her pauldron.
“I’m sorry. Please let me explain.”
“Okay.”
And so Windblade does her best to describe what happened between Starscream and Bumblebee, her involvement in it, what Slipstream saw that seemed to incriminating, and the truce.
“So what you’re telling me is that you guys can get along, if you just choose to try hard enough.”
“Yes, I think it might be possible.”
“Then why should I deny myself my old life – my Seekers, my family?”
“Slip, I never wanted to take you away from them. I just wanted to spare you from the abuse.”
“If Star really is serious about this truce,” Slipstream mutters with a fiery quality to her optics as they swivel over onto Windblade’s cool, crystalline blue, “and if Bee really is coming to sympathise with him, and you really do try to stay your sword, then I’ll try to get my Seekers back and just hope for the best in these peace talks. Maybe we all can be happy. That sounds nice.”
“You aren’t happy.”
“No.” The Seeker sighs into the palm that cradles her cheek. “But I’m not mad at you. I’m just sore and scared and it’s all very strange to me.”
The Cityspeaker swallows back the lump in her throat.
“Are we okay?”
Slipstream and Windblade look up as Chromia stands in the open partition, her holobook tucked casually against her hip, flute half empty.
“We’re okay,” the Seeker says, pretending not to hear the Cityspeaker’s groan of relief.
“Then have your supper and take me to berth afterward, if you’re both sober enough. I miss us.” That said, the bike turns and calmly saunters off, built powerfully, heavy yet quite nimble.
“Her aft is so fat,” Slipstream says.
“Yeah, and she knows it,” Windblade answers.
“Make haste!” Chromia bellows impatiently from deeper within the habitation suite. “I’m in no mood to wait!”
“Those raunchy holonovels always rev her engine.”
“Is this another one with a flier protagonist?”
“Always with the flier protagonists.”
They look to each other, smiling.
Notes:
*Source for the healing power of cat purrs: Muggenthaler, Elizabeth. (2001). The felid purr: A healing mechanism?. The Journal of the Acoustical Society of America. 110. 2666. 10.1121/1.4777098.
*This quote about comparison, thief, and joy is attributed to Theodore Roosevelt.
Chapter 84
Notes:
Potential trigger warnings: violent sexual imagery (consensual, rough sex, emotionally driven, stress response), depictions of domestic violence (early stages, to be intensified later on), relationship toxicity, grieving, depression.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Slipstream is by no means a territorial femme, nor is she the jealous type to covet whatever and whomever she stakes her claim as hers. She does not begrudge her lovers loving others, and yet Starscream – brother, abuser, utterly disinterested in such intimacy with femmes, an absurd and disturbing notion for competition worthy of a long talk with a therapist to discuss old wounds bleeding afresh and how the inevitable festering of the unhealed distorts reality – has lit a fire in these neglected loins and stoked the Spark into a flurry of passion that has Windblade chewing on Chromia’s pauldron and whimpering at every thrust, tearful and clinging, delighted at being used.
“How many times have you come undone in my arms, beautiful bird?” The bike groans as the Cityspeaker bites especially hard, for she would draw inner Energon if not for the reinforcement.
The Seeker massages the hips in her grip to the point of bruising the protoform, brutish arms holding the shapely aft above the rocking berth and in a preferable position for penetration from behind, because those shapely thighs quiver far too feebly to offer much support.
“You must offer me a turn also.” Chromia enjoys the spectacle and the aftershocks of Windblade being fragged roughly against her, atop her, spike scraping against spike in hasty intervals of collision. “I want what she’s having.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Slipstream grumbles through a grimace, ruby optics rolling back, brows bent heavily. She abruptly stops thrusting and braces herself, buried deep. The sensation of transfluid bursting from her aching reserves to flood the tight throbbing mesh enveloped about her choking spike leaves her wings quivering and haunches flexing. “Hnnngh!”
The Cityspeaker gurgles stupidly as her forge is filled over several blissful seconds. She sags once she is dropped atop the bike’s lap, valve drooling over broad blue thighs, temporarily hollowed out upon exit of the Seeker’s spike, still hard and curved like a knife slick with a fresh kill. Spatters of remaining transfluid streak across the buckled spinal strut like a signature scrawled hastily.
“All yours,” Slipstream mutters as she falls onto her aft and sits there, thinking about Starscream, watching Chromia wrap herself around Windblade.
“Are you in need of rest?”
“Yeah. Gimme a minute.”
“And you, my love?”
“Mm. Frag me stupid.”
“Then I’ll expect a good spiking after I’m done with this one,” the bike advises the Seeker lowly whilst gently draping the collapsed Cityspeaker over the anti-scratch sheets, nuzzling down, down, down betwixt the crux of her trembling thighs. “Ah-ha. A feast fit for a king.”
“Ohhh, yes! Eat her outta me, Chromia, I’m stuffed to burst...”
“Mmmhmmph.”
“Oh, oh, oh, yes, Primus!” Windblade barely has the strength to squirm, fluttering her shutters beguilingly over Chromia’s bowed pauldrons and bent back strut.
Slipstream searingly glares back, enstrils flared, jaw tight. She is severely distressed that apparently the cure to her general reluctance toward interfacing of late was seeing Starscream in such a compromising position with the love of her life. Did she really feel the need to establish dominance? Is that what drove her to do this tonight?
The bike assumes it to be her own doing, as those raunchy holonovels always get her excited for flying frames, though she has never considered her preference a fetish or in any way concerning.
The Cityspeaker assumes it is a reconnection they all need and have needed for some time now, between their bodies, minds and souls all intertwined in an act of sordid devotion to each other as a collective whole.
The Seeker does not feel that hazy afterglow, the reassurance that this is natural and healthy. Her spike is a wet knife lodged between her legs and her valve feels molten as she digs her digits in and burns herself on her painfully engorged anterior node.
Chromia devours another femme’s transfluid out of another femme’s valve, grunting, huffing, snorting as slender digits grab her by the helm and roughly shove her in deeper somehow, face engulphed in plump folds of mesh flooded with redirected Energon flow in a show of arousal, drowning in humid comfort. She grips her own spike and strokes it firmly as her intake attempts to devour all.
“Slag,” Windblade moans sweetly, as if such a word is a term of endearment without insult, “I’m so close again, I’m so close for you now…” A feminine whine, the sort of sound that drives one mad in hope to hear it again, and again, and again. “Worship me… until I beg you to stop…”
Slipstream tries to banish Starscream from her throughts.
The bike jerks with pleasant surprise as the Seeker’s large fist replaces her own about her spike, pumping her tightly enough to be a little sore, yet the pain is relished, allowing for focus to be directed where it is most deserving, kisses devolving into suckling about the Cityspeaker’s anterior node.
Windblade does not last long, exploding over Chromia’s face with a cry of bliss, bursting forth about her cheeks, jaw, chin, drizzling down the bobbing of her neck as she swallows dutifully.
Slipstream feels her digits become sticky and for no reason in particular plugs the head of the spike with a thumb, carelessly redirecting the spray of transfluid. When their shared overloads finally stop, she withdraws her sticky fist, inspecting the mess whilst her thickset digits flatten out to bare her sticky palm, then roughly slaps that shapely blue aft with a streak of transfluid smeared across the protoform cheek, left rippling in the wake of being struck.
“Fragger,” the bike growls, muffled by the Cityspeaker’s valve, and she can only giggle.
“Do it again, Slip. Chromia loves it.”
The Seeker slaps the other cheek just as hard.
“Fragger!”
Windblade giggles again, then squeals as a big blue digit is stuffed up her valve easily due to the slick stretch of it, beckoning within to stroke at internal sensory clusters.
“Kiss it better,” Chromia snaps in that matronly way of hers, turning to glare back from over her pauldron.
Slipstream leans in and peppers those stung protoform pockets of muscle in kisses as ordered. She is good at following instructions. Starscream used to take some pleasure in that.
“Eat it.”
The Seeker extends her glossa and worms within the cleft.
“Oooh, yes, I love you best when you’re bossy.” The Cityspeaker mewls as the bike roughly pounces onto her breastplate, sucking hard upon the peaks, a second large blue digit joining the first in stroking inside her valve. “Mmyeah, come get it. Take it from me. Ah, ah, ah…”
Even with a faceful of aft, Starscream’s smug expression fills the shadows behind Slipstream’s closed shutters, blooming bright and beautiful no matter how tightly shut she squeezes her optics. How dare he? How dare he! Has he not taken enough, sullied enough, done enough damage?
Chromia strokes Windblade into another chain of loud, messy overloads.
It is getting late, thus the smart and sensible thing to do is sleep.
Megatron rolls over, fumbling to find another body to hold, but he discovers only empty space beside him.
Starscream has his little manic turns from time to time, perhaps more often nowadays, and rarely needs his beauty sleep due to being fuelled with an inward energy that is indomitable. Thus he has snuck out, again.
It hurts the old gladiator every time he wakes and realises he slept, and is expected to sleep, alone again. It hurts just as deeply this time, as all the other times it already hurt him.
The Commander is easy to desire, but difficult to love.
And what is there to look forward to? Bitter fights between them, romanceless nights that stretch on into lonely mornings, leading onto dreadful days spent negotiating peace with the statuesque figure of Optimus Prime who does not smile or laugh or desire touch like Orion Pax had though Elita One tries her best to still resemble Ariel, and though Megatron wants to put this war to an end and be loved by his best friends again, Starscream is dissatisfied and demands more, more, more. An impasse. A limbo. Yet there is so little time, with the Functionists preparing for something significant and Cybertron in turmoil on the streets. Decepticons demand justice and they will not wait it out, they will rightfully seize it if they must, thus they can only be stalled so long.
Starscream is supposed to be supportive, helpful, a compliment. Yet he lusts for his own interests above and beyond the good of everyone else and he has been coddled for too long, thus he behaves like a spoilt protoform rather than an honourable warrior, leader of the Seeker guild, and the high-ranking Decepticon representative he ought to be, only to reduce himself into a brat wearing the crown of his own victimhood.
“Perhaps reconsider his inclusion in future gatherings, until he is ready to cooperate,” Optimus had said. But what if Starscream shall never cooperate?
Megatron suspects the answer, though he loathes to accept it. Resolve hardens and hurts within a broken Spark as hellish optics contemplate the absence across this berth, only beholding empty space and the ghostly impression of a missing mech where a body should lie.
Even here and now, the second-in-command betrays his benevolent master.
After Sentinel, treachery has acquired a very personal taste.
Morning comes for them all, equally uncaring.
Windblade keeps very still whilst Slipstream applies the facial paint and Chromia tries not to ruin breakfast. They take turns taking care of each other, but it is a bit awkward on this occasion.
“Done.” A holomirror is presented. “Is it okay?”
“Perfect. You always get it just right, Slip.” The Cityspeaker is thus restored, fresh and clean and somehow not exhausted from hours of rough lovemaking the night before. “Thanks, sweet Spark. Your turn.”
“Think Chromia will let one of us put a face on her?” At least the tired, miserable Seeker is trying to joke, as slender digits capture her chin and hold her gently in place for the application of ink.
A soft chuckle. “Absolutely not.”
“She doesn’t need makeup anyway.”
“She’s just that handsome without it.”
And so this intimate ritual occupies them until the bike loudly curses from across the habitation suite.
“Are you having trouble over there, Chromia?” calls Windblade sweetly whilst carefully composing Slipstream, their faces lingering a breath apart.
“Yes,” Chromia calls back. “Breakfast is doing something… strange.”
“Strange?”
Alarms blare, triggered by heat.
“Oh, scrap, it just caught fire! Help!”
“Go spare her,” the Seeker says with a fond quirk of the brow. “I’ll finish prettying myself up.”
The Cityspeaker feels like this is a bad omen, but relents all the same. “Alright. I love you.”
“Love you too. Hurry. She’s fretting.”
“Solus Prime!” The bike’s steps echo heavily as she hurries about in a panic over metallic tiles. “I don’t know how these things happen…”
“Chromia, I’m coming. Hang in there.” Windblade leaves Slipstream with a soft, sad look and hurries over to rescue Chromia and breakfast too, hopefully.
“Uuugh! How! It was fine a minute ago!”
“It’s only a small fire. Hush. We can fix it.”
“Figures. I’m just unsuited to domestic tasks.”
“You’re good at all sorts of tasks, Chromia.”
“And bad at enough of them, Windblade.”
“I want to die,” is said to the reflection in the holomirror, but in a very small voice so nobody else hears.
The reflection nods.
A cacophony of click-clack-click-clack announces the wicked heel struts propping up Starscream, who is approaching rapidly with fists balled and a murderous glower on his face as he shoves past the Decepticon guards securing the gate.
“Now we’re getting it,” Empress mutters.
“Brace your audials,” intones Soundwave.
Alpha Strike grunts irritably.
“Where are you lot going!”
Skywarp whirrs lowly in timid displeasure, hiding behind Alpha Strike’s huge form, peeking.
“Star, there is no time for this altercation.” Megatron sighs to the heavens. “The Council awaits.”
“Then you admit it! You intend to leave me behind!”
“Only if you intend to misbehave.”
“Frag you, actually!”
“Starscream.”
“No!”
Empress turns to give Alpha Strike a look, which is returned with a rumbling sigh.
“You have no right, going against all we agreed to, all you promised me! I am not spoilt! I am striving for myself and my people, as you said you would, yet now you banish me from the negotiations, deciding for me whatever is to happen to my Seekers and I! No, I say! Frag that!”
“You will have power, privilege, pleasure in abundance. Your Seekers will be free. To ensure peace for all Cybertronians, matters must be settled at the table. I cannot tolerate continued interruptions of my efforts and derailments to my plans. You are making things difficult.”
“Difficult! Bah! Admit it! You are ashamed and embarrassed to be seen with me, when I demand the very satisfaction that I was guaranteed! In exchange, I promised my life and my Seekers’ lives to you and your cause! Yet you would rip me off, for him!” Starscream jabs a digit into Megatron’s breast, transferring paint. “You canoodle with the Prime! It is all to appease him, so that he might forgive you, take you back, love you like Pax once did!”
“Careful, Starscream. My patience knows its limits and you are pushing me.”
“Pathetic! Have you no pride, no conviction to the Decepticon dream? What about our love? I was to be at your side in all things!”
“Do not dare question my love. All I have done, all I intend to do, are acts of my love.”
“I feel rather unloved of late!”
“Perhaps if you would not sneak out of my berth every night–”
“I do not sneak out!”
“When I wake alone, it is a betrayal of all you promised me, Starscream.”
“Well, perhaps I do not wish to sleep with a mutual traitor!”
“I am no traitor.”
Empress lays a palm over her intake, arching a brow at Alpha Strike’s exhausted expression. Things are already spicy this morning.
“We will argue bitterly about this later.”
“Fine, but you won’t exclude me from representing my Seekers!”
“Starscream, you must be reasonable to partake.”
“You let me down, yet this is reasonable!”
“Our margins have changed.”
“So you lie to all Decepticons! I am not even special, measured against every one of them that you have deceived to gain favour!” Starscream sweeps an arm out at the staring guards. “You have no intention to fulfil your promises to the masses that pledged their lives to their Lord! You merely offer them a compromise that suits the Council! You are a fraud!”
“Enough, Starscream.”
“You bow down before the Prime, seeking a friend in a familiar face! But Pax died the night you had him poisoned!”
Megatron’s hellish optics widen, then narrow as his dentas grind together with a metallic shriek and his digits curl into huge, heavy fists with a creak of sheer restraint.
“And yet I live! I love! I am here, right here, and I want to be yours, I want you to be mine, and together we would rule the world! Why forsake me?” Starscream falls against that gunmetal grey breast, sniffling, clawing. “I have been good to you! You would never have got this far without me, without my Seekers, and I only did it for us! Why divide our rightful kingdom for someone who would never love you like I do?”
“You wound me.”
“You wound me!”
Empress and Alpha Strike warily watch, wondering at once if this is the day that Megatron might finally lose his temper, flinching together as he unfurls his fists and clamps his callused palms roughly down on Starscream’s pauldrons.
“I do not have an appetite for your love at this moment, Starscream.”
“Why, why, why!”
“You wish to join us at the meeting? Then consider this your final trial. You will agree to reasonable terms for your Seekers this day, so that we may proceed to establish all the remaining terms and put an end to this bitter war that has hurt my friends, or else.”
“Or else what?!”
“I decide for you.”
Starscream sputters, jerking angrily away from Megatron, but his grip is too strong.
“Forgive me. I promised you too much.”
“I sacrificed so much! You lied to me!”
“Never. I meant what I said at the time.”
“And now you lie by revision! Our deal!”
“We will find happiness in this new world.”
“The Prime’s new world! Not mine! His!”
“Orion – Optimus – wants the same thing.”
“Because you reorient yourself around him!”
“I will make you happy.” Megatron grimaces as Starscream pushes and pulls and cannot get away. “You will know this. You will accept things must change and that some struggles shall cease.”
“Let me go, you brute! You’re hurting me!”
“Then listen! You vexing little creature!”
“Errm, Lord Megatron, we’ll be late.”
“Yes, Empress, I do realise this!”
Starscream totters away when his pauldrons are abruptly released, rubbing at the aching armour with a hiss.
“No more delay!” Megatron stomps off, spurting steam from the gaps of his armour. “Keep pace!”
Soundwave shakes his helm, sauntering beside Empress.
Alpha Strike lumbers after them, only to pause and turn back, smiling behind her facial vents at the sight of Skywarp gently comforting Starscream.
“I’m fine, little one. Nay, I’m invincible. None can harm your Commander. Keep your confidence in me and believe it.”
Skywarp looks doubtful.
“What’s your prognosis?”
“I’m not a real doctor.”
“You spend your days taking care of my little sister whom you love. You’re above and beyond any qualifications on Knock Out’s revoked certification. I trust your medical opinion the most.”
The chemical stink always stings.
“She’s improving, as you can see, and quicker than expected. We’ve got her walking and using her servos independently to manipulate objects so she can bathe herself with minimal assistance, she’s able to keep her fuel down, she gets some sleep, and the pain is… manageable. I’m still concerned about those spasms, but the episodes pass quickly and she hasn’t needed an injection since–” Slipstream pauses as Roulette attempts to discretely wipe away a tear, offering the older femme an apologetic little smile.
“Pardon me. Carry on.”
“The next part is hard to think about, harder to say.”
“I need to hear it. Even if you merely confirm my thoughts with your words.”
“Not here. Outside.”
The bounty hunter follows the Seeker, leaving the ward for a more private place.
“She’s improving, but she’s also getting worse.”
“Her anger. Her hate. Her hurt.”
“She’s smart, too smart for me to console. After enough corrective surgery, with custom-made limbs and grafted protoform to replace the muscle she lost in the fire, she could look like she used to, but she’ll never be fully-functional again. And she knows it. How can I inspire hope in someone who knows when I try to ethically lie?”
“Don’t even try lying to her. She won’t respect you for coddling her like that.”
“I just want to make her feel like her life isn’t over. She’s improving, so maybe she’s determined to find a way forward. We can only be supportive.”
“It’s agony, seeing her hate herself. She used to take such pride in her body, my little sister, but she knows it will never feel the same. Oh, Shadow Striker, my beloved.”
For a moment, silence.
“It gets worse, doesn’t it.”
“I’m not certain how much more surgical intervention she could realistically survive at her age. I can hardly believe she survived Shockwave.”
“She’s survived so much already. Too much. And I just couldn’t spare her any of it.”
“You’ve done your best as her big sister.”
“I haven’t done nearly enough.”
Slipstream feels awful as the stoic and stern Roulette abruptly bursts into tears.
“Fine! Since I find your terms unacceptable, and you do not even consider mine, or even deem my presence a necessary representation among you lot at these silly meetings, I suppose you shall no longer have need of me or my Seekers on a more permanent basis.”
Megatron stops giving Optimus puppyish expressions of appeasement and turns to behold Starscream in disbelief.
“You heard me. I’ve had enough.”
“You do not mean that.”
“I do. I’m done.”
Megatron deflates as if gutted, opening and shutting his intake as if to speak, but he only makes desperate sounds as Starscream rises from his chair one last time.
“Have your peace with him. I shall find another way forward, to achieve the world that my people deserve. You will not decide for me.”
“I do not understand! What–”
“I’m leaving you, Megatron.”
Optimus’ statuesque countenance crumbles with sympathy, echoed in Elita’s deep wince.
Windblade gawks in a rather unladylike fashion, turning to gawk at each of her friends, equally astonished.
“You cannot be serious, Star!”
“Do I appear to be joking? No.”
Empress, Alpha Strike and Soundwave do not seem sorry to see Starscream go, but they dare not say so.
“I shall take my leave today. I will take my Seekers with me.”
Skywarp lowers her wings and shakes her helm, clinging to Alpha Strike’s arm.
“You cannot go! You are mine!”
“I tried to be yours. But you lie.”
“Wait! Starscream! Please! We–”
“We’re finished here.” Starscream gestures at Skywarp. “Come, darling. Say your goodbye to the General, then help me gather your brothers and sisters.”
“Reconsider this decision, Commander.” Alpha Strike bristles protectively as Skywarp clings to her. “It is not fair to the girl.”
“She’ll get over you, I’m sure. Besides, she is mine to deal with, however I please.”
The words seem to stike Megatron someplace deep and dark. He lunges, almost falling out of his chair, reaching out.
Starscream yelps as a huge, hard fist clamps around his slender wrist with enough force to buckle.
The others react with horror, both Autobot and Decepticon representatives rising halfway in their seats and leaning over the table to say things in appalled voices, but none of it moves Megatron to let go.
As pain and fear register alike, Starscream’s automated weapon systems go online, but it is not the null-rays or missiles that he resorts to.
Everyone abruptly shuts up, even the Prime himself, as a singular slap resounds like a gunshot.
Megatron turns his helm aside, cheek aglow, to stare into the distance for a moment, then jerks his attention solely on Starscream once more with an expression of astonished hurt, to be twisted with confused insult, and ultimately consumed by punishing wrath. His grip on that wrist tightens until the crunch.
Optimus and Elita combine forces to attempt freeing Starscream’s mangled wrist from Megatron’s fist, only for Chromia to burst into the meeting room with a rare expression of panic.
“Sentinel is coming.”
“You’ve been an excellent nurse, Seeker.”
“Thanks. I’m just doing what little I can.”
“I owe you a great debt.”
“You don’t owe me at all.”
Flamewar and Shadow Striker embrace each other across the ward, Ravage weaving between their ankle joints, purring.
Indeed, it makes Slipstream want to cry. She is trying hard not to. She must be strong, useful.
Roulette exhales softly, then suddenly slumps forward into Slipstream, echoing Shadow Striker as she holds Flamewar.
“Oh!”
“Thank you.”
“I love her.” The Seeker flushes, gently laying her palms over the generally stoic and distant bounty hunter’s shapely back strut, rubbing soothingly at the armoured panels. “It’s not something that needs your gratitude, but you’re welcome all the same.”
“She’s not accustomed to genuinely good people like you.”
“She could grow used to me. I think she sorta has, mostly.”
The bike is kissed atop her helm, face plate buried in the mercenary’s bosom, the cybercat meowing adorably below.
“I feel like I still owe you.”
“You could buy me a drink.”
Roulette chuckles softly into Slipstream’s broad pauldron, chin propped as their impromptu hug continues without feeling especially awkward.
“It’d give me a chance to get to know you.”
“I’m hardly worthwhile knowing, Seeker.”
Shadow Striker gazes down at Flamewar and Ravage, finding it not too great a burden to smile. It fades fast.
“I’m pleased to note that the remnants of my elite guard who deserted me still recognise me here. They let me in with no trouble, save for two.” Sentinel gives Ironhide and Chromia a disdainful look each whilst swaggering over to a chair and elegantly flopping into this chosen seat, which creaks and bows under the weight and girth of this tremendous aft. “I’ll have that pair reprimanded later. Ahem-hem-hem.”
Everybody stares, silent.
“Such idiotic expressions. Now, I’m sure you’re all bursting with questions, but I’m here to save the world first and foremost, not to appease your curiosity, so do keep your wonder under wraps whilst I take command of these… Oh, what were they, peace talks? A parley? Any success so far? No? Thought so.”
Optimus finds it in himself to speak first. “Sentinel, you are… whole again.”
“Mmyes. A gift, courtesy of the Functionists who sponsor me. I’m bigger, better, beautifuller than before. But enough about that.” Sentinel sweeps a palm over his handsome, distinguished chin, fluttering his shutters provocatively at Megatron. “Cute, by the way, that you’d try it on, after everything I suffered because of him.”
“You have suffered.” Megatron’s cheek twitches. “As I have suffered.”
“Whatever. With me here to take command and steer us along a sane and safe path, we have no need for appeasing the Decepticon menace. You can take your lot and kindly follow my elite guard and Functionaries as armed escorts into alloted cells to await further processing. Go quietly and amnesty shall be shown, by my bountiful grace.” Sentinel pauses to flex his gleaming pectoral plates as if to draw attention to a certain bounty, smirking handsomely over at Empress, who fans herself.
Elita groans, falling forward with a dull thud as her helm hits the table.
“Sentinel,” Megatron growls lowly, softspoken even in his ire, “I have no intention of suffering another cell.”
“I won’t go back!” Starscream screeches, clutching his crumpled wrist to his bosom. “You’ll never take me alive, never again!”
“Oh, very well, Seeker. Suit yourself. I did give you the option.” Sentinel shrugs his huge, ornamental pauldrons and nods aside at a looming Functionary in attendance. “Seize him and kill him. Seize and kill them all if necessary.”
“Sentinel!” Megatron snarls as large mechs and femmes in sacred vestiments bear down on him, wrestling him from his seat. “I want peace! No more war!”
“We disagree as to that notion of peace, old friend.”
“Get your servos off of me!” Starscream squawks as he is yanked by his wings, then sobs as his mangled wrist is roughly cuffed.
“Oh, no, dear.” Empress growls as a rifle is pushed under her chin, palms splayed. “You’re a very rude boy.”
Alpha Strike shields Skywarp, more concerned for the Seeker than herself. The old General’s cannons would be far too devastating in such a confined, crowded space, but she is by no means helpless.
“Enough!” Optimus bellows, everyone else freezing in place. “The parley withstands!”
“The Prime speaks against us,” utters a Functionary drone, speaking for herself on a rare occasion. “This cannot be right.”
“Do not be deceived,” utters another Functionary unit, his vocaliser tuned low, as if afraid to be overheard. “He is falsely appointed.”
Sentinel narrows his pretty blue optics, grinding his stately chin.
“This meeting will continue.” Optimus now speaks to them in a level tone, sweeping his immortal gaze across the room. “Please be seated and prepare yourselves to contribute to resolving this conflict for the universal benefit of all, or quietly make your exit and go from this place in peace. Whatever you choose, the parley withstands.”
“What, you honestly expect me to negotiate terms with him?”
“There will be no negotiations with the like of Functionist filth,” Megatron hisses through bared dentas, shrugging off the Functionaries who had been ordered to restrain him. “I did not endure the Pit and the ghosts of my fallen gladiator brethren within, I did not humble myself begging for an audience in this state of attrition, merely to end up shackled again to form and function, designating me an unintelligent, uninspired, unlovable thing of gruelling labour or the spectacle of violence. Orion – Optimus! Ariel – Elita! My old friends, I implore you, choose me!”
“And exclude me, I suppose.”
“I do not acknowledge you!”
Sentinel flinches, then frowns.
Megatron pushes his way through the bodies until he finds Optimus and Elita, seizing their servos in his own. “Old friends, hear me.”
“We are listening.”
“I love you, as you have loved me.”
“Oh, Megs…”
“Forget the Functionists and their Functionaries. Sentinel sold us out, he now aligns with the enemy. Together, we shall crush them, erase them, and write a future without them.”
“The… enemy.” Optimus looks aggrieved at the choice of wording, sighing heavily. “Megatron, old friend, I do not come to bring war to our world, I have not come to bring a sword – but a lasting peace.”
“Oh, Orion, your way was always to talk things out. It frustrates me endlessly, beloved, but I can abide by you if you shall abide by me. Choose me.”
“What you suggest is to unite together and destroy them.”
“Hear that?” Sentinel sniffs, fanning out his golden wings with a disdainful gesture of his gleaming digits. “Reconciliation, it would seem, is quite out of the question. I want the Decepticons gone, though I’d settle for imprisonment and rehabilitation, but the brute can only lust for blood. All those inspirational speeches he stole from Termagax before him, he twisted into a bay for bloodshed that resounds within all the troubled layabouts littering the lower castes like a plague. At the very least I would offer the mercy of redemption. Choose me, and let me lead us into a civilised age, more fair and just for all than the ages before. It’s the right thing to do.”
“You would insist that your way be the only way, old friend. You moralise domination and label dissent or disobedience as degenerate.”
“I know what’s best. I have plans, wonderful plans, and as soon as these Decepticons are dealt with and our parley can continue, I shall illuminate you with the plans I have for you.”
“You have no shame! Your plans for me! Your plans for my Decepticons who stand with me!”
“Ugh. It gives me a helmache.” Sentinel rubs his shapely brows, gesturing airily aside. “Someone put a muzzle on him already. Get the lot of them in cuffs and assigned to cells.”
“Would everybody just cool it,” Elita snaps sternly. “This can’t be the only way, you guys. Can’t the Functionists just be okay with people who don’t believe and keep their faith out of politics? You’re the boss by the looks of things, Sentinel, and you never believed in that scrap anyway. What gives! They rebuild you and you let them brainwash you?”
“I was divinely appointed to lead, I listened to the lectures, but I dealt with that particular problem shortly after they gave me this.”
Megatron’s optics widen as a dual-bladed sword unfurls smooth and sharp within Sentinel’s fist. “You slayed them all.”
“I did,” Sentinel says so calmly, it sends chills. He sets his sword down like a staff, stabbing shallowly into the polished floor tiles, then lays his palms atop the table, drumming his digits almost playfully. “And it worked out wonderfully for me. The Functionaries are loyal to me. You see, they’ve been programmed to imprint on my glorious visage, but whatever was done to tamper with my brain module could never quell my self-interest. The stuffy old Twelve rather cramped my style. They foolishly thought they might make a martyr out of me, like these other idiots. Oh, no. I heard those speeches, I had the voices in my helm. But I’m not here to die for their beliefs. I’m here to live a long, long life, instilling my own.”
“You monster,” Elita utters through a pale glare. “They fixed you! And now you’ve got all these guys following your lead, after you almost ended up just like them!”
“Imagine what I can do. All this power, none of the rhetoric. The truth is what I make it. I see the future, everyone, and it is glorious! It is me!”
“He has gone mad,” Megatron whispers into Optimus’ neck. “He must be stopped.”
The Prime has no answer to that.
Notes:
Thank you to everyone who has read this far.
Chapter 85
Notes:
I hope you've had a happy Pride month thus far! I wish you the very best going forward.
Chapter Text
“Functionaries, hear me, heed me!” Normally thunderously soft-spoken and eerily patient for such a passionate personality, Megatron’s rare bellow of outright fury sends tremors through the foundation of the Council tower intense enough to set pedes stumbling in his vicinity. “Here is your enemy, first and foremost!”
“Oh, please.” Sentinel rolls his optics as an accusatory digit points at his prominent chin. “You’re wasting your time, old mech, and more importantly, mine.”
“Silence! He has slain your old masters and assumed mastery over you in their place, and if that was not abominable enough, he has you deceived!” Megatron gestures about at the staring Functionary units. “He does not uphold the tenets of your faith, he does not himself believe in Functionism, yet you plea your fealty to a fraud! Overthrow your false master and assume command over your own lives! Challenge each other to feats of skill to determine your betters and assume a hierarchy of the most deserving among you!”
“One bot’s strength over another,” Starscream mutters scornfully at that, cuffed in stasis lock, limiting his ability to move. He used to swoon for that gladiatorial mindset, recognising masculine desire, wanting it for himself, to be big and strong and confident enough to get things done and be celebrated for being worthy.
“Uuugh. Are you finished? They’re thralls, Megatron, their minds are scrambled and quite set on obedience to me, so deal with it. And why am I the bad guy here? It’s hardly my fault. I have clarity where they don’t, but it’s not like I scrambled their brain modules with all that blah-blah-blah.”
“How can you be so callused to your own!”
“Oh, shove off. I went through it too, you know, when the Twelve cut me open and put me back together in their image, and if my Functionaries weren’t strong enough to overcome the programming as I did, then perhaps they need a benevolent guiding palm. I’ll take good care of my people, which is more than I can say for how you treat your Decepticons.” Sentinel pointedly looks at Starscream, his mangled wrist and scuffed forearm, where gunmetal grey and black paint transfers indicate the cause. “Your paint is ruined, just a little mention, by-the-by. You look like scrap.”
“I… I…” Megatron’s vents hitch at that, a peculiar expression overcoming him. “I s-said silence! You do not know–”
“Nuh-uh. You don’t scare me any more.”
Elita and Optimus exchange a tense look.
Shadow Striker moves like a puppet on wire, stumbling and stiff, yet at once slack and slumped, snarling at any effort to help, cursing at those who stare.
“All she wants is to walk under the sun for a little while,” Roulette says softly, keeping her distance as demanded, but never far away. “On her own strength, her own accord, but her body isn’t really hers any more.”
“Try not to talk like that,” Slipstream answers under her vents, wringing her servos anxiously as Shadow Striker trips and falls.
“I gotcha, boss bot.”
“Don’t touch me!”
Flamewar stops short, steps back, suspends her helm like a chastised cyberdog. “Sorry.”
“Frag off. I’ll do it myself,” the old mercenary mutters through sweat, spit and tears, achingly picking herself up on mismatched limbs and lurching forth like a reanimated corpse. “Walking’s easy. Been walking on my own since you were a blip in the AllSpark. Don’t need you, don’t need your help, to do something so – aaargh!” She falls again, struggles painfully, rises, stumbles, forces herself to take another step, and another, and another. It is not inspiring. “I’m nothing without my independence, so back the frag up and lemme do this alone. Bad enough I got an audience every second of every day that I’ve gotta suffer.”
The bike sniffs as the Seeker scoops her up into a comforting hug.
“Don’t take it to Spark, Flames.”
“Kinda hard not to, Slippy.”
“Hey. Be nice.”
“Eat my aft, sis!”
“On her behalf…” The bounty hunter shakes her helm, sighing heavily. “I apologise, and I thank you both.”
“Dammit! Work, legs! Why won’t you move right!”
“I wanna go home,” Flamewar confesses quietly. “I dunno where home is, but I wanna go there.”
“Home’s where your people are,” Slipstream answers tenderly, yet with some resentment. “The people who love you, people like me. I’ll be your home.” And yet why does she not feel at home?
Roulette gazes after Shadow Striker’s shambling array of ill-fitting parts, silently nodding at that.
“No more speeches. I grow bored of them. Tedious things. From now on, you listen to me. Everybody heeds my word.” Sentinel subtly adjusts himself from within his seat, huge and handsome, wings flaring brilliantly in the light that flows from the tall, wide viewing port behind his back. “Ugh. Having to sit through another of your impassioned rants for so long. So many. All those speeches, over the millions upon millions of years, I mean really, I’ve heard it all before. You just sound increasingly deranged every time you launch that same flawed spiel at me like I’m supposed to be impressed or moved by now. Now, my speeches, on the other hand, shall be productive and useful.”
“I speak of my pain!”
“I also hurt.”
“Yet you heard nothing! You never believed in my words, you never supported me in my ambitions! And still, I have loved you, I have called you friend! And now, all of this?”
“Megatron, you’ve clearly lost this argument, so let it go and give up. Don’t worry, Cybertron is in capable servos. I’ll take things from here.”
“No! No. No…”
“Yes, old friend. Surrender now, and and out of respect for you, I’ll throw in some amnesty. Some of what you said did sink in. True, the less fortunate have been given less than their fair due. Allow me to correct that. For example, I’ve got very handsome compensation packages planned for miners and other lowly workforce, with supervisory opportunities for career progression, so they won’t be nearly as misused and impoverished as you were way back when the Senate ran things. How much better the world will be, under me.”
Shadow Striker growls lowly when approached.
“Sorry. Um. Can I sit with you?”
“Whatever.”
Flamewar slouches beside, not too close, raking her claws anxiously over her thighs.
“You’re wasting your youth on my decrepit, broken, useless old aft.”
“But I want to.”
“You’re stupid.”
“I hope you’ll feel better. I hope we can get you proper limbs fitted to replace the Seeker parts. I have hope. I just hope you can have hope, too.” The bike looks up at the mercenary, optics round and warm with loving insanity. “If you feel hopeless today, or tomorrow, or whenever, I’ll hold onto hope for you, and maybe I can convince you to have hope for yourself someday. If that’s dumb of me, then lemme be dumb. I won’t give up on you, boss bot, because I chose you when you were whole and I’ll always choose you no matter what state you’re in.”
“Shut up.” The mercenary’s optics well as she drags a Seeker’s palm over her face. “Sh-shut up already.”
Flamewar looks down, small and sorrowful.
“I’ve got nothing to offer. I’m nothing now.”
“You’re everything to me, boss bot.”
“I can’t be!”
“You’re still my everything.”
Shadow Striker sobs like a lost protoform.
“Lies! Functionaries! Stand up for yourselves! Stop him!” Megatron glares at the surrounding Functionary units. “Stop him, before I do.”
“Enough.” Sentinel scoffs, gesturing dismissively. “Take the lot away.”
“The Decepticons have every right to participate so long as they are willing to contribute toward a peaceful resolution,” Optimus intones with the sort of intimidating forbearance that has the Functionaries hesitant to obey Sentinel’s order. “The parley withstands. Remove the stasis cuffs and set your weaponry aside.”
“Orion, for Cybertron’s sake, don’t encourage him!”
“Optimus.”
“Your name’s not Optimus! It’s Orion! Orion Pax, the fatherly old archivist, mentee to Alpha Trion since Codexa went immersant for whatever reason!” Sentinel huffs, squinting prettily. “You’re not a Prime either! Alpha Trion made a mistake granting you the Matrix and I shall mend that mistake in due time! Believe me!”
“What, you gonna take the Matrix for yourself?” mutters Elita with a protective palm on Optimus’ pauldron.
“I’ll earn it, actually! By ending this war, establishing a new era of prosperity and peace, I shall prove myself indisputably Sentinel Prime!”
“It has a nice ring to it,” Optimus confesses quietly, perhaps speaking more for the cannibalised remnants of whatever remains of Orion lost within.
“No way! You’re already way too much just being whatever they turned you into,” Elita says fiercely with a gesture at Sentinel’s muscular curves and fluttering wings. “You are absolutely not gonna be Prime too! Cybertron won’t survive the ego.”
“What if being Prime makes me modest?”
“Oh, please.”
“You’re very mean to me, Ariel.”
“Elita.”
“Elita?”
“I’m Elita One, because he’s Optimus Prime. I’m his equal, he’s my other half.”
Sentinel looks so outrageously jealous just then.
Megatron throws back his helm and simply laughs.
“Oh, shut up, you old coot! It’s hardly amusing!”
“You cannot see the expression you wear!”
Slipstream sips on her Energon cube with an utterly vapid sort of emptiness, until a warm palm settles upon her pauldron, awakening her from staring into the distance to look over at Roulette. “Sorry, did you say something?”
“No.”
“Oh.”
“I just feel…” The old bounty hunter squeezes the Seeker’s pauldron once, then releases. “Needy.”
“Needy?”
“Mmhm.”
“What do you need?”
“Relief.”
“Girl, same.”
Roulette chuckles at that.
Slipstream smiles, then stops smiling. “Been needing relief for a long, long time.”
“It’ll get better. That’s the mantra we just have to tell ourselves, to carry on, and we hope we’ll believe it someday, so it won’t always be a lie.”
“I hope our someday happens soon. Dunno about you, but I’m reeeaaally close to crashing out.”
The bounty hunter gives the Seeker a sidelong look of consideration.
“Every day, I could just, like, explode. Or implode. Poof! Seeker shrapnel everywhere.” Slipstream huffs into her partially depleted cube. “I dunno if I’ll be able to find every piece of me to put myself back together again after that, but I have people to take care of, so screw it, I’ll just have to manage even if I’m missing parts of who I was before.”
“You’re being very brave, Seeker. Just don’t leave your shrapnel embedded in other people, wherever those traces of yourself hurt others the most.”
“I really don’t want to hurt anyone.”
Roulette makes a humming sound, thoughtful.
Megatron is no longer laughing.
Optimus nods to a Functionary. “Release the Commander from his binds, please.”
The Functionary confusedly moves to release Starscream.
“Oi! What do you think you’re doing!”
“The Prime instructed–”
“You obey me!”
Starscream sighs as he is resigned to remain in cuffs, the Functionary retreating as if hit.
“Now, listen here, Orion!”
“Optimus.”
“I give the orders! I’m here to take over this whole touchy-feely circus of yours and turn us into an efficient, effective, militarised government! Megatron’s way is chaos, my way is order, and your way gets us nowhere! My way is best, and this time, I have the strength and support to enforce it!”
“Maybe if people would cooperate, listen, and even try to give universal peace a chance–” Elita interjects defensively, only to growl when Sentinel holds up a palm dismissively in her face.
“Be still, femme. You left Cybertron for that organic filth fetish of yours. Your exit from this defunct Council is effective immediately.”
“What.”
“You’re fired.”
Elita falls back into her seat with a shaky exhale.
“You do not have the authority,” Optimus says with a divine hardness to his optics that makes Bumblebee feel distinctly uncomfortable.
“Glitch, I am the authority!”
Lurching onto the scene, Shadow Striker hesitates unsteadily, her scowl softening by a fraction as she attempts to lurch more quietly deeper into her ward.
“She’s very tired,” Roulette answers by way of explanation as to why her pauldron is currently Slipstream’s pillow, the two femmes slumped side-by-side with empty Energon cubes, sat upon the gurney. “I didn’t have the Spark to move, in case I woke her.”
“Aw, Slippy.” Flamewar unthinkingly reaches for Shadow Striker’s servo.
“She’s… a good girl, that one,” the mercenary mutters with emotion, throat bobbing as she reflexively swallows. “Primus know I wear all you glitches out, but her…” A shaky scoff. “Especially her.”
“It’s okay.” The bike looks up, smiling. “We care. She cares.”
The bounty hunter remains very still, even as a strand of drool oozes from the Seeker’s hanging jaw and slides slow and slick down the pauldron that serves as her pillow in her exhausted nap.
“She’s drooling on you, sis.”
“I know. It’s fine.”
“Now, all that said, I’m not going to enforce Functionist rhetoric on anyone, at least, certainly not to such extremes as you fear it, oh, no-no-no, I wouldn’t ever dream of instating anything like that,” Sentinel intones with only the utmost sincerity, ignoring the uncomfortable looks his attending Functionaries exchange among themselves, unbothered by the way Megatron grinds his dentas and drags his digits over the table to leave deep grooves in the unliving metal. “The Twelve were rather narrow. The Senate were sponsored, some were members of the faith, but overall their policies reflect some reluctance to so limit themselves, but they were still narrow enough. However, they are all gone. My sponsors are dead and I am here, unrestrained by their expectations or their wealth, thus I am far more expansive than all who came before.” Sentinel unnecessarily flexes his gleaming pectoral plates as if to emphasise this point, his smug expression begging for defiance.
Empress fans herself, shaking her helm with a tsk-tsk-tsk. “Goodness gracious.”
“However, I do believe it prudent to acknowledge again, as was acknowledged before but so poorly expressed in policy, that certain people are best suited to certain tasks, however modest, however meagre.”
Megatron’s optics bulge in his silent fury.
“Relax! Don’t give me that look. As I said, mistakes were made, but I shall right past wrongs by instituting a true utopia of law, order, prosperity and opportunity for all, no matter the alt-mode and associated career. Everyone deserves a chance. I shall educate the populace and provide ample opportunities for career growth and character development with reasonable compensation packages dependant on rank and sector, thus that deserved chance shall only be limited by one’s own ambition, personal merit, willingness to do hard work, criminal record, and some obvious restraints caused by alt-modes having necessary functions attributable to form. But this doesn’t mean that Functionism will declare one poor whilst the other prospers just because of their differing alt-modes and their pecuniary value.”
“That is exactly what Functionism will declare,” Megatron rumbles softly, too softly. “That is entirely what this shall mean. The Senate dabbled in such notions, Sentinel, and the Functionists would have done more were their sponsorship to take root in a million years or so, but as you say, they are all gone and you are here, addressing I, who destroyed them.”
Sentinel’s charismatic facade darkens a bit. “Are you threatening me?”
“Do you feel threatened?”
“I’m just being logical. But better! I served the Senate once, sponsored as they were behind the scenes by Functionists, and I witnessed the errors in their ways. I foresee a benevolent, fair and just classist system, which is necessary to establish a stable economy where every Cybertronian is safe, fuelled, and granted reasonable career opportunities. The Senate let far too many hard-working peasants descend into poverty based on humble vocations being so undervalued, the threat of which was used as a tool to silence and oppress those who would object.”
“As I did, as I do.”
“Oh, would you let it go already!” Sentinel gestures irritably aside. “You got out. You’re a rich mech, adored and despised by many alike! Arguably, you have more in common with I, an elite, than the common rabble from which you came. Act like it.”
Megatron’s neck cables visibly throb as a rumbling growl passes the rigor mortis of his expression.
“Anyway, I’m a shrewd mech and successful due to my sheer grit, but I remember a time when I was at the bottom of my career ladder, faced with the daunting task of climbing myself up to this glorious pinnacle, and I shall always keep that in the back of my mind as I improve the socioeconomic stature of every Cybertronian citizen willing and able to follow my rules and pull their fair share of the weight.”
“And what of those who refuse?”
“Well, that depends. If they commit crimes to make a point, they shall be processed according to my law. Those who are lazy and refuse work shall say goodbye to welfare. The Decepticon insignias shall have to go, of course. Can’t be having rebellious political motifs like that in my utopia. I shall quell your movement this day, and then I shall further assign your former membership to their proper places in due time.”
“What of those who are unable?”
“Those with redundant alt-modes can be refitted with something still useful, dependant on medical advice. The Senate, being somewhat willing to please the Functionists, made such a kerfuffle over letting the common citizen change their alt-mode, restricting it to the rich and entitled. An injustice, admittedly, and one of many I will rectify. I shall sponsor necessary changes for those in need who lack the financial bearing to transform themselves into relevancy again. See? Everyone will be useful and supported in their usefulness. All I ask is that people pay their taxes, perform their duties as assigned to their roles, and follow my rules.”
“And does this incorporate the Grand Cybertronian Taxonomy I’ve heard so much about?” asks Windblade with bitterness.
“It’s a useful database. Every Cybertronian citizen, their alt-mode, their vocation, and other relevant details such as prior infractions. I could take it further and calculate expected troublemakers based on the data, thus intervene before a crime is committed by foreseeing criminal intention first.”
“That could be terribly abused.”
“I don’t know in much detail how things are on Caminus, honoured Cityspeaker, but I assure you, my Cybertron shall be a bastion of inspiration soon to be sung across all the colonies. Of course, I’d expect to commune with the various leaders to unify my way across said colonies, but that’s a long-term plan and not quite up for discussion today.”
Windblade looks appalled enough for Chromia to loop a burly blue arm protectively about slender pauldrons so slumped.
“Sorry, Sentinel, but I’m gonna have to stop you there, as irrelevant as my input is apparently,” Elita interjects gruffly, evidently hurt from before, shaking her helm sternly. “You’re just distilling Functionism into old Senate habits, and yeah, you might emphasise education and career prospects, but you’ll inevitably bring back the bad from before, only you’re way more militaristic than that lot were.”
“I did instate the Functionaries and elite guard, so yes, I’m a military mech, but all the more reason to comply with my will. In exchange, I’ll provide a safe, orderly system to those willing and able to slot into place.”
“With all due respect, Sentinel,” Optimus intones in his Primely way, “you have little ground to stand upon in this claim. I believe for the benefit of these negotiations and the betterment of a unified future Cybertron, you must humble yourself, surrender much of your ambition and agree to alternative terms, as must all of us.”
“I object,” Starscream blurts out with a pretty sneer. “Throw him out! My people would be nothing but cannon fodder and killers, should this big, boisterous buffoon be granted the political podium to voice his Functionist-adjacent rhetoric! It would drag my Seekers back into servitude to an elite without any care for us!”
“Poor Slip,” Hot Rod says softly, looking downcast.
“Starscream is correct. I refuse to negotiate with Functionists. I do not need to negotiate with Functionists. Sentinel, heed my word, for you failed to resist my might,” Megatron hisses through bared dentas, “and you fail to convince my mind, thus this is a final warning. Stand down and step aside while the Council and I finish our parley and establish our plans to save our people from the hunger of the wealthy and the vice of the faithful.”
“That’s why you’ll be made an example of, Megatron. I don’t abide by failure in anyone, least of all myself. You humiliated me and you’re somehow still alive, though I was sure I left you to rot in the bottom of that gladiatorial pit.”
“Sentinel!” Elita gasps in hurt disbelief. “You don’t mean that!”
“No matter. What’s done is done.” Sentinel has a hand on the central hilt of his dual-bladed sword, one end embedded in the floor, the other suspended upright like a gleaming staff, as his brilliant blue optics dart aside almost as if in shame. “I must be merciful, to set an example,” he says softly, as if speaking to himself, whilst touching his sword. “Though the Senate would have you executed and the Functionists would have you destroyed, I would offer an alternative. Be glad that I could let you live, to learn your lesson in a cell, and perhaps someday, after paying your debt to society and atoning for your–”
Optimus’ enhanced reflexes react moments too late.
Megatron slips through the Prime’s digits like grains of sand, bursting forth from his seat and lunging across the laden table with frightful agility, clawed digits sinking into the muscular cords of Sentinel’s throat and clamping into fists.
“Hrrrk!” Thus strangled, but without the need to breathe, Sentinel tightens his hold on his sword, yanking it out of the floor whilst tipping back with Megatron atop his lap, their combined weight and momentum overthrowing the chair, sending both Megatron and Sentinel careening together against the viewing port, helms and pauldrons shattering the reinforced crystal that was designed to withstand the elements but not two huge mech combatants, sent tumbling from the tower.
“No!” Elita bellows, moving after Optimus as they sprint for the opening, splintered crystal crunching beneath their pedes. She clings to him in horror and he sucks in air with fear not befitting a Prime at all.
Starscream sputters in agony, helpless in his stasis cuffs, yet to be removed from him, and Windblade tries to cover Bumblebee’s optics as if to shield him from the same sight.
Autobots, Decepticons and Functionaries stare at an empty chair left toppled over before a shattered window.
There is a dull, distant roar, increasing steadily in volume due to hastening proximity. Starscream and Windblade recognise it to be the sound of a flier’s thrusters fully engaged under a heavy burden, strained yet ascending.
Everybody gasps as a streak of clashing colour surges past the shattered window with enough noise to leave audials ringing and broken crystal shuddering, optics following the blur of mingling forms embracing each other, Sentinel apparently capable of real flight even with Megatron clinging desperately to him, though this does not stop the mechs from landing vicious blows to each other mid-air whilst straining to maintain control over the duel-bladed sword grappled between them.
“It seems negotiations have concluded,” Soundwave notes for the lot of them in his sardonic, smooth croon. He is irritated that Soundblaster refuses to do his job, thus necessitating that the only competent intelligence officer be present at these meetings in order to witness and record this failure after all the other failures, when Soundwave would much rather be with Shadow Striker and Ravage. Still, it has been good to see Hot Rod, to be seen by him, and to know that despite their warring sides, reconciliation between them remains entirely plausible should this war ever end.
Small mercies, and all that.
The room erupts into chaos all at once.
Cuffed and partially paralysed by the stasis cuffs, yet still cognisant, Starscream helplessly shrieks his protestations as he is overthrown to the floor in all the commotion and trampled painfully below. Cheek pressed to the floor, helm forced aside on a strained neck, his rolling optic follows the heel strut of a Functionary about to stomp down. What a humiliating way to die.
Of course, fate has other plans.
The Functionary spasms, frozen in place by the discharge of Bumblebee’s potent sting, allowing Windblade to shove the bigger mech aside and swoop in with her sword, neatly slicing through the Energon bindings keeping the stasis cuffs active, severing their fuel link and disabling the paralytic effect. The cuffs automatically unlatch from both wrists, useless.
Starscream scrambles to stand, disbelief in his glare, which sweeps from Windblade to Bumblebee and then across the chaos within the meeting room, Decepticons and Autobots clashing together against the Functionists, forming an alliance in battle. “You helped me,” he sputters. “Why?”
“Uh, yeah, so you can help us! Truce, remember?” Bumblebee readies his stinger. “Go see if Megatron needs backup! Orion went too, but you’re faster since you can fly! He’s gotta take the stairs!”
Windblade leaps into battle with a roar, joining Chromia whose pole-axe cleaves through the Functionaries’ thick armour with the sheer brute strength behind every swing and thrust, offering the impressive femme assistance to cover her vulnerable points.
As if to emulate Windblade’s bravado, Bumblebee bellows whilst charging into the crowd to stab the far bigger Functionaries from angles in which he is virtually invisible to them, blocked from view by their cumbersome limbs and burly frames, disabling them with his stings.
Dodging wrestling bodies and overturned furniture, Starscream throws himself out the broken viewing port without bothering with a damage assessment to his aching wings, transforming mid-leap as he plummets, ascending again in an arc on his potent thrusters. He neatly winds around the circumference of the gleaming tower, following the vapour trail of Sentinel’s mad flight with Megatron still clinging to him, landing punches and kicks to one another whilst veering dangerously about, civilians pausing their daily commutes and mundane activities to look up and watch.
Megatron would die, were he to fall from this height, and yet Sentinel has got control of his dual-bladed sword, sinking in gunmetal grey with a shriek of sheared metal, undercurrent to the roar of thrusters and masculine bellows of conflict.
Starscream calculates his trajectory in an instant – can he catch him in time? – and fires off a powerful blast from his mounted null-rays, though it is charged below lethal levels on the tragic off-chance he inadvertently hits the wrong mech. But his aim is true.
Sentinel goes entirely rigid, sword sunk into Megatron, unable to steer and thus veering aside.
“Let go!”
“What!”
“Let him go!” Starscream cries above the wind. “I’ll catch you!”
With seconds to spare, Megatron wrenches himself free of Sentinel’s immobilised embrace and unskewers from his sword, bellowing in fright and pain as the plummet registers certain death to the grounder.
Starscream’s sleek, handsome jet alt-mode swoops below and collides with Megatron’s wounded belly, nose cone smeared with fresh Energon, but callused digits instinctively sink into wings like a parasite taking hold of the inner rubberised wall of the digestive tank, thus this grip is unbroken.
Sentinel regains control barely in time to avoid clipping his gleaming wing on the outcropping of a tall building, cursing loudly as he frantically regains control of his flight path. With his wounded pride and several distress signals cast from his Functionary units, he orders a tactical retreat. This is fortunate.
Starscream is severely hampered carrying Megatron, unable to peform the complex, agile evasive manoeuvrers necessary in aerial combat.
If only the cowardly Sentinel had the courage to go for it, he could recover and cull them both at once.
Ravage curls up in Shadow Striker’s lap, purring soothingly as she cautiously caresses him, afraid of her own spasmodic strength.
Starscream revives with a groan, peering about at the interior of what he recognises to be a recovery ward. And seated silently at his berthside, he recognises his Seeker. “Slipstream?”
She gazes down at him with a mixed expression, communicating primarily concern over his wellbeing at war with her own discomfort in his company.
He reaches for her, then flinches as he realises it is his wounded wrist, only to inspect it closely, recognising recent repairs.
“I patched you up alright. You’ll recover fine, but you do need to replenish your fuel reserves before you’re active again – you burned through a lot of Energon back there and your reserves are still low.”
“It would not be the first time I have starved myself to spare Megatron’s life.”
The Seeker says nothing to that. Her ruby optics follow distrustfully as the Commander reaches again for her.
“Thank you.”
Unused to his gratitude, she softens and sighs, dumbly taking his servo in hers.
“I have missed you.”
“It’s better this way.”
“Are you certain?”
“Star, you did it.”
“Slipstream, I–”
“You did this.”
He flinches groggily, somewhat high on painkillers.
She gives his digits a squeeze, then timidly lets him go, like he might hurt her for the compassion.
It makes him feel genuinely bad. Not necessarily bad enough to put in the daily effort into forcing himself to be better with all the self-sacrifice and introspection that entails. But bad enough that he drunkenly wonders if he could ever be better than this. His servo falls onto his bosom, floppy and numb. “Stay?”
“Knock Out and Ratchet are collaborating to attend to the other patients, but it’s all servos on deck, so I can’t sit with you long. I just wanted to make sure you revive okay. I’ll be going soon to attend to someone else in need.”
“No. Please. Stay.”
“Not tonight, Star.”
“Tomorrow night?”
Slipstream rises with a sigh, rubbing her muscular neck. “Maybe I can spare a little more time tomorrow night. Try to rest and refuel, alright.”
Starscream watches her cross the ward to check something on the monitor connected to his slab, reading his vitals and understanding them. He is reassured by her slight nod.
“See you, Star.”
“Soon. Please.”
She stops at the door, pondering whatever has made him so anxious to be with her. It strikes her that this is a sad suspicion to have.
As if reading her mind, he confesses quietly, “You were right.”
“About what?”
“About him.”
“Megatron?”
“Yes. Him.”
“Well, okay.”
“He hurt me today.”
The Seeker turns sharply, glaring at the Commander.
“It’s true. I upset him, angered him, so he grabbed me so, and…”
Slipstream’s glare intensifies as Starscream strokes his repaired wrist. She had noticed the paint transfers, but said nothing of it to Knock Out, though he too had quirked a brow in silent question.
“You were right about him.”
The Seeker sucks in air, her Commander’s words echoing, their import heavy in her soul.
“You were right.” For Starscream to admit someone else is right in any given matter, and in turn tacitly confess that he is wrong, is no insignificant thing.
Slipstream feels a prickling, nauseous fury swelling under the surface of her calm, capable facade as she hurries back to the berth and the mech laid upon it, tenderly cradling the wrist she mended in one large palm whilst reaching for his cheek with her other palm, caressing him. When he leans into her touch, it breaks her Spark.
“You were right about so much that went wrong in my life,” comes the terrible echo through the fugue of painkillers, “but I never did listen to you.”
She derives no satisfaction in the implicit I-told-you-so. “You need to go. Leave him behind.”
“And go where?”
“Anywhere else.”
“Like how you left me. How you fled from me,” Starscream rasps quietly, averting his gaze with a delicate sniff. “Now I must flee from Megatron, leave my love behind. Is this how you felt? Because if I ever made you feel as terribly as I do now…” His vents hitch and he paws at his face. He might weep.
“That’s not what matters. Your safety is what matters.” Slipstream departs again and washes her servos at the little sink, then dries off under hot sterile airflow, back turned, wings arched high in fury as if to make her appear bigger. “He got violent with you. That’s a line that cannot be uncrossed.”
“I threatened to dump him. No, it wasn’t a threat, I meant it.”
“Good, then go. Get away from him, far away. Stay safe.”
“Oh, I would, but Sentinel rather screwed up my exit.”
The Seeker should go, yet again she returns to the Commander, her Commander, bringing with her a jar of Energon candy. “Try unscrewing this cap with your repaired wrist. I’ll assess how good a repair job I’ve done, based on how you struggle.”
“I’m sure your repairs were most – ugh – adequate,” Starscream grumbles as he painfully opens the jar. “Could be a bit better, but my digits all work.” He manages a grin all the same.
“You’ll need some recalibration over the next few days to make sure you don’t lose any mobility or sensation in your servo. The outer shell will need some buffering out. You’ll heal the rest on your own.”
“I see.”
“Megatron hurt you. Take our Seekers and leave the Decepticons. If you stay, you’re just putting yourself and our kin at risk of his temper, never mind Sentinel.”
“I realise that.”
“Star, please.”
“I was going to leave. Truly, Slipstream, I meant what I said back there. Why do you think he gave me this broken wrist?”
“Monster. That utter beast.”
“But now Sentinel is an active player, bringing with himself his admittedly magnificent reconstruction and the various upgrades – he can fly now, if you can believe that, for nothing is sacred nowadays – in addition to his remaining elite guard, most of whom will answer to him, and his looming Functionaries, whose power rivals our strongest Decepticon warriors. There are also the Prime, Elita One and all their Autobots, who have allied with Megatron, granting strength in numbers. And if I make an enemy of my Megatron, then it will be himself and his Decepticons against me, in addition to the Council, in addition to the Functionists. Also… I fear that Shockwave will continue to spawn Seekers, but they will bear Decepticon allegiance, no longer mine.”
“You idiot, Star. You idiot! You fragging fool!” Slipstream rarely yells. She is scary when she yells.
“Do not be angry.” The Commander gives his Seeker a pathetically sorry look, unused to her temper. “I did it for us. Our future.”
“You doomed us! No, you doomed them! I got out. Acid, Jetfire, and me. So few got out. Maybe you can call upon a few, like Thunder and Thrust and Nova and Skywarp, maybe some of our little ones may still follow, but the rest of our people, the future generations born with no hope for anything more, you gave away. That is their future.”
“I… I can still salvage this.”
“Unbelievable. Accept guilt!”
“I just need some muscle, some strategy, some time! If I am to succeed and create a future worthy of my Seekers as I promised I would, then I require resources and support. The Seekers aren’t enough, I need… whoever will have me, I suppose. Certainly not Sentinel, he could die as far as I am concerned, but Megatron now answers to Optimus and my options are few.”
Slipstream vents heavily as she shoves Energon candy into her intake and sucks sullenly.
“A truce. Nobody wants me. Not even you.” Starscream pauses, hoping to be told otherwise, then sullenly chooses a yellow candy for himself. “Yet we have a truce. I wonder if Megatron would still have me, as perhaps Optimus might. He, who lied to me, denied me my fair share, woke me from a beautiful dream to this nightmare of my reality, for the love of a dead mech replaced by the Prime. My enemies are many and I am so few. My Seekers depend on me to lead them, but just between the two of us, sister, I don’t have what it takes to do this all on my own,” the Commander confesses with shame, wings pressed flat at his back, helmet hanging from his limp neck, turning over the yellow candy between digit and thumb. “Even you would go back to her and leave me behind. I’m very alone.”
“Surrender. Go Optimus’ way and let Megatron follow, but do it for our Seekers and not for him. It might not be all the power and privilege you dreamed of, but Optimus is fair and wants the best for everyone. You can’t go back to Megatron. Escape is scary, I would know, but it must be so much scarier to stay with your abuser.” Even angry, the Seeker still cares.
“My… abuser.”
“But you don’t have to go alone and make an enemy of the world. Just give up and go to the Council, state your case, plea for protection and pardon. They’re good people, wanting good things for everyone.”
“Why would Optimus and Elita ever deign me forgivable? The peace talks have failed. I was hardly cooperative, as I refused to be disregarded and I refused to leave my Seekers bereft of their rightful reward. I doubt even Megatron would take me back, were I to grovel for his providence, which I certainly shall not. But he has my children,” Starscream croaks with a vocaliser thickened by emotion, trembling upon his seat atop the gurney, “my future generations of Seekers, branded and born to serve me, but if I am not there to lead them, then they are truly his, and they are truly lost.” Gemstone optics flicker in and out of focus with a whispered, “Hold me, I hurt and it is so cold.”
Slipstream wraps herself around her brother with a shuddering sigh.
Chapter 86
Notes:
Sorry for the wait, stuff has happened and I've been busy. Thank you so much for your support and patience! I hope you enjoy this update, hopefully I'll have the next chapter up soon. I'm still working on bringing Synchronicity to a (satisfying and comprehensive) close, but it's taking a bit more out of me than I'd anticipated.
Chapter Text
Once the wounds sustained during battle with Sentinel’s Functionist forces had been sufficiently repaired, Alpha Strike had left the medical bay at the earliest opportunity, insisting that Knock Out and Ratchet direct their allied attention and spent their combined resources on those in need, such as Megatron. Alpha Strike had proudly and quietly returned to her heavies, consoled them gruffly, and then granted them some hours of reprieve to relax so as to find her peace within her cramped office unbothered. The implicit instruction not to be bothered went over Clobber's helm, as she had clumsily interrupted to sweetly wish her superior officer a restful night and waved cutely at Skywarp on the way out again.
“That girl likes you,” Alpha Strike had advised Skywarp with a chuckle. Fraternisation between units is not to be too openly encouraged, but realistically it cannot be stopped.
The Seeker had given the General an amused look in reply, garnering an almost coy flinch.
“Hush. I am in command, and I am not an object of beauty.”
Skywarp had tilted her helm, distinctly birdlike, and chirped a tender reprimand.
It made Alpha Strike feel very strange as she permitted a touch to her breast, merely a reassuring pat over her Spark, hidden far beneath layers of ancient armour.
That settled the matter. Their hours passed gently. It is getting late.
“My old body aches.”
Skywarp hums at that as she sits at the desk and indulges the old General in a casual game of holocards, until a huge palm settles on the Seeker’s pauldron, stopping her from playing her turn.
“Enough games. You must rest, and so shall I,” Alpha Strike intones through the distortion of her facial vents, optics warm and wrinkled at the edges with a smile, the existence of which can only be seen in the symptoms. “I expect you will find Clobber. Do not disturb her, or the others. Especially Demolishor.”
With a flush and a flutter of the wings, Skywarp makes a sound indicating that she will be nice tonight, but her posture adds that she only intends to go if her superior officer is sure she shall be okay once left alone.
“I am fine.” That huge servo upon the pauldron squeezes very gently, then withdraws. “Go.”
The Seeker sighs, neatly shuffling the holocards back into a complete deck and setting their game aside in a drawer under the General’s desk. Thus dismissed, a quick soldierly salute says goodbye for now.
“Thank you,” Alpha Strike exhales through her vents as Skywarp moves for the door. “You are good to me.”
Pausing at the precipice of an exit, the Seeker turns to smile back, nodding once.
The General blinks.
Skywarp is gone, as if vanished. Did she actually open the door to let herself out? This door has a distinct whining mechanism upon release, yet there was no such sound.
“Strange girl,” Alpha Strike murmurs very fondly. “I do not understand her ways. I am not meant to.”
It is late. Starscream occupies a sleepless mind. His hurt, his horror, his hubris. He needs help, but shall he save himself, or are his ambitions destined to consume him?
Slipstream does not know much more than this – she loves him, hates him, and wants to die to be rid of him, yet she misses him and instinctively would gravitate toward his orbit as she yearns to please him. Inescapable. She must live to see him through if she cannot abandon him now, and part of her will always reside within him because he is family and he is fragile with her as much as without her. The abuser, brought down to the level of the abused. Her empathy makes her angry at herself as much as anyone else. She is so stupid.
Chromia calmly and quietly interrupts this sleepless mind just by being here, intruding on dark, deep thoughts this dark, deep night. She is not the most talkative about her feelings, but physically she is very open with the precious few individuals she feels she can trust with her vulnerabilities. She can be very cuddly, though this is not a well-known fact and rather privileged information.
It astounds Slipstream to be one of the precious few, as she suddenly has a lapful of handsome femme wanting cuddles deep in the dark of tonight. “Oh! Hello, darling. I didn’t notice you just now.”
“Hey, handsome. I snuck up on you.”
“Oh-ho. Did you now. Stealthy.”
“Indeed. Attend me.”
That makes the Seeker chuckle, cradling the bike atop firm thighs, within bulky arms. “Alright, then. Here.” Large blunt digits, their grip pads rough with callused rubber and scuffed metal, lovingly trace the architecture of a normally stern countenance softened with affection, exploring familiar features with the same sense of romantic wonder.
A bit stilted in speech, a bit rigid in social scenes, difficult to befriend but worthy of the effort, all a necessary presentation of toughness due to being so achingly aware of the responsibility that comes with safeguarding a Cityspeaker (though Windblade refuses to use the moniker of bodyguard to describe her lifelong best friend), Chromia nonetheless can be quite casual in intimate situations such as this, snuggling atop Slipstream’s lap and nuzzling against her digits, before turning playfully and bumping their helms together with a powerfully rumbling engine akin to a rather large purr, thus insisting on getting attention.
“Why aren’t you in berth?”
“I could ask you the same.”
“Thoughts.”
“Likewise.”
They share a single breath through intermingling vents.
“Would you like to talk about your thoughts, dear?”
“No. Please. I’m okay with just having you here.”
Silence.
“There’s so much for us to think about.”
“And yet we must find rest. Come, love.”
“Not just yet.”
“Then soon.”
“Yeah, you’re right. I’ll try to get some sleep soon, like you want me to, so please don’t wait up for me, okay. Go to berth, attend to her.”
“I shall go when you are ready. We shall go together.”
“She’s waiting for you.”
“She’s waiting for us.”
The Cityspeaker can wait a little longer.
The bike drags her cheek against the Seeker’s own, an endearingly abrasive grounder nuzzle.
“Aw. You’re in a mood, aren’t you.”
“Mmhm.”
“I love you and your moods.” Slipstream giggles as Chromia leans into a wiggling digit that finds the casing of her audial. “Who’s my cutie patootie?”
The bike flushes, then admits very quietly, shyly even, “I am.”
“Yes, you are.” The Seeker kisses her flushed cheek with an inky smirk.
“Rather,” emboldened, Chromia puffs out her broad, firm breast and squares her sturdy pauldrons with a lift of her chin and declares lowly, “I am the cutest patootiest,” in an utterly serious manner.
Slipstream is so in love as she gravely intones in return, “Oh, there’s just no competition.”
Windblade, having delicately snuck into the periphery of this scene herself to witness them lovingly, not wanting to interrupt their intimate moment, cannot resist a musical giggle into a dainty palm.
“Oh, you heard that.”
“I sure did.”
The bike huffs and the Seeker hides her grin in the cables of her strong neck.
“Say that again for me, Chromia.”
“No.”
“Please!”
“You heard me the first time.”
“Spoilsport,” the Cityspeaker intones tenderly, then throws herself at the bigger femmes, tacking them both in a hug that threatens to topple the comfy and rather overburdened armchair. “I love you!” Kisses fall like rain in the dead of their night. “Through everything, I’ll always love you.”
“We love you too,” comes the familiar chorus.
Chromia scoops Windblade onto Slipstream’s other thigh, thus sharing her firm lap, not the comfiest but warm and reassuring all the same.
“At moments like this one, I wish I was built thicker,” the Seeker intones with a lopsided smile. “So I could give you girls a plush seat on my thighs.”
“You’re perfect just the way you are,” answers the Cityspeaker with a kiss to the jawline. “Though…”
“Though?”
“I wouldn’t complain if your aft got fatter,” comes out in a low, joking undertone, with a playful wink to indicate no harmful intention. “Just joking. I love you as you are.”
“Well, I wouldn’t mind if my aft got fatter. I’m thinking of changing my workout routine, adding some new targeted exercises.”
“Isn’t my aft fat enough for us all?” enquires the bike with a rare twinkle to her piercing blue optics. “I’m led to believe I’m packing some serious heat back there, or was I mislead?”
“Damn, girl. Your aft is perfect. I’m just insatiable.”
Slipstream looks between them, aware of their history stretching far back into their youth, their origins on Caminus retold in stories she has absorbed intently secondhand and inside jokes that she does not always catch in time to laugh with them. She wishes she had met them sooner, got to know them for that long. But is it too late to run away?
“Insatiable,” Windblade echoes with a suggestive huskiness to the word, big blue optics hooded. “Eh?”
“To a fault.” Chromia quirks her sculpted brows with interest as a slender digit wanders up and down her broad blue breastplate, dragging a slow, sultry line.
“But you keep me well-fed as best you can, don’t you.”
“I take my duties very seriously as your attendant.”
“Oh, hush. You love serving me. My beloved.”
“And servicing you.”
“Mmyeah.”
The Seeker shivers as she feels one of her wings being fondled from an angle she cannot see, but she recognises the strong, callused digits, so different from the delicate touch to the metallic armoured collar below her neck. A flier’s wings are extremely precise, sensitive instruments used for flight, communication via bodily language, and stimulation through touch, thus they are erogenous zones, but there are other keen, subtler places that lovers know. In return, she gropes a rubbery tyre, squeezing lecherously, sinking her thumb into the grooves within the tracks which garners a groan, and she simultaneously reaches for a pale painted cheek, tracing the Titan’s mark with a deft, slow stroke that dips lower and teasingly plucks the corner of a ruby smirk.
“We’re all wide awake with our thoughts.” Windblade says this whilst occasionally kissing and suckling briefly on Slipstream’s digit. “We need to burn off this… tension, I think. I know a way to do that, if you want me to.” Having the most voracious libido, this is unsurprising, but it is an offer open to refusal.
Chromia pushes her tyre deeper into Slipstream’s other servo to intensify the groping sensations, groaning so eagerly, almost whorishly in reply. A big blue palm grips Windblade by the thigh, clenching and dragging closer to the hip, dipping into the gap close to the joint to worm within wires.
“Oooh. Yes. Let me have you, let me take you, and I’ll put you both to berth.” The Cityspeaker squirms with a shuddering exhale, then dismounts rather less gracefully than usual, attempting to recover her faculties sufficiently to seductively saunter off, exaggerating the natural curvature and sway of her body. “Come.”
The bike and Seeker exchange a fond, knowing look that conveys so much more.
“Come, I said!”
They then clumsily follow, holding servos.
“Do you think this truce is likely to last, my love?” asks Grimlock in a careful undertone as he lumbers over to Bumblebee’s room, following in Arcee’s stealthier steps and trying to be very quiet as she leans into the dim to assess the wellbeing of their shared charge.
“…Nope.”
“Alas…”
Bumblebee thinks about Shadow Striker whilst pretending to sleep, because he does not want to worry his assigned bodyguards. He hopes one of them might join him in his berth for a cuddle. The berth is too small to admit all three, tragically.
“Oh, Grim. He’s so cute when he’s in recharge.”
“Let us not disturb him, then.”
Shadow Striker will permit little rest tonight.
Arcee blows a kiss into the berthroom, then takes Grimlock’s huge servo and returns with him to the couch.
Bumblebee could weep, but his tear ducts are registering as diminished and it will take time to replenish their solution.
The night passes away. Morning is born anew.
Slipstream’s pedes already ache from all the back and forth motions on this unforgiving floor, but that does not stop her from sprinting across the busy ward, dodging fellow medical staff in her excited haste. “Mentor! You’re here!”
“Mmyes, well.” The term of respectful endearment makes Red Alert smile - she never actually thought she would take on such a role in someone’s life, she never assumed herself so patient and nurturing, but she finds she rather likes it - as she greets her Seeker mentee with a graceful nod of acknowledgement. “Doctor Ratchet needs all the help he can get – more specifically, my help. He is rather lost without me, you see.”
“And so it begins.” Ratchet scoffs and mutters something softly over his datapad, shuffling past the reunited femmes. He smiles all the same.
“I’m so happy you’re here. I… I’ve missed you. I wanted to visit you more often, truly, but with everything that’s been happening, I hardly have a moment to–”
“Hush.” Red Alert delicately lays a warm, smooth palm over Slipstream’s cheek, an astoundingly intimate gesture. “I am only proud of you. Do not apologise for that.”
The Seeker’s optics well with tears as she nuzzles into the older femme’s touch, sniffling.
The senior medic affords this quiet moment of tenderness to pass with a gentle brush of a thumb across a cheek.
“You saved my life.”
“Of course I did.”
“Then you still care for me.” Megatron winces as he sits up in berth, his torso sealed with sterilised plating where Sentinel’s sword had sunk. “You cannot go. You shall not leave.”
“I do whatever the frag I feel like,” Starscream answers testily, but all the same, he quickly grabs a synthetic pillow and props it behind the elderly mech’s broad back for his comfort and support, actually considerate. “Yes, I love you, thus I saved you. Do not go getting peculiar ideas about that.”
“How can I not? It gives me hope. You said you would abandon me, but you saved me, and here you are, at my side, tending to an old fool who loves you so.”
“The only reason I might consider lingering here is strength in numbers, Megatron, but you wronged me before and you lost any claim to me.”
“Then allow me to make things right.”
“And what then? You forget me in your fetish for appeasing the Prime? You break more promises made to me on behalf of my people who wear your Deceptibrand? You dilute the Decepticon mission into something Elita finds more palatable?”
The old gladiator finds the Commander’s wrist, the one that he had crushed when he had almost fled.
Starscream stiffens all over, but allows Megatron to draw the wrist upward very gently in huge, callused digits, trailing intoxicated kisses over the recent repairs. “This is not a reply.”
“I will make you happy, Star. I will find a way for you and your people to aspire toward happiness. If not, then I am destined for misery. Give me this chance, please. I have lost so much, I cannot bear losing you too.”
“Before I consider your plea, heed my warning. Ever lay a servo on me in violence again and I shall make you rue the day you were forged. Swear not to strike me again - never touch me in anger.”
Knock Out cringes aside and quietly shuffles out the ward to go give his wonderful husband Breakdown a hug.
Sentinel angrily shoves away his sanctioned physicians and lurches from his seat with impatience, seizing the holomirror and bringing it before his glorious visage to inspect the tender bruising about his neck, buckled cables in need of replacement still strangling like a phantom grip from two terrible palms and their digits deeply hooked. He might feel faint, if not for the bigger, more bountiful frame through which much fuel must flow to support flight and basic bodily functions, thus circumventing the restriction caused by this damage to his neck.
Megatron was not afraid, not even with that sword lodged in his gut, not even suspended so high above, and he would have surely done serious harm on the way down, had his harlot Starscream not shown up to rescue the mighty idiot from a lethal drop.
“I should have won. All my hard work, my very transformation, defied, denied!”
Optimus the false Prime and the misplaced Elita One witnessed a failure that day, and in turn, their Autobots allied with Megatron and Starscream’s Decepticons, only complicating any hope of a future success against them, be it by persuasion or threat of death.
“Humiliation unto humiliation! Damn them!”
The Functionist healers exchange awkward looks and attempts to speak soothing platitudes.
“Look at me! I’m big and beautiful beyond my wildest hopes, I’m the very visage of a hero! Don’t I deserve to win?!” Sentinel throws the holomirror at a random attendant and then clutches at his helm, sobbing heavily. “I feel so lost…!”
“Through an action of great valour, you risked your wellbeing and saved his life.” Optimus steps forth, then bows his scuffed elderly helm, pauldrons littered with the marks of recent conflict though his majesty remains unblemished. “Please accept my gratitude, and my debt. Thank you, Commander, and know that I owe you in kind.”
Megatron watches this from his berth, the only one laid out in a medical gurney due to a serious enough wound, Sentinel’s stab recently patched over. Hellish optics are soft and sad, there is something anxiously hopeful in the trembling of his chin.
Elita finds Megatron’s digits and interweaves within her own, squeezing reassuringly.
“I don’t want your gratitude, Prime,” Starscream replies after some seconds of surprise, albeit with a fatigued sneer lacking in most of the usual bite, still replenishing his fuel and sore all over from overexertion. “I want your cooperation, to ensure the happiness, safety and upliftment of my Seekers now and for evermore. Grant me that and perhaps we’re even, perhaps I might come to collect a favour, but it’ll go a long way toward my appeasement.”
“Then don’t be unreasonable when making your demands and maybe we can figure something out and work together,” Elita grumbles through bruises, only to sigh when Megatron squeezes her digits and gives her a pleading look. “Alright, alright. We’ll talk about terms, at least, but we’re not giving you Cybertron on a platter. This isn’t gonna be an exchange of one supremacy for another.”
Empress juts out her hip and smiles with a delicate weight nestled within the bend of her burly arm, happy enough just to have Thunderblast here, clinging adoringly and simpering soothingly.
“Oh, my hunky-wunky hero, you’ll have sooo many new battle-scars all over your big, beautiful body to prove to everyone how brave you are.”
“Indeed, my darling cyberswan, and I hope you intend to count each and every mark and catalogue my prowess to your memory banks.”
“Primus spare me,” Elita grinds out through a sigh. “Right, then. Let’s get this team meeting over with.”
“You can’t quit now. You’re only halfway through your first set of today’s exercises.”
“I’m sore.”
“Then we’ll take it slowly, but you can’t stop or you won’t start again. I won’t let you quit.”
“Stop fussing! Gimme some room! Primus’ ball-bearings, sis. You’re worse than that damn Seeker.”
Roulette answers that with a light, harmless slap across the backside of Shadow Striker’s helm.
“Ow!”
“Be respectful when you speak about Slipstream.”
“Hey, frag you! I didn’t ask her to nurse me back to health! I didn’t ask any of you fraggers to bother about it! I’m never gonna be healthy again anyway, so she’s wasting her damn time, and mine. You’re all a waste.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“You don’t get to tell me what I mean! Forgive me for maybe feeling a little sick and tired of all the damn coddling! I’m not gonna get any better, so all this wasted effort is just hurting me.”
“We’re your people, boss bot. We’ve gotta try to help you heal.”
“Yeah, and so much for that, eh! There is no healing, Flames, and the sooner you lot accept that, the sooner I can stop feeling so bad about myself. Bah! I bet she’s still best buddies with the little yellow prick who did this to me. Some friend that is!”
Flamewar feels nauseous. She might grow used to it, eventually.
“We gotta negotiate peace with Sentinel, somehow.”
“Ha. As if.” Starscream scoffs, arms folded moodily. “He flies now. It’s an abomination. There’s no arguing with it.”
Bumblebee frowns at that, then looks up, still frowning. “What do you think, big guy?”
“I think…” The Prime seems to struggle with himself. “There are times in which it is necessary to fight for what is right. Peace cannot always be achieved through parley. I realise that negotiation cannot win every battle.” Optimus would say that, but Orion would never.
It makes that adorable little frown deepen, hardening with anxiety and confusion and despair. “Do you really mean that?”
“I do not wish to fight, my brave little friend. I would try to parley with Sentinel and his Functionist forces again. Our past friendship deserves the effort.”
Bumblebee sags with relief, recognising some trace of Orion within Optimus.
“We shall arrange another meeting, under greater restrictions for the sake of all our safety. The events of that battle cannot repeat themselves, lest our peace talks be derailed once more.”
“Seems like a bit of a waste of time and effort at this stage,” Empress says with a tone of distraction on account of Thunderblast being distracting. “Whatever your friendship was, it’s as good as gone now.”
“I respectfully disagree. Surely, there is still a chance to–”
“No. I will not surrender to one such as him,” Megatron snarls from his berth. “Not my ideals, not my pride. I surrender nothing to Sentinel. There will be no negotiation.”
“Then we must capture him or destroy him,” Alpha Strike surmises brusquely. “He cannot be reasoned with, as he assumes only himself reasonable.”
“We’re not destroying Sentinel,” Elita answers hotly. “No way. Forget it.”
“Fine. Once captured, never release him from captivity, but always assume the risk he escapes and causes chaos. The consequences will be yours to bear. Once destroyed, however, the issue is resolved.”
“Listen, lady–”
“General.”
“Take your rank and shove it up your actuator! Sentinel is someone I know, somebody I care about! We’re not executing people like the old days!”
And so the old femmes argue at increasing volume, until Knock Out curtly instructs them to take it outside, leaving Elita to sulk quietly in a corner of the ward and Alpha Strike to escort herself out with Skywarp trotting closely after.
“Those fools will drag this conflict on and on and on without resolution, until my shell turns grey with age,” the General rumbles lowly to her Seeker assistant. “It is no matter to us. By then you will outrank me and I will have retired to the silicon beach, where I will enjoy my remaining millennia sipping tiny drinks in the company of beautiful bodies too preoccupied with peace to care for an undying war.”
Skywarp hums lowly at that. She has never been to a beach. She only knows what a beach is as secondary, inherited knowledge.
“I miss you so much,” Hot Rod moans into their embrace. “Everything sucks so bad right now.”
Soundwave has sequestered a moment of privacy just for the two of them, utilising a storage closet filled with cleaning supplies simply as an escape. They are too distressed to do anything clandestine together beyond this hug.
Ravage would be here, within this hug, but he is still keeping Shadow Striker company, perhaps the only company she can fully enjoy any more.
“How’d the meeting go?”
“A complete waste of my time, same as all the others.”
“Okay. Then I’ll keep this brief. I want access to my Seekers, Starscream.”
“The brothers and sisters you fled from, escaping me.” He tightens his pretty jaw and narrows his bejewelled optics, evidently emotional and throttling an overreaction, if only because he is not yet sufficiently replenished, somewhat awash in painkillers though he is cognisant enough. “You might assign blame upon me, but you left our little ones so very confused and bereft of a suitable caretaker when you left us.”
“Did you feel like you had no one to take care of you, Star?”
“You were… most sorely missed, Slipstream.”
She feels her wings fold miserably against her back, making her small.
“There is no way to convince you to come back to us, is there.”
“My life is with Windblade and Chromia and all my other friends.” The Seeker gazes down at the Commander’s amber cockpit, her miserable reflection meeting her gaze. “But I can share my life with my family, if you can promise me to be safe, if you can truly be sorry for what you did to hurt me, hurt the people I love, and for how you hurt yourself.”
“Hurt… myself.”
“You were always difficult and strange. Jetfire indulged you too much before he left you too soon and I did what I could to help you heal, but you never really got any better. I wanted to believe, but I see it now, all the neurosis.”
“I’m not crazy. People say I am, but I’m not.”
“I called you eccentric once, because calling you crazy never felt fair to me either, but then Megatron found you. Now, I’m not so sure what to call you.” Slipstream shakes her helm with a huff, but she is too tired to get particularly angry right now. “He seduced you, told you what you wanted to hear, and as he took you into his arms and gave you his goals in exchange for our people, he twisted you into a shape of his liking. And still he found fault in you. Oh, Star.”
Exhaling sharply, Starscream rubs at his recently repaired wrist, recalling the hurtful words in past altercations where he left Megatron displeased, envious of how favour would increasingly shift to Empress with her beguiling cruelty making a mockery of the seed of fear steadily growing strong. “You still want me. You must want me.”
“Starting over seems impossible now. I don’t think I could ever trust you again. But we’re Seekers, and underneath all the awful parts of you that Jetfire indulged then left abandoned and Megatron found then left inflamed… resides my brother. But this… thing you’ve become, you look and sound like my brother, but the old Starscream forged alongside me on the very same day would never have thrown me away the way you did. Are you even capable of feeling guilt any more?”
The Commander says nothing to that.
“Tell me you can change, Star. Go back to before, back to being difficult and strange, so I can call you eccentric again, because I miss the you I remember. Seek forgiveness from the people you wronged – Windblade, Bumblebee, the list goes on and on until you’ll find me. Let me feel safe with you again. Until then…” The Seeker grasps her datapad like shield, sighs, and shuffles out. “You can start by giving me my family back.” And then she is gone, returning to her duties beyond this ward, gone from him without a backwards glance.
“I truly thought he would listen to me.” Jetfire is rarely soft-spoken. “But now all of this has come to pass and I fear I have failed him. Nay, I have failed all my Seekers.”
“I don’t really want to sit here and listen to you being sorry for yourself,” Acid Storm intones in their placid way. “After you left us, the matter of our upkeep ceased to be your concern. You left him in charge, and us in his care, and now here we all are.”
The safehouse has never felt so small.
Red Alert offers a smile from across the busy ward.
It makes Slipstream feel like she can survive today.
Day is left bleeding, night dragging itself free from the split in the corpse.
“Warp, my favourite little sis, just listen to me for a sec, yeah,” Nova Storm intones through a fugue of cheap drinks whilst throwing her burly arm around Skywarp’s neck to pull her into a conspiratorial embrace, slurring against her cheek as if to be discrete. “That tank you like so much. Clobber. You for real about her? Don’t get me wrong, she’s nice enough and it’s great that you humour her like that, but c’mon. She’s not a good look on you. Can’t you find yourself someone less… all the huge, smelly things so distinctly Clobber? Even the name… Skywarp and Clobber! It’d be funny if I didn’t worry, Warp.” Intoxication can bring out the ugliness in pretty people.
“Sorry, but the dumbaft is right,” Thrust adds with a bored shrug, slouched casually back in the booth. “All the Seekers are gossiping about you and your girl. I don’t care, duh, but you’re family, so just a fair warning. Don’t shoot the messenger, yeah? You like tanks, cool, it’s a fetish, but yeah, kinda weird. Doesn’t the, like… everything about Clobber bother you?”
“It’s not even just the tank thing, Thrust. Megatron I could understand, he’s daddy.”
“Primus’ beard! He’s ancient, Nova.”
“Okay, so he’s more like granddaddy.”
“Well, don’t let Star hear you say it.”
“I think Clobber’s really sweet,” Thundercracker interjects gently, concerned by how Skywarp’s expression has darkened to a troubling degree, wings twitching their irritation as she struggles against Nova Storm’s one-armed hug. “It’s cute, seeing the two of you do couple stuff.”
“But you’re not, like, actually gonna let her hit, right, Warp?”
“Ha! She’ll put a dent in you! You won’t be walking – or flying – for a week!”
“Thrust, that’s not funny!”
Skywarp finally escapes Nova Storm and gives Thrust a dirty look before departing from the booth in a quiet huff.
“Warp?”
“Oi. Where you going?”
“Honestly, you two! Now you’ve both upset her,” Thundercracker bemoans with a soft wince. “Warp, come back! We hardly see you any more, please!”
Skywarp does no such thing. She marches across Maccadam’s with determination, ignoring every Seeker along the way, until she finds a seat in an entirely different booth and plants her aft down with a huff.
“Oh, hey.” Clobber smiles sweetly as she is moodily snuggled into, her bulk affording precious little room. “How’re your Seekers?”
Skywarp adorably scowls, trilling grumpily.
“Did you, uh… have a fight with one of your siblings, or something?” asks Lockdown with his hook currently scratching at a dent in his helm, courtesy of the neglect commonly suffered by underpaid overworked labourers in dangerous vocations. A part of him would aspire to more. Maybe someday, he shall be really badaft and suave and wealthy in his own right. He could buy a better life for himself and his best friend, if he could only exceed himself. “Can’t be easy, being one of so many, and the quiet one too.”
This makes Skywarp sigh, but then Soundwave swaps over to a song she likes and she nods along to the beat. Inevitably, her optics are drawn to his swaying hips, as he has that effect on almost everyone, and she watches people – fellow Seekers included – congregate around him in dance, all their differences forgotten. It gives her an absurd notion and she springs to her pedes animatedly, beaming and gesturing.
“You cheered up fast,” Lockdown jokes, quirking a scarred brow. “Oh, you wanna dance? Sure, I could let loose.” He tilts his sturdy jaw until it clicks ominously, as if testing the joint. He is a scary mech to look at, yet kind under the surface. Will he always be the latter?
“Go for it, you guys.” Clobber’s smile turns bashful. “I’m not really good at dancing, so…”
“Aw, that’s not true. You’re a great dancer.”
“Thanks, Lockdown, you’re kind to think so, but I don’t think so.”
“You just don’t dance much.”
“’Cause I tend to break stuff when I try.”
“Skywarp’s asking really nicely, though. Can you turn down that face?”
Clobber sighs heavily, a rather impressive noise coming from her mightly frame, and then girlishly giggles at Skywarp who is adorable and pantomiming most convincingly. “Okay, okay! I’ll dance with you. But just watch the pedes, I’d hate to step on you.”
This notion makes Skywarp pause, tilt her helm up at the ceiling in thought, and chirp suggestively at whatever her imagination conjures. Oh, to be stepped on. The wonders.
Nova Storm almost spits up her drink as moments later, she sees Skywarp eagerly dragging a flushed but happy Clobber onto the impromptu dance floor, followed by a laughing Lockdown.
“We’ll never live this down,” Thrust mutters through a terrible cringe.
“Oh my Primus,” intones Dead End in his deadpan manner of speech as he wisely dance-shuffles out of Clobber’s way, optics wide and following her hips as she swings them with such feminine potency that he blushes. “Skywarp, you’re a braver bot than I. Good luck.”
Windblade stares from her own seat, normally pale cheeks tellingly tinged, forgetting to swallow her latest sip until Arcee reminds her with a playful little pat on the helm.
“Big girl got you good again, huh.”
“Solus Prime, save me.”
“She’s shaking that aft.”
Slipstream smiles warmly at Skywarp, dancing her Spark away with Clobber and Lockdown, aware of the Seeker gossip and the ridicule of siblings, utterly uncaring of it. How freeing that must be, to live unapologetically as oneself, to love unapologetically as oneself. To even love oneself. The smile fades.
Chapter 87
Notes:
My apologies, I'm sorry this chapter is late. I don't mean to delay updates, but I'm having health issues which take precedent over fanfiction, plus I'm on new medication that leaves me exhausted to the point of almost falling asleep sitting upright on some occasions. Rest assured that I'm still enjoying writing Synchronicity and I remain dedicated to seeing this entire project through, sequels included! So don't worry about the pauses, it's just me dealing with real life stuff. Next chapter continues directly onward from the events depicted here, sort of like a second part. I don't currently have the energy to edit 8-10k words or so altogether, so this is a compromise.
I hope you're doing much better on your end. Thank you for being here and for being so understanding. Enjoy!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Tensions are escalating. We will be commandeering your Energon supply to fuel the mounting war effort. As a patriot, you accept that resource management is essential to ensure my victory in this war, and believe me, you do want me to win. It’s for your own good, everyone’s good. I am the greatest good you’ve got.” Sentinel stands huge and handsome, flanked by imposing Functionary units at each wing. “Of course, you’ll be compensated appropriately for the loss in stock. I understand you refine your own Energon here, based on a secret recipe that gives your brew a distinct flavour that can’t be found anywhere else. Continue to supply my troops and I’ll be glad to reward your patriotism. I can admire a businessmech. You may continue doing business with the general populace – Decepticons included, whilst they still walk free – under strict Functionist supervision, with the added provision that you supply less nourishing fuel to the enemy in restricted quantities…”
Maccadam sighs over the datapad bearing a signed decree. He knew this would happen. He knows what will happen next.
In the weeks that pass, skirmishes seem endless, the combined forces of Autobots and Decepticons able to hold back the Funtionary tide, yet Optimus and Elita hesitate to quell Sentinel entirely as Megatron bays for bloodshed and Starscream demands satisfaction. The stress trickles down.
“I dunno, Rod. This doesn’t feel right,” Bumblebee says whilst keeping a safe driving distance between himself and Hot Rod cruising ahead. “I don’t think this is the right time for a vacation, like, with everything happening. We shouldn’t goof off like this, not right now. It’s kinda selfish, dude.”
“It’s hardly a vacay. It’s just for a couple hours, Bee, just for a couple of tracks to clear your helm. You need this. Cube doesn’t even put a sparkle in your optic nowadays, but maybe racing can help.”
“…I’m sorry, Rod.”
“C’mon, Bee. I don’t want you to apologise, I want you to be…” The fiery mech pauses, uncertain of his wording with the sunlight cascading across his transformed hood. “You, again. Not this sad, sorry you, diminished by what happened. I miss the old you, living your life as your whole self, unapologetically.”
The little yellow mech says nothing to that.
“You’ve been through so much. Self-care isn’t selfish, okay? What’s so wrong about a little time spent with a friend, just to feel a little better?”
“The Council needs all the help they can get.”
“We’re not abandoning Optimus and the others. We do plenty for the Council, but they’ll hardly miss us with all the extra help. Let the Decepticons handle it, they’ve been pretty okay so far.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Seriously, Bee. You could do with a break, little dude. We’ll pick up extra work when we get back to HQ. Hey, I’ll pick up extra-extra work since this is all my idea. If anybody gets mad, which they won’t, just tell ’em it’s my fault.”
“I love you and I appreciate that you’re inviting me out to get me away from everything, Rod. I could never blame you for that. Soon as we pull up to the space bridge for Velocitron, I’m gonna give you a hug and a kiss, cool?”
“Cool.”
Unfortunately, they will not be visiting the famous Speed Planet.
“Oh, frag,” Hot Rod mutters tensely. “Bee, the space bridge, it’s blocked. We gotta tell the Council.”
“Right. This definitely isn’t good,” answers Bumblebee as a fellow scout. “Lay low. We’ll observe and report back soon as we figure out what’s up.”
“Damn. Can’t even go off-world. Sorry, Bee.”
Transformed and hidden from Functionist view within an angry crowd of civilians denied passage through the space bridge, the friends tune their audials and wade carefully whilst remaining inconspicuous amidst the frustrated yelling.
“I guess self-care’s gonna have to wait.”
“Keep an optic on her for me, won’t you, dear.”
“I shall certainly try. But if it’s her contribution to the medical team that you’re concerned about, I can assure you, she contributes plenty. I like the girl. She has a bright future here.”
“Her future,” Starscream murmurs softly to himself, stood outside the medical bay with a faraway look.
“Yes, her future. As I said, it’s bright. Don’t dim it.” Knock Out gently taps the other mech on the forehelm with a datapad. “You have no right to sabotage her, or if you have that right, you’d have no Spark.”
A twitch of the cheek.
“For me?”
Ravage drops the recently deceased cybermouse with a confirmatory meow, nudging the little corpse closer to Shadow Striker.
“Damn. Thanks, I guess. Worried I’m not eating enough, huh? Not like I’m in the shape to go out hunting any more.”
Meow.
“Attaboy.” She strokes along his dark, sleek spinal strut, arched beneath her mismatched digits. She has taught herself limited self-control through extensive therapy, though she hates it. At least she can safely pet the cybercat without risk of a seizure crushing him to death. “Who’s my pretty kitty?” She uses a bizarrely silly voice. “You are. Yes, you are.”
Chirping in agreement with that assessment, Ravage weaves back and forth between Shadow Striker’s ankle joints, purring loudly, tail raised and quivering. He is one of the only sources of joy left in her whole world.
Of course, the dead cybermouse is going to be dropped into the disintegrator as soon as he wanders off to take a nap, but she can at least pretend to appreciate his gift.
“The space bridges are all under Functionist watch. We started with Velocitron and checked all the others, all the same. It’s like a total lockdown out there,” Hot Rod intones in an unusually serious, sombre undertone, accepting a cup of cooled Energon from Arcee with a nod of thanks.
“Nobody in or out, unless Sentinel says so,” adds Bumblebee whilst mopping sweat off his neck, his engine still hot from the drive back. “We overheard the Functionaries telling people it’s standard procedure to keep the rust plague out. We thought that mess was all under control, Override always seemed really confident about it in the news.”
“A blockade,” Megatron rumbles lowly, pointedly glaring at the cup. “An excuse, nay, a lie. It has nought to do with cosmic rust. That bastard intends to starve us out.”
“Whoa. Is it really that bad?”
“This is most dire. Cybertron is dependant upon the colonies and mining operations for Energon imports, as naturally occurring Energon sources have been low for millennia. Sentinel would know this, that vile creature, for he and I have discussed the matter extensively.”
“Can’t we just, like, make Energon? Doesn’t Mac make his own?”
“Young one, do not measure Maccadam’s brew against synthetic Energon. You will know the difference by sight, scent, viscosity and the instinctual gag reflex before you even taste it, dare to swallow it. Disgusting. I was kept sufficiently fed and functioning on humble rations of sustenance and succour without savour. I do not know whatever alchemy Maccadam is up to, he keeps his secrets close to himself, but I would never compare his brew to the synthetic gruel forced upon the lowest labourer class. I refuse to permit Cybertron to suffer synthetic compromise, to appease the tyrant Sentinel.”
“Should Sentinel maintain regulation on supply chains in our disfavour, it is inevitable that our stockpiles shall diminish, without replenishment.” Optimus’ frown deepens. “I have failed to convince him. This is our price.”
“Bah! He moves quickly, with callused cowardice, sending forth his servants to do his dirty work for him.”
“Didn’t you and your Decepticons try something sorta similar?” points out Bumblebee with some spite, optics flaring. “I almost blew up in an Energon stockpile, remember that?” He thinks of Shadow Striker with a shudder. “Primus.”
“Yes. I recall. I regret.” Megatron flinches, sighs, and thinks of Orion whilst gazing forlornly at Optimus. “Forever, shall I dwell on that night. I will make things right. I must.”
“Okay, so Sentinel’s got control over the space bridges. What’re we gonna do about it?” grunts Elita gruffly. “There’s nothing to trade if we can’t give him what he wants.”
“We must fight for fuel.”
“Primus, Megs, stop thinking like a gladiator!”
“You know I am right, Elita. Sentinel is mad, he seeks to win by any means necessary, our lives be forfeit. Optimus, allow me to liberate the space bridges, I am most suited to this task.”
“You shall not covet the crown of a warlord, Megatron, old friend. Throughout the history of our people, that path to glory has always led ambition to ruin.”
“Do not lecture me. Try things my way. Your way takes too long and requires too much self-sacrifice. He laughs at you and anticipates your better nature so that he might exploit compassion as weakness.”
“Compassion is not weakness, Megatron. Sentinel is deeply troubled, but I do believe he still bears some small capacity to care. I would appeal to that capacity, if it may prevent his destruction. What good is there in war, if we do not try again to come together in peace? What good is there in mutually assured destruction?”
“While you stall taking action to appeal to the mercy in a monster, the war does not stop, people still die. So we talk. Again. And again. And again. And again!” A huge fist slams upon the table. “You are doing what Orion once did, Prime, and you are failing! But I have seen you fight as he cannot! I beg of you, take decisive action and together, let us fight back to secure our future! It is a matter of survival!”
“Ugh. I hear you, Megatron. Elita, what do you think?”
Arcee feels a surge of pity as Elita averts her gaze ashamedly.
“I’m okay with asking for fuel to avoid a fight, but let’s face it, old mech. Sentinel’s gonna hold that over our helms like the executioner’s axe. He’ll demand things of us. His price will be high.”
“The Matrix of Leadership.”
“Our total surrender!”
“He won’t trade for anything less, but we can’t give that to him, so we have nothing to offer.”
“Do you hear her, Prime? Elita agrees with me! So we shall stand together and fight together and deny him the power over us, through force of resistance! I will share my Decepticon stockpiles with your Autobots until our rations are fulfilled, and in exchange you will bolster my army, and together we will be unstoppable! Together, we will liberate the space bridges and secure our survival! Then, we shall seize control of the space bridges unto our own ends and so it is Sentinel who shall starve!” Megatron looks far too delirious with delight as he says that.
“Nobody’s gonna starve!” Elita snaps back, flushed with frustration.
Optimus turns to look at the rest of the assembled, finding mixed expressions looking back. “What say you?”
“We need to secure those supplies, Optimus, one way or another. I could liaison with Caminus to negotiate a more generous trade route, but only if those space bridges are open and safe to traverse. If Sentinel has control of the space bridges already, then I can assume he’ll start to intercept incoming shuttles and secure airspace under the Functionist banner.” Windblade sighs softly, resigned. “Whatever you decide, trust that I’ll stand with you. You have my sword and my soul.”
“I say we kill the fragger,” Starscream proposes with a pretty sneer. “We cannot share airspace with that abomination. As for this blockade, let me send forth my Seekers.”
“My heavies are ready to storm from the ground. We would benefit from aerial support,” Alpha Strike rumbles calmly with Skywarp loyally perched close beside, actively taking notes or perhaps drawing amusing caricatures on that datapad, one can never be sure with that one.
“Perfect! Skywarp, you shall act as Captain over the Seekers in my stead and liaison with the General directly. It will be a good test for you, to prove to me how you have grown within your rank. Make me proud.”
“She will be most excellent, Commander. Of that, I have no doubt.”
Skywarp salutes with a far too serious expression for someone who takes things seriously on a selective basis, which is enough to garner a faint smile from Starscream and a fond chuckle from Alpha Strike.
Megatron’s scowl darkens. “It will send a message to Sentinel of his fate. I would tear him down in tatters of shame, ruined before the audience he so wished to impress, I would break his will and rip him in half with my bare servos, spilling his guts of every cruel act he swallowed to pursue power unquenched and ever starved.”
“But not, like, literally, right?” asks Arcee with a worried look at Elita’s deep wince. “This is a poetic ripping in half, with symbolic gut spilling… Right?”
“…Perhaps.”
“That settles it, then.” Starscream looks up from admiring his digits. “We should strike soon, before the Functionists entrench themselves further and set up more permanent defensive fortifications.”
“Wait.” Optimus holds up a palm. “Let me speak with Sentinel again. If there is a way to avoid this fight, I must try. Please.”
“So that your people can die in the streets to ongoing skirmishes or disappear to wherever the Functionist snatchers take those missing people, all to suit your conscience as you avoid giving affirmative commands and stall.” Starscream rolls his optics.
Windblade hates herself for somewhat agreeing with at least part that statement, though she does not say so.
“My Seekers and I have no interest in pleading with Functionists for scraps. Stop it with the peace talks, that abomination cannot listen. It is time to take what is rightfully ours.”
But Megatron softens as Optimus resembles Orion in anguish. “Negotiate and fail one last time. It is inevitable. Then, we shall do it my way, Prime.”
“That’s quite the feat, you know,” Knock Out intones in his charmingly chatty way, able to strike up a friendly rapport with even shy personalities with such ease. “Red Alert is truly a veteran of medicine, and a past war. She’s rather known for being, hmm, shall we say, difficult to work with. I’m certain she’s never taken a mentee before yourself.”
Slipstream realises this is a form of flattery and smiles softly at the gorgeous mech, her superior within the ward yet too friendly to be considered hierarchical. “I’m more grateful to her than my words could ever express.”
“Then express your gratitude through action instead. Study hard, work hard… Ah, but not too hard.” The medic winks as he sashays past the Seeker, patting her lightly on the pauldron in passing. “You wouldn’t want to end up half as dull as Ratchet is reputed to be.”
“I heard that.”
Knock Out is a lovely mech, Slipstream thinks. She also distinctly suspects that he is keeping an optic on her out of some concern for her wellbeing, endearing himself to her because of his apparent friendship with Starscream, as strained as their relationship may be at times.
“I’m not at all dull.” Ratchet pauses before the projected charts with a soft grunt. “Am I?”
Volunteers scatter as if to avoid answering that.
“You are forcing a war,” Optimus urges again, his patience fraying at the edges as Orion loses his grip, begging for a peaceful resolution against the Prime’s combative might. “Our people would starve, starving people will fight, and your fattened few would force further conflict for your own benefit. There are already enough wounded and dead to caution against further escalation. Do not uphold your wounded pride above the hope for our future.”
“This war is an ordeal you prolong by wasting my time, as you wasted Megatron’s time. Clearly the Matrix has had no effect on your leadership! The artefact is wasted on you and rightfully is mine. However worse things get will be up to you, as I only react to quell your foolishness,” answers Sentinel smoothly, smirking that snide little smirk of his. “I’ll end it soon enough, with or without your cooperation. I’ll make this whole world proud. You could expedite the process by giving me what I want.”
“And so you shall be destroyed,” erupts Megatron with a violent flourish, “so that we may escape destruction! There is no other way! You will get nothing, we will give nothing!”
“Oh, shut up, you melodramatic old brute. I offered you my amnesty.”
“You demand my submission! I will not surrender to the likes of you!”
Elita shakes her helm, optics dull and downcast to contemplate Arcee’s smaller servo laid atop, their digits interwoven upon the table in a show of mutual support.
“You’re both fools,” Windblade intones lowly, garnering a glare from Megatron and Sentinel combined. “Your inflexibility shall cost uncounted lives. How can you find the arrogance to permit this war to go on?”
“I find these meetings utterly pointless and dull,” adds Starscream with a moody inspection of his digits. “My Seekers are obviously destined to inherit Cybertron. You lot are hopeless. Only my leadership makes sense. Just leave it to me already and call it quits.”
“I wouldn’t count on that, dude,” mutters Bumblebee with a scoff. “Slip would never want Seeker supremacy. She’ll oppose you every step of the way.”
“She’ll recall that she belongs to me in time.”
“Are you ever going to get better? Can you?”
If looks could kill, Windblade’s suddenly icy optics would shoot laser beams straight through Starscream’s smugly disinterested face.
“Right, then. Let us conclude. You know what I require. If you refuse, the space bridges stay closed and you shall surely, slowly starve.” Sentinel’s bust fills the wide holoscreen, chin especially distinguished. “Give me the Matrix and surrender yourselves to my control, or else. Those are my terms. From that point, I shall show mercy. Again, I must emphasise - or else.”
“I am unable to oblige,” answers Optimus wearily, attaining another fragment of that patient, paternal figure within Orion. “Please. Heed my urgency. We must know peace. You would starve not just your enemies, but the unmarked neutrals, the innocent civilians.”
“Peace on my terms, or no peace at all. Some sacrifices can be permitted, to attain the greater good. Do not continue to waste my time.”
“It is never a waste of time to speak to an old friend. Let us reconsider alternative–”
“He is no friend! Do not appease the traitor,” interjects Megatron with a sullen scoff. “There will be no surrender. Only war.”
“Traitor. Traitor? You call me, the one who has sacrificed the most, done the most for the benefit of everyone else, the traitor?! How dare you!”
“Please don’t,” utters Elita through a wince, rubbing her brows. She is too drained to yell.
“Yes, traitor! No surrender! I would rather die standing upright, fighting for what I believe in, if the alternative is to live in subjugation to the old powers reinstated anew, kneeling before you.”
“That can be arranged, brutish fool, via formal execution for your crimes!”
“And to imagine, that I had loved you as a friend, once.”
“W-whatever! Fine! Be that way! Screw you!” Sentinel looks deeply wounded, but he valiantly tries to save face by ignoring Megatron to look instead at Optimus. “As for the Matrix, why not give it to me? We could end this ugly affair so easily!”
“I cannot. It is my burden to keep.”
“You don’t even want it! I do!”
“Tragically, that is irrelevant.”
“You make it sound so bad!”
Optimus lowers his immortal gaze with a soft, subtle sound of resignation unbefitting of a Prime.
Bumblebee sorely wants to give the old mech a hug, sensing that whatever remains of Orion could certainly use the comfort.
“No Matrix, no surrender – it would seem you have nothing to offer me of any interest. I would spare you all the horror of forcing my servo, but it’s clear that due to your own stubbornness, I shall have to take this victory for myself, because I know my worth and I know what I deserve. I shall be worthy, I will be all Cybertron deserves. You’ll thank me once all this is over and I fix the mess you all left for me to clean.”
“You will lose, Sentinel. I swear it on my Spark.”
“You’ll only drag them down with you, Megatron.”
As communications cease, the screen flickers to the placeholder image, bearing both the Autobrand and Deceptibrand side-by-side.
“C’mere, big guy.”
Optimus sighs into Bumblebee, who barely envelops the far larger mech even whilst seated, hugging his broad neck and stately pauldrons. “Thank you, my little friend.”
Megatron sees this and shyly turns to Starscream, as if hopeful for a similar sentiment, only to be ignored.
“Tch. Another fight I can’t join. How long ’til they figure out I’m useless and dispose of me? Bet it’s not long now.”
“Stop talking like that.” Soundwave cups Shadow Striker’s chin gently, tilting her helm back and drawing her singular optic to meet his visor. His words are melodic and soft. “You aren’t disposable.”
“It’s all I think about, pal.”
“It’s a lie. The truth is that you can never be disposable. Not to me, not to your sister, not to Flamewar or Slipstream. I’m a spymaster, I seek the truth in lies.”
“You’re also our social media and communications expert. You control the narrative.”
“I love you. I want you. I need you.”
She scrunches up her face and chokes wetly on her own vents as his helm falls forward to nuzzle against her own, rubbing her chin with his thumb as it trembles. Her scope quivers in its socket.
“You may call me a liar. Yet that’s my truth. As my best friend, perhaps my only friend in a sea of faces who admire my work yet dislike my personality, would I ever risk it - could I ever lie to you?”
She goes limp against him, permitting that he scoop her into his arms in a way that he usually would do if they were dancing to his music, yet there is only silence now.
Silence, until Soundwave rumbles, emulating recorded noise courtesy of a blend between Ravage’s contented purring and Flamewar’s idling engine.
Shadow Striker crookedly smiles at that, enveloped in reassurance and comfort she recognises as derived from these beloved sources.
“I’ll be supporting the field medics. I figure maybe being a Seeker can finally prove useful.” Slipstream pauses for a dark thought, chin gently propped atop her lover’s ornate helm. “Out of the few volunteers still willing to help the Council and work with the Decepticons on top of that, I’m the closest to an actual combat medic we’ve got, unofficially speaking, and I’m not even certified. Primus. Other than myself, there’s just Doctors Ratchet and Red Alert who know anything of battle, being actual war veterans with actual certification, but their frames weren’t originally forged for war. They’re magnificent by virtue of sheer talent and grit. I want to make them proud.”
“You already make them proud. You’ll get qualified someday. I just know it, I believe in you.” Windblade tightens her hug about the bigger femme, almost clinging. “I’m the most proud of you.”
“Thank you, beloved. That means the world to me.”
There is not much time left. This moment has been stolen, sequestered in secret.
“What’s the plan?”
“Doctor Ratchet is leading us in the field. Says he’ll manage the physical exertion just fine, but I’m worried. My mentor is staying behind to help Doctor Knock Out supervise the ward, since we’re, uh… expecting an overflow of wounded, so to speak. I could’ve stayed with her, but she mentioned how this could be good for my education, you know? Experience.”
“Optimus has no intention to get anyone killed, Slip.”
“He’s also opposed to killing. He thinks we can force a retreat early, right?”
“Yes. He hopes to drive the Functionists away from the space bridges with minimal casualties on either side. He’s a scary guy, when he has to be, so it could work. The Functionists revere the Matrix, and whatever Sentinel says, Optimus bears it.”
“Sentinel proved himself a coward, he’s bound to withdraw the moment he senses he might lose. He probably considers his Functionary warriors disposable.”
“And he will lose. We’re just trying not to kill anyone.”
The lovers ease apart.
“Megatron says you can’t scare fanatics. I do worry that he’s right about that.”
“What did Elita say?”
“She said nothing.”
“Oh.”
“You’re doing great, Warp! You’ve got all the little ones in perfect trine formations!” Nova Storm cheers from above, performing a little twirl out of excitement for battle, her handsome fighter jet alt-mode gleaming with fresh polish mirroring her environment, deliberately designed so that the very sky seems to wrap around her gleaming frame like a cloak, partially obscuring her movement to compensate for a garish colour-scheme. Seekers wear their paint like avian plumage with pride and fashion, that is why they are not dull and monotonous – such experimentation in the past, though logical, led to very depressed, unenergetic Seeker soldiers without enthusiasm to fight, whose resemblance to one another became impossible to overlook when they all shared the same listless grey. “We’re gonna kick so much Functionist aft today! Lord Megatron and Commander Starscream will be pleased with us!” Seekers still like to imagine themselves as quirky individual personalities, although they almost unanimously operate as a flock and typically embrace their internal hierarchy, with some outliers and infighting.
“So long as we get bonuses on our rations,” adds Thrust sardonically with a dumb laugh exchanged between Dirge and Ramjet. “I’m itching for some of that Energon jelly stuff, with the mineral chunks mixed in. Ah, and a tall mug of refined oil, the good stuff that doesn’t leave a nasty aftertaste.”
“I’d like more recreational time outside the base, so I could maybe go to the theatre,” answers Thundercracker cheerfully, only to quickly correct himself so as not to appear lame among his less artistically inclined kin. “Oh, or the Cube arena, that’d be cool too.”
“How about we rent a couple pleasure frames to celebrate?”
“Primus, Thrust, you know we don’t have the budget for it.”
Skywarp barks over the comms to firmly instruct her fellow Seekers not to pollute the line with unnecessary chit-chat. They understand her without the need for words and obey her because she is an especially popular Seeker on account of her endearing pranks and overall playful nature, thus being made Captain grants her added authority to boss the others around, even her older siblings. She is capable of being surprisingly disciplined and responsible when so inclined.
Alpha Strike is very fond and also very proud, trundling below in her mighty tank alt-mode, leading her heavies in one of multiple squads to attend to the various enemy-occupied space bridges. Other Seekers and other tanks move in their own formations elsewhere. They will maintain remote communications, and the Seekers will strike first due to the element of surprise, aided by speed and easy traversal in addition to the advantage they bear over the terrestrial Functionaries. In turn, in all the chaos and distraction, the heavy Decepticon units shall arrive to capitalise upon enemy distraction, ineffectually lured by darting Seeker trines as if agitatedly swatting at agile and armoured cyberflies. Not the most complex or elegant strategy. Truthfully, Obsidian was the strategist between them, though he has been gone for a very long time. It makes Alpha Strike ache to remember her dearly departed consort.
Time and time again, war has taken its toll. Time and time again, war will take more, more, more.
“I wanna go help Slippy, but I gotta stay close to boss bot. Soundwave can’t always be there to take care of your sister, he’s really important to the Decepticon cause since that Soundblaster guy doesn’t wanna do any actual work. You’re so tired all the time, you can’t handle Shadow Striker on your own, you need the help or you guys just fight. I hate it when you fight. Wimbles has Slippy’s back for me even when I’m not there, but that doesn’t make me feel much better about not being there. I can only be in one place at a time. It’s an impossible choice, but I’m forced to choose anyway.” Flamewar scratches anxiously at her breasts, scarring her fiery paint, until a larger servo gently envelops her wrist and effectively stops her fidgeting. “I’m torn,” she confesses quietly.
Roulette is indeed tired, her patience toward her only surviving family is already strained after millions upon millions of years spent angry and anxious over Shadow Striker’s lifestyle choices and undeserved misfortune, but this hot, messy little psychopath has tried so hard to form an alliance between feuding sisters.
The bike grunts with surprise as she is pulled into a smothering embrace, stiffening in disbelief that it is the very bounty hunter who once swore to destroy her that now holds her. “…Um…”
“Sorry. I’m having a moment.” Roulette swallows audibly as she squeezes her optics shut, lowering her visor to hide the onset of quiet, bitter tears. “It’ll pass. Humour me?”
Cheek pressed to sleek armoured panels, Flamewar peers cutely upward and manages a wonky smile as she cautiously lays her claws on the bigger femme’s back strut, claws tracing timid, uneven circles intended to soothe.
It has become almost routine by now, regular sparring among the heavies and the overabundance of real combat coming to dominate the young tank’s life as much as the others, in turn replacing her former occupation within construction and demolishion work with the most dangerous and gruelling of a soldier’s lot. Upon a mighty swing, the pincer retracts into the forearm and an explosive trigger is ejected in its place, as expected, which upon connection with the Functionary’s face combusts in a surge of weaponised energon harmless to Clobber, as designed, but she feels it, then – the crumpling of cranial casing, the spewing of cranial matter encased within. She did not mean to hit him that hard. She only intends for every punch to incapacitate.
He drops like a capsized wall unable to support its own weight, helm obliterated from the severed stump of his jaw upward, glossa lolling aside, an optic rolling free to be crushed under her pede with a glassy wet pop, again unintentional. He has been summarily terminated. He never even saw it coming.
Stumbling over the twitching mass to regain her clumsy balance, she vents hard and stares. This is not the soldierly glory she was promised. Is it?
“Clobber!”
She has no time to process this brutal kill, as another Functionary drives the butt of his rifle into her face with a nasty crack, as if in vengeance of a fallen comrade. She sees stars and tastes inner Energon.
Alpha Strike seizes the offending weapon and twists too sharply, snapping both of the Functionary’s wrists in an instant. His shriek is silenced by his own weapon, swung like a club with a spray of oral lubricant and olfactory oil.
Clobber is drooling uncontrollably, staggering in shock. She is used to being physically hurt, thus it has nothing to do with her own facial dent, and everything to do with the thoughts and feelings she is unable to process.
The Functionary is overpowered, pinned beneath tank treads, and shot with needless cruelty in the throat, severing his cries and drowning his brain module in pressurised fluids that bursts from his optic sockets like tears, welling in his gagging intake.
“Clobber.”
The tank bubbles through bloody spit, seized by the pauldron and shaken firmly.
“You still function?”
A foggy nod.
“You still fight,” rumbles the old General, who fades and returns within the stars. “Terminate. Obliterate. That is all.”
Clobber thinks this is a bit strange, since this command contradicts the rather tender look in Alpha Strike’s bright, burning optics as she drags a palm across her subordinate’s buckled intake, smearing Energon in an effort to quickly mop away the drool.
“What, have you given up on talking me down already?” Sentinel’s voice echoes from another Functionary unit within the throng, cannons aloft. “You’ve been giving Megatron the benefit of the doubt, for he put you up to this, and his Decepticons fight alongside your Autobots! Fool, he will have you corrupted alongside him! He is poison to you!”
Optimus neatly darts aside and lunges out of direct line of fire, the nimble dodge defying his sheer size as plasma rains after his steps, each sizzling blast missing him by a breath.
“That’s not the sort of thing I’d expect from you, Orion! Always the sort to bargain, to beg! I was counting on it! Or perhaps it is what I should expect! You always favoured him over me, everybody did! But you, oh, you always loved him the most! I assumed the civilian presence here would be sufficient to deter an advance, yet here you are, doing as he demands, sending in tanks and fighter jets and witnessing the deaths for yourself! This is your fault, Orion!”
“Optimus.”
“What?”
“Do not blame him. Blame me.”
“Shut up! You’re no Prime! If anyone deserves that power, it’s me! I have strived, I have sacrificed, I am remade, I–”
The Functionary’s cannons finally overheat, aglow upon her mighty forearms, forcing her to ceasefire. In a split second the Prime is upon her, his fist shattering her entire world, sunk deep into her gut with enough force to vomit over him. She crumples in on herself, kneeling before a drenched demigod.
“What! No! Get up!” Sentinel demands shrilly, his voice distorted within the collapsed, gagging mass. “Useless imbecile, arise, I command you! Don’t make me come out there and do it myself!”
Optimus leaves the Functionary alive and sprints onward, stooping to pick up a downed Decepticon he does not know before carrying the wounded in the bend of a single arm, digit pressed to comm link. “Ratchet, I have need of a medic.”
“Bring him here, Prime! I’ll patch him up real quick and shove him back into the fray again! Recycling!”
“Doctor, in these circumstances, that is not funny.”
“I was told I’m boring!”
“Bad comedy.”
“Bah! Never mind!”
The groaning Decepticon is soon laid at the medic’s pedes, writhing in the shadow of the Prime.
“Do you need anything?”
“No, I’ll manage. He’ll live.”
“Thank you.”
“Just doing my job. You do yours, alright?”
“I shall certainly try, though I fear this is not the way.”
“Too late to bother with all that now we’re in the thick of it. Think on it later. Focus for now, Prime. If we lose this fight, it ends up all being for nothing.”
Optimus lowers his gaze, sighs, and departs swiftly as a forcefield is generated from within Ratchet’s kit, providing him cover in the battlefield.
“You’ll be fine, soldier. Here, bite down on this, to spare your glossa. This’ll sting a bit.”
A scream, muffled and wet, reaches even the Seekers soaring above in dizzying, ceaseless droves of perfectly coordinated trines, providing blasts from their mounted null-rays upon each swooping pass overhelm.
“I’m so glad I’m up here and not down there,” Thrust says unhelpfully as the leader within his trine, garnering affirmative grunts from Dirge and Ramjet on either wing. “Sucks being a grounder on the frontlines! Some of those injuries are gnarly!”
Skywarp clears space around Clobber, dropping Functionaries with highly tuned null-ray rapid fire, chirping to communicate concern.
“M’okay,” the tank spits through her buckled facial rigging, Energon slopping with every word. “M’okay. M’okay.”
The Seeker warbles anxiously, dismissing her trine to go solo, turning in a smooth arc to focus her fire specifically on keeping her friend from further harm.
Aided by Skywarp’s covering fire, Clobber punches her way along, body by body, unsure now of her actual strength, disturbed by her untested limits. “M’okay,” she murmurs wetly. “M’okay.”
Notes:
If you're wondering why I write the elderly leadership as incompetent egos fucking shit up for everyone else, I ask you to trust in the process, as the frustration you might be feeling right now is intentional. Characters can grow and change as the plot demands, thusly I'm trying to depict these events reasonably realistically based on chronology and context, and not as a constant stream of action sequences with hot sex interspersed (though there will be more of that to 'come' later). I happily accept suggestions and constructive criticism.
Chapter 88
Notes:
Thank you all so much for the overwhelming show of support Synchronicity has garnered over time. It means the world to me.
Possible trigger warnings: suicidal ideation and reference to assisted suicide, reference to self-harm, depictions of violence and injury and death, using seduction to enthrall, sexual threat via verbal implication, loads of relationship toxicity, misogyny/misandry, depression and anxiety, vomiting.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“No sign of Sentinel as of yet,” Soundwave reports dully with a sidelong glare at the neighbouring seat, where Soundblaster lounges in another nap, melodically snoring. “Continuing to monitor all available channels.” There is one advantage to the ostensible supervisor being lazy.
Live feeds of Hot Rod are monitored in secret, to ensure he is okay out there. The intelligence officer bears witness to his lover doing his utmost to save lives.
It makes Soundwave smile in that subtle way only he can, indicated by the way he sits further forward and rests his chin in his palm, helm tilted gently to one side, visor alight with images of the heroic and beautiful Hot Rod. A quiet, lovelorn sigh passes like a tune.
“Heee-yah!” Arcee is a whirling pink flurry of destruction, performing such acrobatic feats that her foes are left befuddled and dented in her wake. Leaping through plasma fire and delivering a high kick between a Functionary’s optics, as he topples over, so she catches his two swords by the hilt of each blade, somehow without losing any bodily parts in the process. Landing neatly in a low crouch, she rises again with the agile grace of a dancer and flourishes the procured weapons with some skill, learned from Windblade’s prior demonstrations. “Who’s next?”
The Functionaries are unwilling, some opting to turn and retreat, others reluctantly brandishing their guns only to be felled one by one.
The helpless civilian femme can only stare, pinned down in the chaos of crossfire and combat, no longer afraid, yet awed, as that mighty pink warrior discovers her hiding amidst the debris.
“Oh, sweetie, are you hurt?”
“N-no. Just stuck.”
“Here, let me help you out.” Arcee switches off both swords and, shrugging at her good fortune, decides to keep them as trophies, slotting the hilts within her personal storage to free both servos before lending her astounding, almost elastic strength to the task of helping the civilian femme escape from the rubble.
“Th-thank you.”
“You’re welcome!”
The civilian trembles, more from shock than anything, as her expression indicates relief and not fear when Arcee offers an Energon patch.
“Here, a quick pick-me-up. You’ll need it.”
“Very kind of y-you.”
“Now, then! Let’s get you outta here! It’s not safe for civvies.”
“Civvies?”
“Oh, sorry, that’s soldier-speak for people who really shouldn’t be dragged into war. Can you walk? Transform?”
“Mm. Yes. I think s-so.”
In an attempt to be comforting, Arcee ignores the war happening all around them and smiles warmly, offering a palm to hold whilst guiding the civilian femme through the debris at their pedes. “I sorta leapt in on you without announcing myself. Rude! I’m Arcee. What’s your name?”
“G-Greenlight,” the civilian femme stammers, then clears her vents with a fragile smile back.
“Nice to meet you! Green is my favourite colour.”
Unfortunately, a nearby explosion interrupts this first meeting, the force of which throws both femmes off their pedes.
Greenlight is airborne for a moment, then hits the metallic ground and rolls over in a shower of sparks erupting from her scraped shell, then finally settles upon her back and fades in and out of consciousness for some moments. When her vision reboots, she discovers a Seeker looming over her. This is a truly scary sight at the worst of times, and this is a rather bad time.
“Hey, I’ve got you. Easy, now. You’ll be alright.” Slipstream pulls out her diagnostics scanner and assesses for internal damage indicators. “You’ve popped a tyre and there’s an oil leak I need to seal.”
The civilian tries to sit up, wincing. “A-Arcee.”
“Stay down.” The Seeker lays a firm yet gentle palm over her patient’s pauldron, instructing her not to rise any further. “Moving only increases pressure on that leak. I’ll go help Arcee in a moment, let me help you first.”
Greenlight reluctantly stays still, finding herself deeply anxious over another’s wellbeing, a stranger she only just met.
Slipstream works fast and she is gentle despite her fearsome shape, and once she is satisfied with the repairs, she calls for aid.
Hot Rod answers, zooming onto the scene and transforming into his handsome root-mode with a nimble leap. “I’m here, Slip! Whatcha need?”
“Got a civilian here. She’s patched over enough to walk, but she’s in no shape to transform. I don’t think she’ll make it on her own. Can you escort her to safety with the others?”
“Sure thing! Here, gimme your servo, I’ll getcha outta this mess.”
“Thank you. Both of you. Please, Arcee, she–”
Slipstream is already running to help another heaped figure some paces away, pink spattered in Energon amidst the detritus.
“Oh, Primus…”
Hot Rod looks unnaturally pale, sickly with worry, but he puts on a brave face and helps Greenlight. “Don’t worry, Arcee’s like my big, strong, tough, all-around badaft sister. She’ll be totes okay. C’mon!” He prays that this will prove true.
“Hey.” Arcee is conscious, as she was when Slipstream left her to attend to Greenlight, upon much insistence and refusal to cooperate with medical intervention despite possibly being more seriously injured. “She’s up. Good job, Slip.”
“She’ll be fine. Now, let me attend to you, please.”
“Go for it. So, uh, what’s the damage? Is it bad?”
“You’ve got an open helm wound.”
“Is my brain module showing?”
“No, it’s just a mean cut.”
“Oh, damn. Bummer.”
“I love you so much,” Slipstream mutters whilst stooped over in attendance to another patient, servos busy, the thickset digits fragrant with disinfectant and slick with spilled Energon. “If I only had half your courage.” She raises one such digit. “Follow my movement. Any distortion, motion tracking difficulties?”
“It’s a little blurry, but…” Slumped upon a warped public bench on account of having been thrown violently against it and left a bit dazed, Arcee is glad for being built astoundingly durable for her size and shape as her blue optics follow that presented digit which waves deliberately back and forth before her painful grimace. “I see you. Is… Is that my blood? Babe, did I bleed all over you? I’m sorry.”
“Hush. I’m trained for this. And it’s hardly your blood. You’ll be just fine. I’m gonna patch you up,” intones the Seeker soothingly, trying to distract from the encroaching needle. “Just stay still.”
“I can still fight. Patch me up real quick, then lemme out there, lemme at ’em. ” Once a teacher, now thrust into conflict, the young femme is brave even as she winces following a dose of painkilling protocols, unpleasantly injected into a fuel line within her neck. The entry site is strategically chosen due to being close enough to run the laced fuel to her brain module and thus impair her sensory network within her bloodied helm with minimal delay before the repair procedure. “Whoa…”
“Easy.” Slipstream smiles apologetically, cradling her patient’s cheek in a palm, smearing wet. “Stay with me, sweet Spark.”
“Whoa, whoa whoa.” The sensory distortion that follows is rather soothing as it reduces the pain, though the effects are shallow enough so that Arcee may still keep her wits about herself. “Dude. That feels weird, but better!” She blinks a few times and smiles her adorable smile, jerking up a thumb. “Muuuch better.”
“Ready?”
“Go for it.”
“Right, then. It might leave a scar.”
“Scars are badaft. Girls like scars, right? Scars are memories, scars have stories to tell. What girl doesn’t like a good story? Hey, that particular girl, her name’s Greenlight. She’s really cute, right? Damn, so cute. You think she likes scars?”
“Ah, Arcee. I’ve always appreciated your knack for positive thinking.” The Seeker keeps her patient’s helm and neck carefully supported in the cradle of one large palm whilst rummaging about with the other servo, keeping the other femme distracted with banter. “You’re our ray of sunshine on even the cloudiest days.” The words are tender, spoken with sincerity, even if spoken unto an ulterior motive.
“I try! But I’ve got a storm inside.”
“Our force of nature. That’s you.”
Arcee nuzzles into that cradling palm, the jagged shear in her helm bleeding Energon hot down her jaw. She assumes that she will return to the battle, but it is unlikely, inadvisable.
Slipstream hastily retracts a soldering kit from her onboard storage. “Grab and hold onto my pauldrons if you need to. Hold me as tight as you want.”
“Oh, okay. Is this gonna hurt, even with the drugs?”
“It’ll hurt a lot less.”
Pink servos lunge forward to seize broad purple pauldrons with a quiet gasp, transferring paint.
“Just hold onto me until it’s over.”
Shadow Striker is going through her old inventory of weaponry. In some ways the quiet, meditative study of familiar equipment seems to soothe her with nostalgia for who she was, when she was whole. And yet in other ways, it makes her all the more depressed for who she has become. Inevitably, eventually, her mismatched digits gingerly befall a beloved old rifle. “You repaired it after the explosion, didn’t you.”
“Yeah. I hope it’s okay. I mean, I did my best, in my free time. I don’t have all the right tools, so I improvised.”
“You have free time? Tch. Thought I took it all for myself, being broken and bitter.”
“I find free time.” Flamewar sits on a crate with Ravage curled in her lap, watching the ritual. “Usually when you’re with Roulette, or when you’re deep asleep, I’ll go ahead and maintain your gear for you. It helps, keeping myself busy.”
“I see. Well, thank you. You’ve done a good job, keeping things nice.”
“It’s okay.”
“No,” the old mercenary utters through an onset of tears. “It’s not okay. Dammit all. None of this… could ever be okay.”
The bike sighs quietly, stroking the anxious cybercat. “Boss bot–”
“You’re young, got your whole life ahead of you, and I’ve got you stuck here with me. Gorgeous, clever little thing like you, wasting your time with my decrepit old aft, a wreck.”
“Stop. I hate it when you talk like that. Please.”
Shadow Striker struggles to pick up her rifle, cumbersome and heavy in her mismatched palms, when once it had felt as natural to her as driving. Her joints ache, pauldrons collapsed inward, her biceps tremble with exertion, digits scrabbling over contours committed to memory. She almost drops the rifle three times, until securing it against her breast like a child hugging a beloved toy. She makes such a soft, wounded sound.
Flamewar’s surreal optics, golden hued with flickering purple upon the fringes, well with tears.
“It’s empty,” the old mercenary notes quietly, staring at the ammo indicator displaying a depleted weaponised Energon cell. “Can’t trust me with a loaded gun, can you?”
“Boss bot…”
“Oh, but you’ll let me play with my knives, ’cause you know I barely have the strength to slit my own throat, even though I desperately want to.”
“Don’t talk like that.”
“You’d be doing me a favour, kid.”
“Shuddup,” the bike utters hoarsely. “Please.”
“Just know that, if you ever change your mind and do come to accept that it’s the kinder thing to put me down, I don’t want you feeling bad about it after. It’ll be an act of mercy and I’ll appreciate it.”
“Appreciate me, killing you! Appreciate me for that, more than you appreciate me for all I’ve done to support you in your life! Your life that matters, to me! Boss bot. Am I really so worthless, to you?”
“This isn’t a life I want to live, Flames. And you’re worth far too much. You’re worth more than everything I’ve got left to give, after he left me with nothing. I am nothing, I have nothing left to offer you. I’ll never repay you for all you’ve done for me and it hurts almost as much as simply surviving hurts. Just let me die. Just kill me.”
Roulette happens to walk into the room just then, blue optics narrowed upon her sister, fury etched in her near-identical facial features. “What the frag did you just say.”
Shadow Striker rolls her scope with a sigh. “Oh, boy. Here we go! Lecture me, sis, I need that.”
“After everything we’ve survived that our sister didn’t–”
“Bringing her up, huh.”
“After tearing each other apart due to our differences–”
“You chose to be an overbearing afthole. I chose to run away. We’re even.”
“After finally making decent friends–”
“Only because you didn’t scare them off for once. You used to sever any connections I dared to make for myself. Jealous, selfish glitch! You wanted me all to yourself.”
“After everything, you don’t get to take the easy way out!”
“I do whatever the frag I want! Get bent, sis! I’m not a kid anymore! You don’t get to boss me around and decide for me!”
“I hate it when you guys fight,” Flamewar mumbles, Ravage yowling unhappily upon her lap.
“Look at you, look what you just did! You’ve gone and upset my girl, and my cat!”
The bounty hunter mutters something darkly whilst packing the inventory away.
“Oi! Servos off my stuff!”
“You can’t have access to weapons.”
“They’re mine! Give those back!”
“Flamewar, what were you thinking? She might hurt herself.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You know better. Do better.”
The bike bows her helm with a wet sniffle, limply stroking the cybercat.
“Lay off! She’s just giving me a meagre scrap of something to live for!”
“You have family. You have friends. Live for us.”
“You’re doing a swell job of motivating me to keep on suffering, sis!”
“Quiet, girl. Give me that.”
“No!”
“Shadow Striker. Give it to me. Now.”
The mercenary hugs her rifle with all her might, unable to do much else as servos reach for her, for the gun.
“You’re behaving like a petulant, spoilt brat.”
“You’re not my mentor! Stop mothering me!”
Roulette knows the rifle is empty as she wrestles with Shadow Striker to take it away, but the enfeebled femme still has a nasty bite, dentas digging into reinforced knuckles. “Fragger!”
Flamewar quietly leaves the room, carrying a very upset Ravage. “It’s okay, baby boy.”
Meow.
“Auntie Shadow Striker’s gonna get better.”
“Oh, thank you, dear. I’ll be taking that.”
The Functionary femme purrs, simply allowing herself to be disarmed of her weapon, then stands very still and accepting of the little scratch under her reinforced chin in reward, before being savagely punched in the face and left sputtering in a puddle of Energon cloying in the metallic dirt.
“This will spare my pickaxe a little wear and tear,” Empress intones with a feminine quiver of excitement, beholding the triple-barrel ion cannon which a smaller frame would barely be able to lift, yet she hefts it in one huge fist with ease. “Huzzah! Now, then. How does it work?”
“Nice. But couldn’t you just win this dumb war by being all charismatic or whatever and spare us all the trouble of shooting each other entirely?” grumbles Thunderblast cattily, her absurd launcher propped casually back against her pauldron, dragging an arm across her sweaty forehelm and huffing steam. “Your charms don’t only work on femmes, right? I’ve seen guys fall all over themselves for you, but mostly they just get scared.”
“I can charm certain mechs, true, and overpower others, yet a few remain indifferent, I’m afraid. Don’t you relish battle? Your history implies it, and based on how I’ve been so graced by getting to know you, I’d certainly call you violent.”
“Look, I don’t mind the fighting, but, like, this is way less convenient than just seducing the planet so they obey me. Ahem. Us.”
“Oh, darling, I wish I could just make everyone bow all at once, or at least in great swathes. But I am merely a mortal, and my charms aren’t universally effective, nor do I have the energy to attempt literally persuading most of the planet at once. It takes something out of me to persuade others. You know that.”
“What if we just broadcast you all over Cybertron like a propaganda piece? You’ve done some recruitment ads for Megatron before, and we got way more recruits because of you and your huge tits.”
“It’s less effective if it’s not done in person. Why bring all this up now? You aren’t growing bored of me, are you, cyberswan?” The gladiator looks actually rather upset at the notion, lowering her procured triple-barrel ion cannon with a delicate frown.
“No. You’re wonderful. I’m just…” The boat pauses for actual serious, sombre thought.
“Is it because of Shadow Striker?”
“What happened to her is really disturbing. I’m genuinely fragged up over it, and that’s after seeing some really sick scrap in my day. I don’t want this war to go on and on, just for people I like to get blown up and stitched back together with corpse parts. I can play in the chaos if it gets me what I want, but this isn’t all that much fun any more.”
“I’ll have Shockwave destroyed, cyberswan. Nobody hurts my girls. Starscream shields the monster for his own ends, but I have Megatron wrapped around my little digit whilst the lovers grow estranged.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Have faith, my dearest.” Empress tenderly brushes a fleck of filth from Thunderblast’s cheek. “Focus for now on culling Functionaries. We’ll fight side-by-side and we’ll play in the chaos as a duet.”
“Together.”
“Apologise to her this instant.”
“It’s okay, she doesn’t gotta–”
“Apologise.” Roulette silences Flamewar with a glare, then redirects that glare upon Shadow Striker. “Say you’re sorry to the damn cat, too. You scared him.”
Meow.
“You know something?” The old mercenary sullenly scowls at the floor, bereft of her rifle and her pride. “I am sorry. Truly, I am.”
“And will you try to be better, do better?”
“I don’t think I can. That makes me sorrier.”
The old bounty hunter seethes, rubbing her brows.
“I lash out when I’m mad, or scared. I can’t process what I’ve become and I just wanna die, but people who care about me prevent my suicide, so I’m still here, suffering. I hate you all for it and I’m sorry I feel that way, but the suffering doesn’t stop no matter how sorry I am. You’re all feeling real sorry for me, but that doesn’t do jack to help my situation, and you lot all know it, too. That makes you sorrier. So, sorry all around, right?”
The bike cradles the cybercat.
“Yeah. We’re all sorry.”
“This way, people!” Hot Rod is assisting in drawing civilians to safety, as he prefers not to engage in battle where he can help it, nor does he desire to see innocents hurt. “Here!”
“You bastards ruin everything!”
“Huh?”
“You heard me!” an elderly mech snaps within the crowd of fleeing bodies, bearing the dwindled remnants of a frame that had once carried such masculine strength, protoform shrunk and atrophied, paint faded, joints painful with the inflammation of overuse. “Stupid boy! You bring ruin!”
The crowd murmurs, then erupts, voices rising above the throng of bowed helms and buckled pauldrons and screeching tyres. Some voices agree, others disagree, and others are just afraid or angry for the sake of open expression.
“I… I’m just trying to help?” Hot Rod flinches as he is shoved weakly in the breast, where his freshly applied Autobrand glows bold and reassuring, as of yet unblemished. “I’m one of the good guys?”
“Rubbish! If it’s not you Autobots, it’s those damn Decepticons, and now the Functionists too! All of you are the fragging same! I follow the news, an old mech has little else, and I see the truth! You’re ruining everything, all of you, alike!” The old mech hobbles off, unassisted, alone. “I’m supposed to be visiting family right now…”
“I’m sorry?” Hot Rod winces deeply as that elderly mech stiffly and painfully transforms, trundling off with a belch of stale fuel. “I’m sorry.”
A mother flees with her young protoform clutched tightly within her arms, unable to transform.
“I’m afraid I’ll never get my boss bot back. The boss bot that liked me, wanted to be around me, made me smile and smiled back.”
Roulette swallows drily, finding Flamewar’s claws and squeezing them.
“We had a good thing going. And now, it’s gone.”
“Come out, Sentinel! Face your nemesis!”
A Functionary screams then gurgles then wheezes, stomped into mulch, progressively quietening until silence save for the wet crunch.
“Even wounded, I am the bigger mech!”
“Megatron! No!” Elita shoves at his huge figure, trying to shift him, as if to remove his huge pede from descending again and again upon the dying. “We’re supposed to scare them off and save civilians! Stop!”
“This is war, my dear! This is what he wants, this is what I will grant him!”
“Optimus isn’t out there killing people! You have to calm your aft down!”
The old gladiator relents with a scoff, pink smeared over gunmetal grey.
“This isn’t the fragging arena!” the elderly femme bellows most impressively, sweeping her muscular arms out. “They aren’t gladiators!”
“This is a battleground. They are enemy.”
“Listen to yourself! What kind of leader are you?!”
“I sound sane to my own audials, old friend. I am the leader who shall not lose.”
“What example are you setting for your Decepticons and the civilians who believe in you?! You’re acting like a…” Elita hesitates, optics upcast at a distant roar. “Oh, no.” She searches the sky, not for Seekers.
Sentinel cleaves a path through a passing trine, splitting all three jets into bits with bursts of fire and the slop of wet rubbery guts freed from their shells. His sword glints wickedly in his armoured fist, wings alight with the sun.
Megatron looks up, scowling into the rain of Seeker Energon that spills from their severed corpses and falls pungeant upon his grim scowl, preceded by the bodily parts. “Finally, the traitor finds his courage. Unless?”
“Primus! Oh, frag me!” Elita clutches her breast as something bounces wetly off her pauldron and leaves an oily spear behind, a Seeker organ she could not identify settling between her pedes. “No, no, no!”
“Tell me, old friend. Does he deserve to die?”
“…I… I can’t… I don’t…”
Starscream shrieks his fury, streaking overhelm with a painful whine of his thrusters, firing his null-rays upon Sentinel, yet the massive mech proves astoundingly fast when unimpeded, chased.
“Only brave in small doses.” Megatron scoffs, then turns to Elita. “This is upsetting for you. I am sorry. If you must step away, do so without shame. Not every femme has Alpha Strike’s mettle.”
“He chopped them to bits! Just like that, like they were nothing to him!”
“Hence why Sentinel cannot be permitted to leave this place alive, old friend. He is lost, a danger to us all.”
“Aren’t you scared for Starscream?!”
“Yes, I fear immensely,” Megatron says in a very soft, very tense undertone. “Do not underestimate my aerial Commander, for I appointed him as my second-in-command in good confidence. Let Sentinel avoid my wrath as long as he can, for in exchange, Starscream’s fury is no sweeter.”
Starscream’s fury is incommunicable beyond his namesake as Sentinel deliberately veers into other Seekers, slicing through their beautiful wings to send the jets helplessly toppling to their explosive deaths upon the ground, killing clumps of their fellow terrestrial Decepticons, allied Autobots, and even Functionaries in the process. The Commander sends a panic signal to his fellow Seekers to warn them, but still, many fall to the sword, and so his vocaliser tears itself apart, the barrels of his null-rays glowing hot with sustained fire at maximum charge, thrusters burning fuel as he pushes himself beyond his limits with the sheer urge to kill.
“Yes, I fear for him.”
Elita stares on, blue optics wide.
“But I believe in him.”
Sentinel makes the mistake of swerving into Thundercracker with killing intention, who instinctively acts upon his namesake with a terrible noise that disorients his attacker and knocks him off-course, thus the sword misses the jet by a breath in passing.
“My faith does not preclude me from helping my mech succeed.” Megatron braces his heels, tracking movement with his narrowed optics a hellish crimson. “It is my purpose. All I need, is one clear shot.”
Starscream’s null-ray blasts find their mark, disabling many of Sentinel’s subsystems and cutting off his thrusters. Being so big, the fall will be hardest of all.
“My Starscream will open our Sentinel up for me perfectly.”
So distracted by what happens in the heavens, Elita fails to notice Megatron raise the experimental fusion cannon attached to his massive arm, aglow an eery purple.
“There.”
Sentinel partially disintegrates mid-air, losing a wing and an arm.
Elita throws herself at Megatron’s raised arm all too late. She is horrified, but he smiles.
Sentinel survived the fully charged null-rays, a feat in itself, and so he regains functionality of his subsystems, reactivating his thrusters to steer himself on one wing and in turn somewhat lessen the severity of his trajectory, throwing bodies aside as he plummets into the crowd below.
Bumblebee is, unfortunately, one of those bodies, flung like a toy discarded by a bored, uncaring child. When he hits the ground, he falls upon one arm and under the brunt of his stocky weight, his pauldron snaps out of joint, leaving him writhing in a heap of agony in Sentinel’s wake. His misfortune continues, for the disabled arm bears his only real weapon, his stinger, and so he is helpless to the Functionaries who loom on the periphery of panic and pain.
“Bee!” Windblade drops from the sky line a divine protector, Stormfall cutting any enemy who dares approach.
“Aaargh…”
“I’m here.”
“H-hurts…”
“Sentinel, you fool!”
Much of the battle has paused, helms turned, optics fixed. Even the Seekers above sweep to observe.
“Look what your antics have wrought! All those upgrades are nothing, all your Functionaries are nothing, you have been reduced to and all you have done – nothing! I cannot have pity for you!” Megatron shoves his way through the crowd, marching confidently toward the smoking, twitching heap. “You could have tried your luck with Optimus’ team, over at a different space bridge! Or perhaps you may have tested your mettle against Alpha Strike and her deployment at another! There are Empress’ lot too, you tired old flirt! Yet you came here, arrogant as you are, intending to torment me where I cannot reach! Yet you have lost! Why? Even recovering from this wound, I have won. Why, old friend? Did you think I would be left vulnerable? No.”
Sentinel drags himself to his pedes, one-armed and one-winged, his glorious armour streaked and dented, the brilliant blue of his optics the only unblemished remnants of his former angelic glory.
“You lost, and continue to lose, because you lack courage, though you fancy yourself brave,” Megatron hisses closely now, grabbing Sentinel by his bloody pauldron and squeezing until he screams. “I left you scarred and scared in the arena, as I left you scared and scarred in our youth! Always hated me, didn’t you, because you always knew you would lose to me, inevitably! And you cannot even claim to be cunning!”
“Optimus, please,” Elita murmurs over the comms. “I don’t think I can stop him.”
Sentinel is thrown back down to his knees, sword a staff in his trembling grip, keeping him from kissing the metallic dirt.
“What did you hope to prove? Elita was sent to temper me, yes, because they do not trust me, but did you assume she would make me merciful? Or did you think you might make your vengeance against me all the more satisfying, because she could watch my downfall? Such a jealous little mech you are, nay, you always were!” Megatron laughs as he savagely kicks Sentinel in the back, dragging him down the length of his own sword, cutting his digits as he refuses to let go as he had let go of Magnus’ hammer. “Then why play your games with Starscream and his Seekers? You would rather cleave through the armada than confront me directly, that is why! You thought to kill the one I made mine, and you screwed that up royally!”
“Enough gloating,” Starscream snarls, frothing at the intake as he advances. “I want his helm on a silver platter, I want his optics as jewels inset to decorate my crown!”
“Let me gloat a little longer, Star. It is the least I–”
Sentinel rises with an animalistic glint to his optics so suddenly and swiftly, sword an extension of his sole remaining arm, dancing in his bloody digits as if twirling a stylus. He was once an excellent Cube player, in his youth, granting him a powerful and tactile grip even when reduced to one servo.
Megatron is silenced by a tugging below, a terrible pain drawing his downcast gaze to notice his spilled guts pooling at his pedes through the deep, clean cut through armour and muscular protoform fibres, his prior stabbing having yet to fully heal.
The Decepticons collectively balk, the Autobots flinch, and the Functionaries bellow their assured victory.
Starscream shrieks and tearfully hurries to scoop up the internal components in his arms, trying to hastily stuff Megatron’s guts back inside him.
“I am a coward,” Sentinel confesses quietly, sword tucked beneath Megatron’s chin whilst Starscream struggles below. “And I’m not half as cunning as I pretend to be. But I hate losing. I’ve lost so much by now, I have nothing left to lose but my very life. One thing I am, is a survivor, old friend, and not to be underestimated once desperate.”
“Hold him!”
Elita scoops up Bumblebee in her big pink arms, cooing as he vomits from pain.
“Bastard!” With a roar, Windblade surges forth. “No more!”
Sentinel withdraws from Megatron and turns sharply to meet this fierce combatant, Stormfall clashing against his much larger sword, the alloy of his blade resisting the weaponised Energon without disintegration. “It would be a shame to kill you, Cityspeaker! That might bring war from Caminus to Cybertron!”
“My life doesn’t matter! I won’t let you kill anyone else! You must be stopped!”
Starscream sobs inconsolably, Megatron’s guts disgustingly slippery and unbearably hot, refusing to neatly reinsert themselves into the cavity with every scoop. The old gladiator stares dumbly down at himself, the Commander struggling to spare his life. Megatron does nothing to help Starscream, fixed in a place of shock unbefitting of a seasoned warrior of brutal repute. Has he not seen worse, done worse?
The rebuilt, upgraded Sentinel is huge compared to Windblade, yet she does battle with him unafraid, until the sheer force and odd angle of his retaliatory strike forces her to glance her blade aside, opening up her torso to a kick that throws her some distance off, losing her grip on Stormfall which sinks into the floor by the embedded blade, hilt to the sky like a grave marker.
Bumblebee cries out.
“Stormfall, was it?”
Windblade groans as Sentinel steps on her belly, pinning her below his heel, still hot from his recently worked thruster. Her optics widen with a flicker of fear for the first time as his sword reshapes itself in his bloody grip, the blade suddenly reconfigured to press upon her forehelm just shy of cutting.
“It’d be honourable to introduce you to the instrument of your destruction. This is the Primax Blade.”
“…Hello, Primax Blade.”
“Are you… trying to joke?”
“Don’t,” Elita pleads, holding Bumblebee’s limp frame protectively against herself. “Sentinel, you won, okay! You’re the biggest mech! Let her go!”
“And why would I do that? She tried to kill me.”
“I’ll do whatever you want if you just stop it all.”
“…Whatever I want?”
Windblade snarls her fury at the suggestive undertone, but she is helpless and Sentinel knows that.
Elita recoils at that. “What?”
“Oh, are you already going back on your word? Typical femme. That’s just so like y–”
“Get fragged, glitch,” answers Grimlock, most articulate, a split second before tackling Sentinel and muscularly throwing him off of Windblade, who scrambles to her pedes and retrieves Stormfall.
“Thanks, Grim!”
“You’re welcome!”
“Unhand me, beast!”
Grimlock wrestles with Sentinel’s remaining arm, attempting to remove the Primax Blade.
“Raaargh!” With a roar, Windblade slices deeply into the joint of one knee, destabilising Sentinel who painfully bellows.
“Nooo!”
“Ah-ha! I have it!” Grimlock throws the Primax Blade aside. “I implore you, surrender!”
“Never,” Sentinel sneers, then lunges, sinking his pretty, perfect dentas into the other mech’s throat and wrenching back again, tearing through the thick cabling with a spewing of Energon.
Elita bellows over Bumblebee, until he grabs her by the chin and forces her to meet his tearful optics.
“Forget me. Go.”
“Bee…”
“Stop him. Please.”
Grimlock stumbles aside, gripping his own severed neck to stifle the bloodflow, and in Windblade’s appalled distraction Sentinel brutishly slaps Stormfall out of her grasp and seizes her by her entire helm, then lifts her, flailing. He squeezes and she knows he intends to crush her to death face-first, her panicked scream muffled in his palm.
“I’ll be fine, but if she dies…”
People stare. Nobody helps.
“I’ll never forgive myself. Oh, Primus. I’m so small.”
Elita exhales sharply.
Bumblebee would fight, but a dislocated arm is painful enough to be traumatic, lulling him to pass out. He is barely cognisant of being set gently down in the clearing, he barely hears the thundering of pedes departing heavily from him at great speed, and he sees through tears a streak of violent pink clashing upon scuffed blue.
Sentinel is set upon from behind, Elita leaping onto his back and wrapping herself about him in an unbreakable hold tight enough to dent his ornate armour. Here she clings, punching him in the audial casing, her fist denting deeper and deeper in a relentless pummelling until his audial bursts, spraying sparks and cranial coolant over her bared dentas.
Windblade is dropped, staggering, in a rare state of being actually, openly terrified.
Grimlock, despite his neck wound, protectively pulls her away.
Sentinel curses, but his curses turn into pleas, and devolve into gutteral sounds as he is driven to his knees again, and then folds over onto his palms, bent and buckles below. He resorts to rolling onto his back, as if to crush a parasite attached to him.
Still, Elita does not stop punching him in his helm from her saddled position behind, an arm wrapped about his throat to lock beneath his prominent chin, her fist dripping wet. She punches over and over until he grows slack and still.
“Enough,” Optimus says upon his eventual arrival from another space bridge, face-guard retracting to bear his Primely expression of stern authoritative disapproval, yet his voice sounds like a quivering ghost of Orion. “It is over, Elita One.”
The use of that name is nauseating now.
Bumblebee revives in a sterile, stiff medical berth, a dull ache in his reset pauldron.
“It was awful out there,” Windblade murmurs to Slipstream, hugging each other at the farthest end of his little ward, evidently wanting to remain close without disturbing him. “I thought I couldn’t ever feel such fear again. I thought I got over it, after that truce with Starscream. Sentinel brought it all back.”
“Oh, my love, I should’ve been there.”
“No, Slip. You were needed elsewhere.”
“Guys?”
“Bee,” they chorus with affection and relief, easing apart only to gently engulf him, mindful on his pauldron.
“My girls,” the scout croaks drily as the Cityspeaker and Seeker nuzzle him together. He tries to hug them, only to squeak at his protesting pauldron.
“Rest, Bee. Your joint was dislocated, and not at all gently. I reset your arm while you were out, thankfully, but there’s been damage to the surrounding protoform mesh.”
“Thanks, Slip. Are our other friends okay?”
“Grim and Arcee are in rough shape, but they’re stable.”
“What matters now,” Windblade intones into a kiss to Bumblebee’s forehelm, “is we’re all still here.”
“And we technically, uh, won,” Slipstream adds with a burly shrug, adding a kiss of her own. “So there’s that. We liberated the space bridges. The Functionaries and other Functionists folded pretty quickly without leadership.”
“What happened to Sentinel?”
“For now, the Council’s got him locked up.”
“For now?”
“Megatron and Starscream won’t settle for a life sentence, Bee.”
“Damn.”
“You were really worried about me, huh.”
“Pffft.” Soundwave sets his palms on his hips sassily. “Obviously.”
“That’s so sweet.” Hot Rod giggles, then sighs. “I’m so not over you, dude.”
“Obviously, again.”
“Shuddup. C’mere.”
The mechs embrace for a long, long time.
“I’ll live,” Chromia grumbles groggily, managing a tired, tender smile from her place upon the gurney. “For that, I can be glad.” Her smile turns a bit crooked. “Still hurts like a glitch.”
“You’re amazing.” Windblade squeezes that larger blue servo, relief in her expression. “Nothing could ever take you down. I know you fought valiantly today.”
“I kicked much aft, in fact.”
“That’s our girl.”
“Oh, beloveds. I can’t wait to go home to both of you.”
“Soon.” Slipstream takes the liberty of sitting on the edge of the gurney, stroking Chromia’s bruised cheek. “Just keeping you under observation for a little while.”
“Will there be mineral cakes waiting for me in cold storage for whenever I get back?”
This makes them laugh for a little while.
“I’m quite serious, actually.”
“I wanna see Slippy! But she’s so busy and her work’s really important, so I gotta wait! After that battle, and all this stuff with boss bot on top of it, I’m so stressed, I wanna gnaw my own arms off!”
Roulette calmly offers the back of her servo. “Here.”
“Huh?”
“Chew on that. I’m a tough old thing, I won’t feel it.”
“You serious?”
“Why not? My sister already had a go. I’m fine, see?”
Flamewar ponders this offer, then grabs onto that large, reinforced servo and bites down on a single digit without doing much harm, aside from modest cosmetic damage to paint. It is very strange.
So why is it somewhat endearing?
Greenlight is given more extensive medical attention, now that she has been relocated safely away from the battlefield she had previously found herself suddenly plunged into when the Decepticons and Autobots stormed the space bridge against the entrenched Functionaries. All she can think about – other than the depressing horror of war and the mortification of being possibly trapped on war-torn Cybertron depending on whomever holds the space bridges – is lively pink and a sunny smile, crumpled in a heap with a bloody helm.
“Here, drink this.”
“Thank you.”
There are people here in far worse condition. There are people here, wailing and sobbing and praying.
She should be grateful, really. Sat here, sipping on ice cold Energon courtesy of a nurse, she should be glad. Her repairs are not especially significant and her pain is manageable with modest medication. She shall heal.
Others are dead or dying or wishing to die.
She knows now that this medical bay is a place of healing and lost causes. She had never really thought much about death and dying, before she found herself surrounded by it. She sips her Energon slowly.
Slipstream bustles past, frowning into a datapad, hardly paying attention in all the mayhem.
“Oh! Excuse me!”
She stops, turns, and smiles. “Hello, how do you feel?”
“I’m fine, thank you, but Arcee–” Greenlight stops herself, sighs, and tries again with more calm. “I was in a dangerous situation. I was helpless, pinned down. She found me. If not for her, I don’t know if I’d even be here right now, so please, Doctor. I need to know she’s okay.”
The Seeker gives the emerald femme a soft look. “Arcee’s stable. I’ll be keeping a close optic on her.”
“So, she’s going to, um… get better, right?”
“She’s invincible, I suspect.”
“Ohhh, thank you, Doctor!”
Slipstream arches her brows as she is suddenly hugged, but she shyly returns the embrace with a lopsided smile. Moments like this one, almost make this entire ordeal worthwhile.
“And thank you for helping her. For helping me. Please, if you see Hot Rod, tell him he has my thanks too.”
“I’ll be sure to do so.”
“Do you think Arcee can have visitors sometime soon?” Greenlight asks with a certain endearing awkwardness to her sincerity. “Not that I mean to take precedence over friends or family, I mean, she only just met me when she rescued me, but I feel it’s important…”
“I’m sure she’d be delighted. Now, if you’d excuse me…” Reminded of Acid Storm not only due to the green colouration, but the modest mannerisms as well, Slipstream feels a tender pinch to her Spark on her way out.
“Ah, there you are.”
“Mentor. Here I am.”
“Indeed, mentee. I haven’t had a chance to actually catch up with you in all this commotion,” Red Alert intones with her typically curt manner, trying to appear aloof and professional whilst discretely rubbing Slipstream’s elbow joint in a rather more fond way. “Are you alright? Rough stuff, all in all.”
“Everybody I love is still alive and my shift is almost over,” answers the Seeker lowly, wings fluttering in a friendly way. “My pedes are killing me. I’m going to manage, somehow.”
“You need to take some time off. You pull more shifts than anyone else and as much as I admire your work ethic, too much walking or prolonged standing in place does damage over time, especially for a flying frame such as yours.”
“Understood, mentor. I’ll book a little time off, spend it with friends and family, put my pedes up.”
“Very good. If there’s anything you need…”
The Seeker wants to give the senior medic a big, burly hug, but does not mean to push their boundaries, especially not in front of fellow medical staff and patients. “Thank you. I’ll be sure to ask.”
“Give me that chart and go home. Doctors Ratchet and Knock Out won’t be bothered, and if they are, I’ll fix that soon enough.”
“You’re the best. Um, respectfully, I mean. Thank you.” Slipstream gratefully passes over the datapad.
Red Alert winks, readjusts her spectacles to obscure this gesture from anyone else, then smoothly strides off, tall and impeccable, always. She terrifies just about everyone else.
And so Slipstream swiftly moves on.
Windblade will be waiting, and she can wait a little longer.
Flamewar is Slipstream’s next priority, and by extension Shadow Striker.
“Slippy!”
“Flames!”
Roulette actually smiles at their reunion and all the hugging and kissing that involves. Perhaps she is growing soft, after all.
Shadow Striker swallows thickly, then lumbers over on her unstable, mismatched legs. “Hey, you good?”
The Seeker stops making out with the bike long enough to look up, grinning exhaustedly and replying in a husky undertone, “I’m great right now.”
“Because of me, right, Slippy?”
“Absolutely, Flames.”
The old mercenary’s scowl buckles down the middle as she almost timidly smiles, too. “Glad to see you made it out in one piece, girl. And…” A shuddering exhale. “Glad to have you back.”
“I missed you too.”
“Now, hold up, I didn’t say something mushy like that.”
The bounty hunter actually grins, evidently at her sister’s expense.
Meow.
“Oh, hello, Ravage.”
Notes:
I have much more planned for Sentinel... His story is not over.
Chapter 89
Notes:
This one's a little on the shorter side as I'm very tired. Thank you for reading and for being such a supportive crowd. Please enjoy this update.
Potential trigger warnings: body horror, mental anguish, casual homophobia, depiction of a panic attack, allusions to an unhappy childhood and separation from a parental figure whilst young.
Chapter Text
“I almost killed him, Optimus.”
“Elita, none would dare blame–”
“I don’t care. I blame me. Damn.”
The tub is a rather tight fit, shared by two large bodies.
“Filthy. I can’t feel clean. Never again, not after that. This never washes off.” Elita trembles within the hot oil, compulsively scrubbing at her servos. “I always had a violent streak in me, but…”
“Do not say that.” Optimus kneads solvent into muscular pink. “You are not tainted by what happened.”
“How can you even say that?”
“I know you. I have known you. I could never unknow you.”
“Aren’t you… scared of me? For me?”
The Prime’s stern features soften into something resembling the shy, awkward Orion from before. “Elita.” A shaky exhale. “Ariel?”
She searches the metallic tiles.
“I am terrified,” comes out very small.
Windblade likes her creature comforts. She has plenty of synthetic pillows available, intended to preserve paint from cosmetic blemishes as well as alleviate the stress placed upon joints due to weight distribution during recharge cycles. Tonight she inflicts her creature comforts on Bumblebee, discharged from the medical bay into her somewhat overprotective care, and she is predictably doing her utmost with assembling a nest for him to quite literally submerge himself.
“Wow, bestie. I’m gonna get lost in all this. You’ll have to dig me outta pillow mountain tomorrow morning, heh.”
“So be it, then. As long as you’re comfy, I’ll be happy to dig.”
Slipstream massages an oily protoform relaxant about his injured pauldron, gently pressing beneath the outer casing of his shell to shallowly coax the soothing solution below, where he has been severely bruised.
The scout winces beneath the Seeker’s ministrations, peering out of the Cityspeaker’s piled pillows.
“Sorry, Bee. It’ll help.”
“Nah, Slip, you’re doing great. Thanks.”
Windblade sets the final few pillows carefully into place, the entire assemblage of comfort very strategic indeed. She then sits back, sighs, frowning with utmost seriousness. “Comfy?”
“I’m super comfy. Never been comfier.”
“You’ve got enough support under your back, your pauldron?”
Bumblebee manages to jerk up a thumb without dislodging any of the pillows, grinning tiredly. “Yup.”
“Hmm. Maybe I should grab the couch cushions too.”
“Aw, bestie, c’mere.”
Slipstream smiles as the best friends meet in a hug, smothered in synthetic pillows.
“Thank you for taking care of me. Both of you. My favourite girls.”
“Anytime, honeybee. But please don’t make it a habit of getting injured, okay. We worry. Primus, I got really scared out there.”
“Nothing scares you, tough guy.”
“We all know I just pretend, Bee.”
There is a very heavy pause.
As if to alleviate their collective burden, the scout buzzes in his distinct way and flicks his door-wings within the confines of comfort, eliciting a nuzzle of avian tenderness from the Cityspeaker, the Seeker’s smile deepening.
“Solus Prime, I love it when you do that. Cute!”
“I know. You’re aaall over me when I get cute.”
“I’m all over you most of the time, Bee.”
“Well, I was trying to be kinda modest.”
Slipstream bobs her wings in reply to Bumblebee’s stiffly wagging doors whilst finding his servo to hold, enticing Windblade to bury her face in his neck with a metallic coo.
In this berth, the horrors are quiet.
“Shall I give you a little something to, errm… put you to sleep, as it were?” Knock Out smiles prettily as he rubs his palms together. “Temporarily, of course. You shall wake up, I assure you as your loyal physician.”
“Doctor, the drugs would be very appreciated this night. My kin were slaughtered in droves and there is a critical Spark shortage in our cold storage facility, so I may not even replace what I lost. Their parts fell from the sky like rain.” Starscream is very pale, staring into space with a little tin cup of Energon tea forgotten between his servos. “I see my Seekers now. But every moment I dare to close my optics, projected against the dark I see Megatron, and I am reminded again of the smell, the heat, as I imagine myself once more pinned to the cavity Sentinel had cleaved open, holding in my beloved’s guts. How else shall I sleep through it all?”
“…I’ll prepare a double dose, then.”
The night passes gently enough.
When gazing upon the peacefully asleep Flamewar early in the morning, Shadow Striker’s hatred of everyone and everything subsides just enough to remember that this small, strange person is the embodiment of anyone and anything worth living for.
The bike is laid out over the mercenary like a blanket, tucked beneath the sharpness of her chin and rumbling in that way which is deeply comforting not only to a troubled mind, but a tortured body, resonating with such power for one so small. Loyal, loving, let this be enough.
Is this enough – to keep going, to keep living? Shadow Striker does not know, she only realises that for all her sick and twisted affection for this creature in her arms, she still desperately wants to die.
Flamewar senses she is being observed, optics fluttering open, the ember of her lenses readjusting in such a feline way. She stares back, rumbling.
“Morning.”
“G’morning, boss bot.”
The mercenary rarely permits tenderness since that night at the warehouse, thus it is special when she kisses the bike’s forehelm and strokes a Seeker’s callused palm along the curve of that sleek, dark back strut.
“Breakfast,” Flamewar declares groggily, her generally rough voice granted a rather alluringly smoky quality when fresh with sleep.
“Okay,” Shadow Striker murmurs into another rare show of affection, rubbing her jaw against the other’s warm helm. “Help me up, so’s we can get some chow.”
The bike carefully slides off the mercenary’s mismatched bulk, then takes her by the odd servos and pulls, helping the older femme slowly and stiffly sit upright upon the bare berth with a groan of discomfort.
“Dammit. Ugh.”
Flamewar feels so terrible all the time, especially as she tries to be helpful, guiding Shadow Striker to step off the berth one crude pede at a time.
“Okay, thanks. I’m up.” Shadow Striker insists on walking unassisted as much as possible, but her little helper is always within literal reach, just in case. “C’mon. We’re early, so we’ll get all the good stuff before it’s gone.”
“Energon jelly. Mmm.”
“Yeah, the works, just for you.”
This berthroom is cramped and plain, with minimal storage and a desk, but they are permitted to share it and decorate it within the limits of military code, plus it does come with a tiny attached wash rack all to themselves and the lighting is adjustable. This is rather fancy by Decepticon standards. Empress had insisted.
“Can I get your back, boss bot?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
The bike and mercenary bathe together, as they generally do everything together.
“Not too hard? Not too soft?”
“It’s just right, Flames.”
Flamewar scrubs the dark, glossy armour plating with firm bristles that do not scratch paint because she makes the effort, solvent foaming with the motions.
Shadow Striker scowls at the drain below. “Can I tell you something really gay?”
“Mmhm.”
“You’re precious to me.”
“Samesies, boss bot.”
“And my sister tells me I’m mean to you, like I don’t know that, like I don’t hate myself for treating you badly. She told me to say sorry before, but I’ll say it again. I’m sorry.”
“I don’t want your apologies. I want you to heal and make the best of what we’ve got, until we get new limbs fitted for you, custom.”
“Right. Like that’ll ever happen.”
“Boss bot, less pessimism, please.”
“Humph. I’m not a priority to the Decepticons. And that scrap’s gonna cost a fortune. I was heavily modified for peak performance, Flames, you can’t replicate that for cheap. I worked hard for that body, my whole career demanded the best, and my career’s over now. I… was the best. And he took that from me.”
“You’re still the best, to me.”
The old mercenary sighs loudly, turning in the cramped shower cubicle to gaze sadly, softly down at the bike. “C’mere, you.”
Flamewar is pulled into a hug, which she relishes with her entire Spark, melting against Shadow Striker’s much larger, mismatched body.
“I love you.”
Resigned to rest within this gurney under mandatory medical observation, Arcee is bored stiff and fidgety. She is only relieved whenever her visiting friends attend to her as beloved distractions, but they cannot constantly be here due to visiting hours. She just wants to get up and go see Grimlock.
“Um, hi.”
She looks up from her holomagazine, the solder glittering upon her helm, and beams. “Oh, hi!”
“Remember me?” Greenlight seems to realise that this is a little insulting, considering the recent helmwound. “N-not that you wouldn’t! Uh, or if you don’t, it’s because we only just met and it was a bit crazy, so…”
“I sure do!”
“You do?”
“Yup! Pretty girl like you, how could I forget a face like yours?”
“Heh. Lucky you, I guess, since I’m your visitor. Hope you don’t mind.” The green femme smiles shyly as she lingers in the doorway, rubbing her arm as if to stave off a phantom itch.
“Awesome! Well, don’t just stand there! Come on in!” The pink femme eagerly points to the chair beside her berth. “Have a seat, stay a while!”
“I’d be glad to, thanks.” Greenlight shyly fills that chair with her shapely body, built tall and solid. Nice. “Is this weird?”
“Why would it be weird?”
“I… I don’t know. Because everything?”
“Hmm.” Arcee taps her chin with the corner of her spread holomagazine, displaying the latest in bodily modifications designed for peak performance and to impress onlookers with designer aesthetics, largely inspired by the handsome racers of Velocitron. “I like to think we’re destined to meet special people at special times.”
“You sorta saved my life before, so that probably cancels out the weirdness, huh. That meeting was definitely special,” murmurs the green femme with a quiet smile and downcast gaze. “Thank you, again.”
“You’re welcome.” The pink femme is experiencing Spark palpitations. “I’ll swoop in and rescue you whenever. Just try to avoid trouble, yeah? But if trouble finds you, I’m your girl.”
“That’s very comforting. I hope we can get to know each other better and be fast friends, especially if you ever do wind up rescuing me again.”
“Yeah, girl, totally! I’d be really chill with that.”
“Sweet. Because I haven’t been able to get you out of my thoughts since we first met. You did loads of backflips all over the place and other really nifty manoeuvres and I just keep replaying your image, airborne, kicking a huge guy in the face and catching two swords he dropped, like, who even does that, how–”
Greenlight is the most unassumingly gorgeous creature Arcee has ever seen.
“Have you been taking good care of auntie Shadow Striker?”
Meow!
“That’s my boy! I’m so proud of you!”
Soundwave never thought he could fall in love for anyone. Too cool for companionship, too suave to be tied down in a dedicated relationship, too career-focused, too popular. And yet he loves this cute idiot. The notion of romance never really held appeal, until Ravage led Soundwave to Hot Rod.
The cybercat is delighted to see his other dad, purring noisily within the fiery mech’s arms.
“C’mon, fellow cat dad, get in on this! We got the whole day for all the hugs in the world, starting now!”
The spymaster rarely shows a tender side of himself, reserved for his best friend and his family.
Ravage fails to live up to his name, happily smothered between Hot Rod and Soundwave. Meow.
“Thank you for receiving me and mine on such short notice. Forgive the imposition, as this meeting is of some import.”
Windblade feels cold, yet perspired coolant gathers in the hollows of her slender, curved back strut. Her fuel tank feels bottomless with dread, her fuel pump throbs with mounting panic. And yet she can only stare at the pedes approaching slowly, in that careful, predatory pace so familiar to her since she was just a girl adopted into a greater mission.
“I have observed from afar, but as I sense my destiny draw close, I am moved to act accordingly. May the fires of creation bless our gathering.”
“It is an honour to have you visit us. Cybertron welcomes our Camien friends.”
“So you say. Yet I am unsure of that.”
“Do you feel unwelcome?” Optimus regrets asking this, because the look this garners makes him feel like a naughty boy humbled before a stern, strict matriarch.
“Let me be direct. Decepticons, Autobots and Functionary units known by their badges recently crossed through the space bridge onto Caminus, thus dragging your war onto my home-world. Why ever would I feel welcome?”
“I am deeply aggrieved to hear this report. We had been striving to liberate the space bridges from Sentinel’s control. The crossover was a result of confusion in the midst of battle. It was never intended to resemble an invasion.”
“You may convince me of your good intentions yet.”
Windblade dares not lift her wide optics from the floor as familiar heel struts glint with menace, coming to a stop at conversational range. This is far too close.
“Cityspeaker.”
“My Lady.”
Optimus cringes softly in paternal protectiveness. “What do you need from me, to reassure you that we are not enemies?”
“You are said to be the bearer of the Matrix of Leadership.”
“That is correct.”
“Show me.”
“To what end?”
“Did the Cityspeaker fail her role as delegate? She was intended to ingratiate herself to your ways, and teach you ours. And yet if not for Chromia’s regular reports–”
Windblade flinches, seething in stiff silence.
“I would be most bereft with worry. And you appear to be ignorant to the greater import of this meeting.”
“You may educate me, if you wish. I note your disapproval – Windblade has been of great help to us, she is very loved and needed here, among her friends and family. Cybertron has been greatly enriched by your Camien representative.”
“Then perhaps the ebb and flow of this wayward soul shall seek my pardon, if not my permission. She ignores my summons, lives off of my generous sponsorship, and endangers herself partaking in a foreign war.”
“None would want for war. Yet she is fearless and powerful as only a soldier can be, fighting to liberate and defend. I would trust her sword with my life.”
“High praise indeed, if you are the chosen one.”
“You doubt my legitimacy.”
“You must prove it.”
“Then direct you suspicion at me. Spare noble Windblade.”
“Spare her? I have done the utmost to prepare her. You swear by her sword, though the reason for Stormfall is to assure the Cityspeaker’s survival. Cityspeakers are exceptional, rare individuals.”
“Windblade certainly is exceptional and rare.”
“She is also difficult to replace.”
Optimus grits his jaw.
“We will speak more of this later, Cityspeaker.”
“As you wish, my Lady.”
The indomitable and intimidating Mistress of Flame neatly pats Windblade atop her bowed helm in the most patronising approximation of motherhood, a cool mimicry of maternal warmth, then glides past without a backwards glance, leaving the femme to tremble, pale cheeks flushed, biting her glossa until it bleeds.
Optimus can almost feel the optics upon his breast.
“Release yourself so that I may see it and know for myself the truth of your legitimacy. Open up to me and show me the Matrix.”
The light of the exposed Matrix that flows from the Spark and floods through the chamber is enough to hurt.
The Mistress of Flame gasps dramatically, halfway turned away from the terrible light of divine providence. “In my time, in my presence, behold! You are the one appointed!”
Optimus grimaces, poised with apparent discomfort due to the Matrix exposed within him.
“A god made manifest!”
Windblade holds an arm before her optics. She drops that arm when the blinding light abruptly vanishes.
“You are Prime!”
“So it would seem,” Optimus rumbles bitterly, clutching defensively at his resealed breast, as if maimed or ashamed.
The Mistress of Flame suddenly falls to kneel before him, helm bowed low. She prays, she rocks back and forth from her bent position, she clings to her sacred vestments.
“Please cease prostrating yourself in worship. You are making me feel uncomfortable.”
“You really did all those things?”
“Yup. Mostly. With a few embellishments.”
“Whoa.” Greenlight smiles cutely, at once awed and amused. “You must live for those adventures. You’ve got so many stories to tell.”
“Life sorta is an adventure! That’s how I like living my life, anyway. What about you?”
“Oh, no, I’m far too boring for adventures. Well, I do like adventurous holobooks and other media. It’s a lot safer than your escapades.”
“What can I say? I’m a girl with a thing for danger. Can’t help myself.”
“Yeah, I can tell. It’s cool, really cool. Kinda envious over here. Heh.”
“Don’t be. Different strokes, different folks. It’s cool with me if you prefer things safe. Damn, I could do with a dose of, like, common sense.”
“Still, it sounds… I mean, you saved me back there, so I got to see how strong and fast and agile you really are, and I can’t help but wish I could see more of you like that.”
The pink femme flushes.
“That came out wrong,” the green femme mutters coyly. “Sorry.”
“Girl. Soon as I’m out of this berth and fit for duty, I’ll do all the acrobatic moves you want from me, and more.”
“Promise?”
Arcee winks, linking her littlest digit with Greenlight’s own.
“Then… It’s a date?”
“You must return with me to Caminus, so that I may share you with the world!” Once aloof and subtly menacing, the Mistress of Flame is now reverent, gushing.
“I am sorry, my Lady,” the distressed Optimus manages whilst literally evading her grasp, “but I am needed here, upon Cybertron.”
“Do you not comprehend? You are a Prime! You are a god! Only the perfect Solus Prime stands above you!”
“I… I have a helmache. I am old and would like to lie down now.”
“Have you taken ill? The Matrix must be too powerful for your feeble frame! You there! Cityspeaker! Fetch a physician, now!”
Ordered about like a common servant, Windblade is all too eager to obey, fleeing from the chamber to find Slipstream.
“Rest well, my love.” Starscream leans over the sheer bulk upon the gurney and kisses Megatron’s gunmetal grey brow with utmost tenderness. “Heal swiftly and fully. I miss you. I am sorry for being so angry. We can talk it over, like you wanted. Just wake up for me soon and please be okay.”
Knock Out is concerned for his friend and all the more grateful for having such a wonderful husband in Breakdown.
Off-duty but always concerned for the wellbeing of her friends, Slipstream had been keeping Grimlock company for a while, entertaining stories of his past adventures with Arcee that are likely fabricated to a considerable extent, when Windblade’s needs took precedence. They embrace outside the ward.
“My love, what’s wrong?”
“Grrrrmph!”
The Seeker’s broad, firm breast provides a safe space for the Cityspeaker’s animalistic utterances of fury and fright, smashed against the cockpit, muffled. Large palms stroke soothingly up and down, back and forth, endlessly.
Windblade eventually drags her face upward to peer cutely into Slipstream’s motherly downcast ruby optics.
“Speak to me, beloved. What grieves you?”
“There’s so much I haven’t told you.”
“About what?”
“About my past, about where I come from. I told Chromia not to explain it for me, because I need to be the one to tell you, and I avoided it all this time so now it’s all caught up to me, because I’m a coward. I’m so sorry.”
“Darling, you’re the farthest thing from a coward. You’re the bravest person I know.”
“Then I’m no better than a liar. No more lies. We need to talk.”
“Negative. Our resources have been depleted. Seeker ranks are no longer sustainable.”
“Dammit all!”
“You may reconsider my proposal.”
“Megatron said no! He would throw a fit, were he to find out!”
“And what purpose does my life serve?” Shockwave rarely emotes when he speaks, but here and now he sounds hurt. “If I am deemed no longer useful to the Decepticon cause, Empress will demand my termination. She cannot abide me now, not after I repaired Shadow Striker.”
“Screw them! I can’t lose you, I need your scientific genius, you won’t die whilst I have use of you!”
“My proposal, Commander. Reconsider it.”
Starscream seethes, strutting back and forth, rubbing his tired optics.
“I would manufacture suitable Sparks. You would replenish your Seekers. Megatron would have use for me whilst Empress has me confined to my laboratory.”
“Megatron won’t forgive this.”
“Then I am doomed.”
“No, no, no.”
“So she’s like your mom?”
“Primus, no.”
The femmes walk side-by side, moving briskly.
“Not the mothering sort?”
“Tch. She raised a Cityspeaker, not a child.”
“Oh.”
“I had a mentor before her. But when I showed signs, they took me away.”
“Primus. I’m so sorry.”
For a while, silence save for their swift steps.
“Signs?”
“My mentor thought I was talking to myself. Turns out, I was talking to Caminus, our home-world, and he spoke to me.”
“Even as a child? Wow. I thought you had to train your whole life for that.”
“I’ve trained to master my Cityspeaker abilities when paired with a willing Titan. What I got up to as a girl was rather less disciplined than what I’m capable of now. We told each other jokes.”
“You’re so fragging cool. You befriended a whole world from the very start.”
Windblade manages a smile at that, then leads Slipstream to the chamber where Optimus is laid out upon the cool floor, fussed over by the Mistress of Flame. “My Lady, I return with our finest physician.”
As Windblade bows, assuming a humble, servile posture, Slipstream awkwardly salutes like a soldier. “At your service, ma’am.”
“Took you long enough! Attend to the Prime!”
Optimus looks so elderly and sad as he allows Slipstream to kneel beside him, gently cupping his face in her palms.
“Optimus?”
“Slipstream, my friend, I am sorry to inconvenience you.”
“Hush. I’m happy to help. Where does it hurt?”
“Within the core of my very Spark.”
Windblade sighs quietly at that. She knows that pain all too well.
“Make him a son.”
“Error?”
“No, not like that!” Starscream huffs, rolling his optics with some humour. “I mean for you to craft someone that Megatron can grow attached to, other than me. Not another Seeker, I’m his only Seeker that matters. No, this one must not be like me, but shall strive to emulate him. Build a tank, someone big and strong. An opponent for Empress. Someone my Megatron can devote his softer, more sentimental attentions onto. He’ll be appeased with your false Sparks if he can grow to love one.”
Shockwave considers this, then nods once. “Affirmative. I compute.”
“And keep it secret, or that big glitch won’t be happy. She dares overstep herself, yet he loves her like a daughter and I cannot punish that.”
“Then I shall craft a superior son.”
Elita adores Bumblebee. She has kept him close to her for hours now, relying on his playful banter to help distract her from the guilt and shame she feels over Sentinel.
“Hey, you wanna kiss?”
The much larger, elderly femme sets aside her datapad and presents her cheek for the scout to delicately peck.
“Mwah.”
“Love you, kid.”
“Love you too.”
“Thanks for keeping an old lady sane today. I, uh…” She is mindful of his pauldron and the supportive metallic sling that contains his arm as she pulls him into a gentle squeeze. “I needed that.”
“Happy to help. I’m no Cliffjumper, much as we look alike, but I guess I’m an okay alternative. Everybody knows he’s usually the guy hanging around you, being all suave and stuff, with that cute little vacuum drone of his. He feeds it minerals when the battery gets low and treats it nicer than even Wheeljack does with his drones, and he’s all about drones. That’s real cute.”
“Bee, you aren’t scared of me, are you?”
“Huh? What? No!”
Elita rests her chin between Bumblebee’s sensory horns with a low, sad sound.
“You’re a good friend, Elita. You don’t scare me.”
“I scare me.”
“You are finally awake. We have been waiting to see you.”
“Sorry, guys. The medicine really knocked me out. I just slept and slept and slept…”
“The surgery was successful, I see.” Alpha Strike smiles, as indicated by the wrinkles that form around her facial vents. “How do you feel?”
“A little sore, still. Loads better than before, though. That dent really hurt. Doctor Knock Out said I’ve gotta stick to liquids for a while, no solid stuff ’til I stop hurting, but I think he did a real nice job of fixing my face.” Clobber smiles shyly at her reflection in a holomirror. “What do you think, Sky? Do I look okay?”
The shortened petname garners a coy flutter of the wings as Skywarp chirps a friendly affirmative, perched neatly on the edge of the sterile berth.
“It’s real nice of you guys to come visit. Thank you.”
“Demolishor intends to see you, also.”
“That’d be great. I like him.”
Alpha Strike appreciates Clobber for her simplicity and purity, as much as valuing her strength and durability as a useful asset to the heavies unit.
Skywarp reaches over to gently touch her friend’s cheek, which had been dented so badly in battle to be concave hours prior to corrective surgery, now fully restored.
“You got warm digits, Sky.”
Chapter 90
Notes:
Thank you for being here and for your support. Please enjoy this longer chapter, as it's mostly about Windblade and her dommy mommy issues. I managed to edit it together quite quickly since I had some free time and a burst of energy for a change. Nice. Not sure when the stars will align for me again, but hopefully not too long from now.
I keep saying this, but seriously, I expect Synchronicity to end in a few chapters. I've got some stuff to wrap up before the sequel, where some crazy shit happens. I'm not scared to get weird with my storytelling.
Potential trigger warnings: caretaker fatigue, being created to fulfill a predetermined purpose, issues with individuality, depression, anxiety, insecurity in oneself and one's relations with others, jealousy, relationship toxicity, overbearing maternal figure, allusions to a traumatic childhood and a strict upbringing due to fictional religious implications of limited personal freedom and self-expression to maintain piety and obedience.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Optimus just called,” Elita mutters, shoving her datapad in a compartment under her desk. “Sudden meeting. Someone serious wants to see me. Sorry, Bee. Gotta dash.”
“Hey, it’s cool. Can I come with? Like, you guys usually let anybody sit in on those meetings. If this is a super secret meeting, then whatever. Just saying.”
“Of course. We’re all a team. Just move fast or we’ll be late.”
“Damn. Dunno if my short legs can keep up with your legs that stretch on forever. I waddle more than I walk.”
“Oh, you’re a ridiculous little thing, aren’t you. You just want a lift.”
“Mmhm.”
“C’mon, then.”
Bumblebee giggles as he is suddenly scooped up in big pink arms and carried out the office in a hug.
“Honestly, Bee. You’re a grown mech and I’m ancient. What’re people gonna think?”
“Weee!”
Shadow Striker does not snap at Knock Out due to aggravation. He kindly volunteers to lead her exercises and she dutifully does as instructed, wobbly and painful as it may be.
“She’s in a better mood today,” Roulette notes quietly. “Far from happy, but better. Maybe my tendency to lecture finally sunk in somewhere. Or maybe it’s because of you.” A sidelong look, downcast. “Did you do something special?”
Flamewar scratches her helm, huffing almost shyly. “I’m just glad to see boss bot less miserable for a change. Still miserable, but less.”
“I think you’re a good influence of her. Not as if I ever was.”
“The Doc is really cute and charming. He might set her at ease.”
“You know what my sister is like.”
“Okay, fair enough. We had a talk.”
“What did she say?”
“She said she’s sorry.”
“Did she mean it?”
“She did, that time.”
“This is Elita One, my counterpart and dear friend.”
“Counterpart? Prime, are you telling me that she has been appointed as well, despite not bearing any sacred artefact?”
“Indeed, my Lady. Elita was chosen upon council within the Matrix.”
“Then you have seen them? Spoken with them?”
“It is so. However, I do not clearly recall–”
With a dramatic gasp, the Mistress of Flame suddenly falls to her knees, deeply bowed in worship.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Elita cringes in amused discomfort, stumbling backward a few steps, palms splayed, awkwardly laughing as she gets her codpiece out of range of the kneeling elder. “No need for, uh… any of… that.”
“That is what I said,” Optimus grumbles tiredly, rubbing his neck. “Mistress, my Lady, please arise. We are equals here.”
“Nay! It is an honour beyond measure!” The Mistress of Flame finally rises again to her imposing height, taller than Elita although not as well-built, expression rapturous. “To be in the presence of the living Prime, and his chosen companion! Oh, the fires of creation have blessed me so! Praises be!”
“Optimus is definitely special, but I’m just some guy, trust me.”
Still poised humbly in servitude, Windblade is cringing in the background of this scene, holding tightly onto Slipstream’s servo for comfort.
Bumblebee stands with them, bewildered for being permitted to witness what is clearly a religious experience when he himself is so very irreligious. A glance aside at his best friend and stressed girlfriend, however, has the little mech frowning with concern. “Bestie?” he murmurs aside. “Slip?”
“Not now,” comes out very quiet and tense, almost as if in warning, with an anxious flicker of blue optics. “Later. Please.”
“Sorry, Bee,” is the other whisper, moderately less panicked, crimson optics soft and sad. “This is kinda serious, I think.”
“Yeah, I’m getting that hint. Later, then.” He tries to smile reassuringly, then sighs when the femmes do not look comforted. His gut lurches. What is even going on? Who is this Mistress lady?
Why is Windblade so terrified?
“I've reassessed her. She’s got a long and difficult road to recovery, that hasn’t changed, and realistically speaking I doubt she can ever fully recover her former faculties,” Knock Out intones in his dulcet way, able to deliver unfortunate news very gently. “Replacement parts would truly be best. I’ve done extensive bodywork in my time, and as a Velocitronian, I know my augmentations and bodily mods better than just about anyone outside the Speed Planet. I could look into something… less unaffordable. Now, it will cost a fortune, but I do know some people and of course, I would be more than happy to fit the limbs myself at a reasonable rate. Think about it, mm?”
“I appreciate that, Doctor. Give me some time, I’ll save up for her.”
“Are you bounty hunter types well-paid? Just curious.”
“Most of us do it for the hunt. I’m no exception,” grunts Roulette in reply, offering him a firm pat on the arm in thanks. “Bounty hunters usually get paid in trophies more than money. Physical therapy will do for now, but someday, I want to fix my sister.”
Shadow Striker’s audials remain very keen. Squeezing Flamewar’s claws as they practice slow, steady stretches, the urge to weep is smothered in a smile.
“You’re doing great, boss bot.”
“Thanks, Flames.”
“Elita One, as companion to the Prime, I seek your blessing upon my own beloved companion.” In a show of actual admiration, the Mistress of Flame lays her palm upon the pauldron of a strapping younger femme in her company, muscular and stern of expression, who steps forth once summoned. “My most celebrated and elite Torchbearer, walker of the Way of Flame, loyal servant of the will of Solus Prime embodied through me, my closest ally in all things–”
Windblade sighs through her enstrils, lingering between fatigue and amusement. She has heard enough about all of that before, evidently.
“Pyra Magna.”
Optimus and Elita nod their helms respectfully.
“Greetings. It is good to meet you.”
“Hey, there.”
Pyra Magna hangs her helm in a rather less dramatic bow than the Mistress of Flame’s preference, laying a palm each upon Optimus and Elita’s offered palms in a universal greeting of polite respect. “The fires of creation bless you both. Thank you for acknowledging me.” Modest yet sincere, it does not embarrass in the way of theatrical reverence, yet it has more impact with less flourish. “If I may be of humble service, please call upon me at once.”
“Welcome to Cybertron, my friend.”
“Let us know if we can help you settle in.”
“So kind! Such consideration! My noble Torchbearers are worthy, I assure you!”
“Torchbearers?”
“We are experts in the study, cataloguing and acquisition of sacred artifacts.”
“They have come to see for themselves the Matrix and its bearer! Blessed day! Pyra Magna leads their guild and when she is not away on crusades to liberate sacred artifacts from those undeserving of them, she is to be found at my side.”
Pyra Magna smiles mildly as her cheek is caressed with the pad of the Mistress of Flame’s elegant, consecrated thumb.
“Serving me in every way to my utmost pleasure.”
“As it is my pleasure to serve you, my Lady.”
That makes Windblade quietly gag.
“Damn,” Bumblebee mutters, Slipstream cringing softly in agreement.
Elita quirks a brow up at Optimus, who clears his vents gently.
“You said that you specialise in sacred artifacts, such as this Matrix.”
“That is correct, Prime.”
“Do you suppose you might… assist me in better understanding?”
This makes the Mistress of Flame tilt her helm curiously to one side. “What do you not understand, Prime?”
“Many things,” Optimus confesses quietly, gaze sadly downcast.
Roulette rewards Shadow Striker’s hard work – hours of practice just trying to move herself independently again, with the occasional intervention of a helper – with a tender kiss to her sweaty forehelm. “Take a break, sis.”
“Yeah. Damn. I need it. Scrap hurts all over.”
The sheer exertion in motion makes Flamewar feel so bad. “Want a massage, boss bot?”
“Later, toots. Lemme borrow you for a second, I gotta lean on someone.”
The bike neatly slots into place against the mercenary’s side, snuggling under her arm, unbothered by the perspired coolant.
“Attagirl. Really helps take the load off my back.”
The bounty hunter feels that familiar sensation of gratitude, warm and soft. She has someone to help her take care of her youngest and sole surviving sister, someone special who has proved safe. It is growing into a rather cosy, cuddly sensation.
Slipstream has earned a great deal of respect and gratitude for being a stalwart friend with useful medical knowledge, but Flamewar is an adorable, loyal little constant who is earning something rather more intense over time.
Roulette kisses Shadow Striker again, this time upon the cheek.
“Bah, stop that.”
“You love it.”
“Shuddup.”
As the old mercenary flushes, the old bounty hunter admits a rare smile, winking at the bike who grins cutely back.
“Bee, I’m taking Slip and sneaking out.”
“Is that smart, bestie?”
“No.”
“Well, be careful, okay. I’m gonna stay here and keep an optic on Optimus and Elita. You girls go ahead.”
“We’ll talk, Bee. I’ll explain everything.”
Bumblebee smiles forgivingly aside, then sighs, smile fading fast. His best friend has been lying to him by omission the whole time he has known and loved her. It sucks. He is already fragile, after Shadow Striker.
Escaping from the crowded chamber, one femme pulls the other aside.
“Slip, babe, I haven’t even told Bee. What the frag is wrong with me?”
“You have your reasons, dear.”
“He’s my little guy. My honeybee.”
“And he’ll forgive you. Calm yourself, precious one. It’ll be alright.”
Windblade shuffles against Slipstream, leaning into her large, warm frame for shelter as they lean together against a wall and listen to the muffled voice of the Mistress of Flame beyond the door.
“She’s really keen on Optimus.”
“No. It’s the Matrix she wants.”
“Doctor Ratchet says we can’t separate the two. They’re now one in the same mech.”
“Optimus seems torn between his Primehood and Orion, or whatever is left of him.”
“A terrible burden. Why does the Mistress revere it?”
“On Caminus, the Primes are worshipped as gods.”
“Solus being the most important god?”
“Right. The Way of Flame. The Forge.”
“And what does she want with Optimus?”
“She said it herself. To have him as hers.”
“Parading him about Caminus.”
“He wouldn’t want that, Slip.”
The Seeker gives the Cityspeaker a squeeze, kissing her atop the helm.
“I’ve brought my past back to haunt everyone.”
“Hush. We can work with this.”
“How? She’s… a difficult one.”
“We can try, together. Besides.”
Windblade feels a large digit gently brush below her chin, tilting her face upward.
“I’m part of your life now.”
“Yes. And forever more.”
“I feel like I should be more to her than just the finest physician,” the Seeker says quietly, trying to smile, yet her optics communicate soft sadness, fringed upon outright disappointment. “Especially since I’m technically not even a doctor. But I am your lover.”
“Slip, this is… complicated, okay.” The Cityspeaker kneads her brows, keeping her ventilation steady to compose herself. “I’m so sorry. This is so unfair. Bee tells me everything and I’ve kept so much secret from him, and now you’re offering to somehow ingratiate yourself to the Mistress when I know what she’s like and I never gave you a chance to know.”
“My love, I don’t mean to upset you.”
“I’m upset because I’m awful.”
“Please don’t beat yourself up.”
“I deserve to feel bad about this.”
“Windblade…”
“No, Slip, seriously. I’ve suddenly dragged you into my very uncomfortable past without even a little forewarning first. I should’ve told you before, prepared you to meet her, minimised the shock and humiliation of the whole ordeal. Chromia would’ve done it for me, but it had to be me, I asked her to keep her silence so that I could speak, and even then, I’m a coward. I denied my past and it followed me here.” Windblade winces deeply. “I pray she doesn’t get punished.”
“Nobody’s punishing anyone but yourself. Being angry at yourself isn’t kind and won’t be productive for our relationship moving forward. The Mistress is part of your life. If you cut her off then so be it, but if you don’t, then I must live with that. Trust me with your past, okay.” Slipstream deposits a little peck on the forehelm. “I’m part of your life too. She’d better accept me.”
“But if she rejects you–”
“I won’t leave you, love.”
“Oh, Slip, you’re too good.”
The Seeker suddenly finds herself pinned to the wall and kissed with passion that has her reeling in the Cityspeaker’s deceptively strong arms. “Mmmph!” Who could do more than melt, even in such stressful circumstances?
Windblade eventually pries herself away, only to sniffle wetly.
“Beloved…”
“I’m really sorry!”
“Hey, hey, hey…”
“You’re just impossibly good to me and I’m such a dumbaft!”
Slipstream attempts to say comforting, reassuring things, but merely grunts as she is kissed senseless once more, oozing in the smaller femme’s potent embrace.
It would not be the first time they resolved a difficult conversation by making out.
They fail to notice the door open and shut, admitting a large, powerful figure.
“Ahem.”
The femmes pry apart, turning together to stare at the interloper.
“Oh, Pyra Magna!”
“Cityspeaker Windblade. And…”
“Slipstream, ma’am.”
“And Slipstream the physician.” Pyra Magna nods curtly, her cool gaze sweeping from Slipstream’s flushed embarrassment to Windblade’s adorable sulking. “You two are intimately acquainted, I see.”
“Please don’t lecture me right now.”
“I shall leave that to our Lady.”
“Gee, thanks so much.”
“Although I would remind you of your duties here as delegate. You must do better to support the living Prime. Remember whom you serve and whom you represent.”
The Cityspeaker nods sullenly. “Yes, Pyra Magna, I understand. I’ll do better.”
The Torchbearer seems to accept that, turning again to the Seeker. “You don’t wear the medic’s colours.”
“Oh, um, well…”
“She’s working to earn them.”
“Then she is not a qualified physician.”
Windblade grits her dentas with a quiet hiss.
“The Prime trusts you.” Pyra Magna is large enough to loom over Slipstream, peering down at her. “Evidently you are very talented, to be relied upon by one so exalted as he.”
“We’re good friends.”
“You… befriended the Prime.”
“Optimus is a person, just like any one of us.”
Pyra Magna seems to genuinely stop and think very deeply about this revelation. “…Just like any one of us?”
“He doesn’t want to be revered. He just wants a little respect, like I do.”
“But this is most… strange. What god does not desire worship?”
“You’ll break her, Slip,” Windblade mutters lowly, gently guiding Slipstream away. “Forgive us, Pyra Magna, but we need to go and see Chromia in the medbay.”
This makes the Torchbearer snap out of her thoughts. “Your bodyguard is hurt?”
“My best friend is making a swift recovery. We’re hoping to have her home with us later today.”
“That is excellent. Our Lady wishes to dine with you at your abode.”
The Cityspeaker looks to the heavens, sighs. “Of course she does,” comes out very, very quietly.
“We’d be delighted,” the Seeker speaks up politely, sensing it would be unwise to refuse. “I’ve learned how to prepare a few Camien meals, courtesy of Windblade being a wonderful teacher.”
Pyra Magna actually smiles at that. “I look forward to sampling what you have learned this night. Go now and see to Chromia. I shall explain your absence to the Mistress of Flame, so that she takes no offence. May the fires of creation bless your journeys and those whose lives you touch along your way.”
Windblade hurries off, making her sanctioned escape, pulling Slipstream after.
“So, uh. She seems… kinda nice?”
Empress strokes Megatron’s helm, gazing down at him with a sort of thoughtful mournfulness. Whether or not she loves him in a genuine, sincere sense, even she does not know for certain, as she does not typically operate within such tender parameters.
“He’ll be fine, bae. I mean, like, the guy’s a certified badaft, for real.” Thunderblast gives the broken mech a light pat on his enormous arm, limp upon the gurney. “When he fell down that pit, back in the arena, I thought it was over and my dreams died with him, so I’d have to rethink my plans for world domination and stuff. But then he came back. He just won’t die. Why would this be any different? He’s just, like, sleeping it off or something. You don’t gotta worry about him.”
“Thank you, cyberswan.”
“You, uh… I’m not making you feel much better, am I.”
“Having you here, with me, as I attend to my mentor, well and truly matters. I would be lost if left alone with him. I have an enemy in Starscream and my allies have been hurt.”
“We’re gonna have to kill that dude eventually.”
“That’s a problem for another day.”
“The Mistress is here?!” Chromia attempts to sit up in berth, hissing in pain. “I must rise to meet her, she – ohhh, that stings!”
“Lie down,” Slipstream snaps in her matronly way, then softens, gently muscling the other femme into a tense recline. “You’re clearly not ready to come home just yet. Let us deal with the Mistress, you focus on resting and healing.”
“She will be so angry…”
“Hush, beloved.”
Windblade looks to the floor with a thick, aching swallow, but the lump in her throat will not shift.
“Since today is the day for the sickly… Can you face her?”
Thunderblast cringes softly, but nods once. “I’ll try.”
“Very good, cyberswan.” Empress simpers, leaving Megatron to his sleep. “You’ve learned loyalty. You’ve made friends.”
“Yeah. It’s, like, character development or whatever.”
“Little Flamewar will be delighted you made the effort.”
“I could’ve done more to help her. But seeing Shadow Striker like that makes me sick.”
“This is a beautiful home,” Pyra Magna compliments sincerely, evidently making the effort to be pleasant, albeit her stern countenance and imposing frame do few favours at friendliness.
“Thank you, please make yourselves comfortable,” Slipstream answers warmly, welcoming the guests within, playing host whilst Windblade labours over their communal meal which allows her to hide away a little longer.
The Mistress of Flame removes her cloak and wordlessly passes it over to said host, then strides across the spacious room to inspect a potted plant situated in a sunny spot by the viewing port. “What do we have here…?”
The Seeker neatly hangs up the sacred vestment with utmost care, smoothing out the glittering textile, threaded with something metallic within the soft, smooth fibres. Are those blades, weaved in and out, as a sort of defensive garb? Cool.
“Is this, errm, specimen… organic?”
“It appears so,” the Tortchbearer murmurs, timidly poking at the petals, recoiling as if expecting to be bit.
“Oh, yes, it’s a gift from Elita. She’s an expert on organic stuff. Really smart.”
The Mistress of Flame turns at that, expression lingering between intrigue and something akin to fear. “Is that not a dangerous preoccupation?”
“Well, yes, my Lady, but she’s big and strong enough to handle the perils. She used to travel to alien worlds to discover and study the organic life.”
“And the Prime just permits his consecrated companion to dally with contaminants?”
Pyra Magna, who had been timidly poking at the little plant again, recoils with a less than masculine squeak at that. “Contaminants…!”
“Optimus trusts Elita,” Slipstream says very patiently, as if speaking to confused protoforms. “She loves organics and he loves her, so it’s okay.”
“Such a benevolent Prime he is!”
“He’s a lovely mech. We love him.”
“And he loves you in return?”
“Yes.”
“Does he say it?”
“He does.”
“Wonderful! Truly benevolent beyond expectantions!”
For whatever reason, this really seems to score the Seeker points of preference, for she finds her servos suddenly in the passionate grasp of the Mistress, her loyal Torchbearer stood aside, nodding in apparent approval.
“And you, a common Seeker, in the service of the Prime. Such a peculiarity. You are a brute, yet your manner of speech and the motions of your body indicate that you are modest and dutiful in your quiet strength, befitting the trusted physician of the living Prime.”
“Oh, wow, thank you?”
“Yes, very good, girl.”
Domineering femmes were always a weakness.
“My lady.”
“Ah, Cityspeaker, there you are.” The Mistress’ tone sharpens. “You did not greet Pyra Magna and I at the door. Were you very busy?”
“Forgive me, my Lady. I have prepared a meal I hope is to both your liking.” Windblade stands small and servile, gaze downcast. “Please, allow me to lead you to the table without delay.” She bows, then turns and quietly steps away.
Slipstream does not like seeing her lover in this way – meek, timid, unhappy.
Pyra Magna offers her bent arm for the Mistress of Flame to hold, escorting her along unnecessarily, with a sort of intimacy unique to them.
Roulette is not fond of Thunderblast, but politely tolerates her as a comrade of Shadow Striker’s and apparently a genuine friend to Flamewar, if not a particularly good friend. Bad girls rarely make for good company. As for Empress, she is not at all trustworthy, but she is very appealing.
“You’re making such good progress,” the gladiator simpers with a weirdly motherly warmth as she looms over the mercenary, this overwhelming personal attention rendering her a flushed, almost coy mockery of herself, evidently far from immune from these charms. “I’m ever so proud of you, darling. You’ll be up and at it in no time, I’m certain of that.”
The boat’s golden optics flicker with pity, reluctant to look. She is capable of empathy to a surprising degree, she can care of others even if always keen to use them for her own ends, but she is not well acquainted with guilt.
“And you have your little friend here to help you along.”
“That’s me,” says the bike as she is scooped into a smothering cuddle. She is cute on account of being small and as much as she would likely gut someone for outright saying it, she does permit the physical perks. She could do with a cuddle right now. Being a caretaker is an emotionally exhausting place to occupy for days on end, optimistically pondering the prospect of recovery yet pragmatically preparing herself for the possibility that recovery may not be feasible financially or otherwise.
Roulette has thought about it.
Thunderblast has thought about it.
Shadow Striker may simply stay this way.
Flamewar allows herself to be swallowed in Empress’ ample frame, held like a mere plaything, complacent, willing, because the affection, however plasticine it may ultimately be, at least resembles genuine care for the caretaker.
Slipstream has a whole other life and cannot always be here.
“I do not usually partake. However…” The Mistress of Flame smiles and presents her flute of high-grade with a theatrical flourish. She has many such flourishes at her prompt disposal for any occasion, it would seem. “This is a celebration. The Prime lives.”
Pyra Magna cheers, raising her own flute.
Slipstream strokes Windblade’s thigh under the table, intending to comfort her as she remains very quiet and very small.
“Cityspeaker.”
“My Lady.”
“I had assumed you were too wayward to change for the better, and yet my prayers for you were answered by your very rebellious nature. Is life not a ceaseless, limitless wonder?”
“Most wondrous, my Lady.”
“You seemed destined to squander my grace, yet your disobedience led you into the bosom of the Prime. You have a destiny. Despite the sinful, foreign ways of Cybertron, you will meet your destiny here as more than a delegate. You tried to evade the path, only to find yourself still treading it. How can one doubt divine providence?”
“There is no doubt, my Lady.”
“Let us be merry!”
“Yes, my Lady.”
Ravage is a uniquely intelligent and perceptive cybercat. He observes the motions of people, he listens to their conversations, he understands far too much.
Hot Rod and Soundwave indicate that their bond remains with how they draw close together and linger here, but the things they murmur to each other communicate barriers between them and their happiness.
Their happiness is his happiness.
“Now that it’s all over with the Functionists and that Sentinel guy, maybe we can try again, make us work this time.”
“It doesn’t deter you that I spied on you for Megatron’s Decepticons?”
“It hurts me. I need you to do better, dude.”
“I’d like to, if you’d let me try.”
“Can I trust you?”
Ravage notes the pause.
“Uh. You’re supposed to say yes, absolutely, I can totes trust you, ’cause you love me.”
“I do love you. I love you enough to admit my inclination to lie if it gets the job done.”
“Then quit.”
The high-grade is sweet and strong. It flows freely from cooled metallic casks.
As this incredibly awkward family reunion and communal supper drags painfully on, the Mistress of Flame cannot hold her booze. She claims to avoid such vices as a general principle, preferring to maintain her senses and sensibilities. However, since this is a special occasion, she indulges herself and ends up readily tipsy after the second flute has been depleted. Thus the matriarch grows somewhat relaxed enough to attempt actual conversation. “Doctor, tell me something, would you.”
In the presence of this older, dominating, esteemed femme, Slipstream is politely terrified, doing her best to behave without bringing Windblade shame. Therefore being referred to as a doctor, technically incorrect, goes uncorrected. “Yes, my Lady?”
“Chromia’s reports did not divulge much about our Cityspeaker’s private affairs. The discretion is forgivable. Yet I observe you are living here, together, all three of you at once. This is not unusual on Caminus, but I always inferred Cybertron to be more conservative.”
“In some ways that’s definitely the case, my Lady. But we haven’t met any opposition to our way of life.”
“Very good. Then am I to assume you are intimately acquainted, all three of you?”
Slipstream flushes at that, naturally a bit shy about her love life. “I am very in love with Windblade and Chromia. I dedicate my life to them as their partner.”
Pyra Magna nods approvingly but says nothing, chewing on saucy gears.
“Pardon me, my Lady.” Windblade has barely touched her plate, keeping her gaze submissively downcast, her movements stiff with anxiety. “You are correct. Slipstream is my chosen life partner, as is Chromia, and we have made this our shared home. We are happy.”
Mostly happy, most of the time, the Seeker thinks, but she does not admit her grievances aloud at the table tonight.
“Two femmes all to yourself, Cityspeaker.” The Mistress smiles thinly, cheeks flushed with drink, optics narrowed in the way of elders who assume to know too much. “You always did have a voracious appetite.”
The Torchbearer smirks at that, then grunts as the Cityspeaker’s heel strut prods her under the table. Although disciplined and devoted, the attendant is generally more forgiving than the Mistress she serves, and so permits this impertinence without protest.
“Yes, my Lady,” comes out a little terse.
“I am pleased that you found yourself a doctor, which is a most honourable and lucrative profession to have in a partner. I always worried that you would settle for someone beneath your station.”
That felt like a jab at Chromia, the humble bodyguard and best friend, and it makes Windblade grit her dentas behind her frowning ruby dermas to bite back a harsh response.
“A doctor shall certainly suffice a Cityspeaker, although I would have preferred a match with that Captain.”
“Starscream?” splutters Slipstream with a jerk, appalled. Her entire world feels suddenly small and dizzy.
Pyra Magna notes this reaction with stoic interest, swallowing with a sip of high-grade to wash down the spiciness of the lead sulfide crystals.
“Was he unsuitable?”
“Yes, my Lady,” the Cityspeaker grinds out with an apologetic look at the appalled Seeker. “Most unsuitable and entirely disinterested in knowing me in that way.”
“Ah, understood.” The Mistress pours herself another helping, then tops up the Torchbearer’s portion with a wink at her. “Never mind.”
Pyra Magna accepts her refilled flute with a brush of her large, callused digits against the Mistress’ own, far more feminine and slender, almost delicate by comparison.
“You found someone worthy enough. The Prime’s personal physician! Where Chromia failed to temper you, perhaps Slipstream may succeed. Though, it is unfortunate that the good doctor bears the Decepticon branding. There is something morbid and menacing about that symbol.”
Windblade gently touches Slipstream’s larger servo and feels how she trembles.
“You really think this Soundblaster guy hates you so bad, he’ll make it his mission to go after us if you leave the Decepticons? Label you a traitor and stuff?”
“Yes. He’s tried it before.”
“What’s his deal with you?”
“We share a frame.”
“That’s not so bad.”
“It offends him,” Soundwave croons melodically whilst stroking Ravage, curled in his lap and listening closely to what is being said. “He would be unique, if not for me. We were forged together to fulfil a common purpose. He feels I am redundant, yet envies my success over his own. I moved on from our past and found happiness. He never could.”
Hot Rod frowns thoughtfully. “What was that, uh, common purpose?”
“Information gathering, surveillance, crowd control, misdirection, distraction, communications and censorship. In essence, I am a spy.”
“But you made music. You lived the life of those huge parties. It’s hard to imagine you were just… made to spy on people. You’re a person, not a security drone.”
“I’m built to entertain. I enjoy it.”
The Mistress becomes so indisposed with drink that she must be put to the guest berth, under the affectionate protection of Pyra Magna who offers to stay awake all night to ensure no enemies approach, only to be coaxed into sharing this berth. They close the door behind them.
“Thank frag,” Windblade mutters, angrily scouring her facial paint with a sponge, erasing her ornamentation to appear more plain before retiring herself to berth. “Tonight is a reminder of why I was so desperate to get away for all that time. Forgive me for inflicting her upon you.”
“It’s fine,” Slipstream says whilst sitting in the bath, soaking in hot, scented oil, staring off into space. “I’m fine.”
Lies. They are not even subtle.
“That could’ve gone worse. I mean, uh, at least she seems to… sort of approve of me? Even if I’m… not her first choice… for you.”
The Cityspeaker turns from the holomirror mounted to the metallic tiles, sighing deeply. “Slip, please don’t let her talk you down.”
“She has a point. You’re a Cityspeaker, I’m not even a real doctor.” The Seeker shrugs tiredly, oil rippling in rings about her submerged frame. “Maybe I should’ve mentioned my old rank of Captain. I’m technically no longer Captain. We could’ve kept up the whole pretence to gas me up so she might think I’m worthier somehow.”
Windblade elegantly steps into the tub and lowers herself to sink before Slipstream, big blue optics probing with concern.
“I don’t mean to be a glitch. You’re going through a lot right now. I’m sorry.”
“She upset you.”
“A little bit.”
“Slip…”
The Seeker allows her servos to be scooped out of the oil and cradled, kissed.
“If my Lady had told me to leave you, if she had forbidden me from seeing you, I would just do what my Spark wills me to and choose you anyway.”
“I don’t want to get you in trouble. She’s a big deal to you and to Caminus, your home.”
“Cybertron is also my home. You are my home, too.”
“She’s sacred. You’re sacred. I’m common.”
“Are you going to point out that Chromia is also common?” The Cityspeaker shakes her helm slowly, patiently. “It doesn’t matter. As a Cityspeaker I know all about the ancient traditions and I value the past, but I remain modern of mind. Because I love her with my life, as I love you, and I don’t care how irreligious that seems to some people. A Cityspeaker can choose whom to love, commoner or king or Titan.”
“But–”
“No buts. Solus Prime forged me with the fire of passion, it’s my very nature to love fiercely and freely, it’s who I am and how I am. Back on Caminus, I was controlled. Cybertron was a way out, a way forward. Whatever my Lady might decide for me, even she knows on some grumpy level that to deny that part of myself would be to blaspheme the sacred craft of my very existence. That’s why I’m here.”
“Then why all this tension? She seems… I don’t know, almost resentful of your choices.”
“The Mistress is just a person, Slip, as significant a person as she is, as powerful and persuasive a person as she can be. People misrepresent Primus all the time, don’t they?”
“I guess so. I never was very religious, though.”
“Listen to me. I’m less than perfect and it grieves her, but I need you to understand that none of this reflects badly on you or Chromia. Leave it between my Lady and I. Don’t you dare let her talk you down. Don’t you dare let her diminish who you are.”
“If I liked myself and loved myself…”
“I like you. I love you. I intend to show you how worthy you are of me, every day that I am blessed by you, over the rest of our lives.”
Slipstream manages a weak smile.
Windblade is not convinced by it.
Hot Rod feels very strange. He is not a particularly clever mech, but he is sensitive to his own needs and the needs of others.
Soundwave just wants to be happy and to feel safe in his happiness, to know that he is no traitor to those who make him happy, nor a target to be deprived of happiness.
Ravage meows anxiously and two different palms join together to pet him.
“Is there something else you’d like to talk about before we sleep? I think it’s important to open up about it, so we don’t dream resentful dreams, or wake in anger or anxiety.”
“There is… more, I could talk about.”
“I’m listening. Even if it isn’t easy.”
“Is she the reason why you won’t marry me?”
Windblade sucks in air and holds it for a while, anguish written in her pale expression. She lets the air out slowly, whistling from her vents.
“Be honest with me,” Slipstream says gently, mindfully passing over the stuffed singlehorn plush toy for her partner to cuddle in comfort throughout this difficult talk. “I’m not mad at you. After meeting her, I can only sympathise. Maybe even empathise a little. Starscream could be… overbearing, in case his reputation was wounded by my behaviour, so… I get it a little. Though I never bore much success with the ladies, reputable or disreputable, and he felt more sorry for me in that regard than even I did.”
“Slip, my love, it’s true that marriage never really mattered to me. Wait, no, that’s not the right wording. Marriage does matter, but it’s not something I need to be happy or to give happiness. I can love anyone without it, freely and fully. Is this enough?”
“Okay. That’s… okay. I love you and you love me back and we’re together, so… Okay.”
The Cityspeaker gives the Seeker a long, deep stare.
“It’s okay. Really. Just be mine and let me be yours.”
“If you’re unhappy with–”
Slipstream reaches over and gently squeezes the singlehorn plush’s soft muzzle, producing a synthetic squeaky sound.
Windblade sighs quietly and opts to move on. “But you’re right about her. I kept her a secret, tried to pretend I could ever escape her, because I didn’t want you to end up garnering her ire. The Mistress of Flame is really very cold, often dismissive of those she disapproves of, sometimes cruel. Earning her approval is self-flagellation. Pyra Magna is the most dedicated, an elite Torchbearer with not just rank but the smarts, skills and strength to match, and so the Mistress is fond of her. Humph. Hardly approved of me, growing up under all the weight of expectation, rebellious and willful to a fault. Never approved of anyone I ever wanted.”
“Not even Chromia, so good and loyal.”
“We have loved each other all our lives. But as far as the Mistress is concerned, Chromia’s my bodyguard, doing her job in protecting me and serving me. Our intimate and lifelong friendship won’t reflect in the daily supervisory reports. It’s all about keeping me safe and ensuring I represent Caminus with decorum as a Cityspeaker. It’s a duty thing, a job thing.”
A delicate frown. “And when Chromia went back to Caminus without you…”
“The Mistress was unhappy.”
“Oh, no.”
“Yes, Chromia came back to Cybertron to be with me here, because she worries for me and misses me and wants to be near me out of free will, but she is painfully aware of her place at my side as my bodyguard. I don’t make it easy, Solus Prime only knows.” A delicate scoff, followed by a fond sigh. “She’s a miracle, that one. So patient and forgiving even when it reflects unprofessionally on her. She must’ve got in so much trouble back home, because of me. I always was wayward, fiercely independent, stubborn. But she’s so loyal.”
“She adores you.”
“I don’t deserve–”
The Seeker gives the singlehorn another gentle squeeze, producing another squeaky sound.
The Cityspeaker huffs at that, hugging her beloved toy a little tighter to herself. “Sorry.”
“I forgive you. Don’t speak badly of yourself ever again.”
Windblade purrs as a callused thumb fondles the casing of her audial, sensitive to touch as well as sound, tilting her helm and leaning into the large servo dispensing this affection. The bright, crystalline lenses of her optics swell and shrink again within the blue, indicating avian excitement. Bumblebee really likes it when this happens, finding the flier trait endearing in his terrestrial way.
“So, then. What about all the wild parties and general mischief you get up to?” asks Slipstream in a casual, easygoing undertone, smiling softly.
“Heh. Chromia doesn’t report that sort of thing because she’s cool.”
“She’s the best. I want her home.”
“Me, too. I miss our girl.”
“And to think, not that long ago she hated me.”
“Hate is a strong word, Slip. I’d say she was wary of you, since my safety is important to her.”
“Big scary Decepticon Seeker shows up, invades your home, messes you around, all whilst a war’s happening… I deserved worse than the vitriol I got from her, to be honest. She made those pillows hurt, but she could’ve just kicked my aft.”
“I wouldn’t let her do that. She hates to displease me and I was annoyed enough by the one-sided pillow fight.”
The Seeker smiles as the Cityspeaker turns into that large servo, nuzzling against the calluses, kissing the palm.
“I’m just glad you two figured each other out. I always thought you’d make great friends, and I was right about that.”
“Even better, we’re great friends who make out sometimes, and you get to watch.”
“Frag, yeah.”
Slipstream rumbles with affection as Windblade shuffles across the berth into those big, burly arms, still cuddling her beloved singlehorn.
“I’m sorry the Mistress was… difficult.”
“It’s okay. Maybe she could warm up to me?”
“You’re polite, handsome, and she likes that you’re in the medical field, so I have some hope.”
“I’ll do my best to earn her approval, then.”
“Thank you, Slip, but you don’t owe her.”
“I’d do it for you.”
The Cityspeaker gazes up at the Seeker, gazing down.
“To make your life easier, I’d like to get along with your… mentor figure? Since she’s not your mom, but sort of acted as your teacher since you were little.”
“I’m sorry I failed to shield you from her.”
“Beloved, don’t be. I’m fine.”
“She wasn’t supposed to come here. She wanted me to return to Caminus due to the war, but Chromia couldn’t convince me to leave my second home here, or the people I love here. When Orion became Optimus, I feared that’d be enough to draw the Mistress out. Cybertron was like an escape for me.”
“You didn’t actually run away from home, though.”
“No, not literally. I had her blessing to come here, she was the one who arranged for the Captain of the Seekers to show me around, because Starscream’s considered important enough to Cybertron for her to consider him a worthy host. We all know how that turned out.”
“Before I met you, Starscream mentioned you.”
“Yeah?”
“He described you as an important, special person he was soon to meet, but us Seekers would be denied the luxury.”
“Wow, okay.”
“Well, I say mentioned, but more like bragged about over and over until the appointed time.”
“Sounds like Starscream. He hyped me up way too much, though.”
“He couldn’t hype you up enough despite trying to. We Seekers were so curious about you, but he just said only he had the honour, and that was that. And then you found Bee, and eventually, you found me.”
“And I fell in love.”
Slipstream kisses Windblade’s forehelm, smiling softly against her. “What did you think of him, when you first met?”
“Bee? You know the story. Cutest little guy tried to use my height to his advantage to sneak into the stadium, and when that didn’t work, I saw him mucking about in a Cube mascot costume of all things. I wanted to be his friend there and then, so I escaped Starscream.”
“I was actually asking about your thoughts on Starscream.”
“Oh. Uh, well… I thought he was… Errm…”
The Seeker eases back, calmly peering down upon the suddenly flushed and awkward Cityspeaker.
“Articulate, charming in a smarmy and egotistical way, actually very smart, stylish… He didn’t have the fancy body back then, but Seekers are beautiful people and he was no exception to that. But being pretty doesn’t make up for being rude and nasty.”
“Mm.” That is all Slipstream says for some time, her ruby optics narrowing slowly in the silence that follows.
Windblade clears her vents, fidgeting in this hug, pinching at the toy singlehorn’s namesake.
“Did you think he was hot?”
“What?”
“As in attractive. Everybody does – femmes he bears no inkling toward and mechs he’d never spare the time of day to entertain – and he knows it. But did you think so, too?”
“I mean… Yes? But I think all Seekers are hot. You’re obviously the hottest.”
“And with his fancy new bodywork, do you think he’s hotter?”
The Cityspeaker frowns at that. “Slip, what’s this about?”
“I don’t actually know,” the Seeker confesses quietly.
“Are you feeling… unsure about us? Insecure about him?”
“You two look good together. Your very designs compliment one another.”
“He’s not interested, Slip, you know that. Even if he was, I’m not. Guy’s a jerk.”
“He’s my family.”
Windblade softens, sighs.
“I have conflicted feelings about my family.”
“Me, too.”
Slipstream nods vaguely.
“Dearest, I’m yours and you’re mine. Whatever interest he had in me, it was superficial, because I’m exotic and esteemed to him. My personhood, who I am, that all belongs to you, because you actually love me.”
“I love you so much.”
“And I love you too.”
“Is this… jealousy?”
The Cityspeaker suddenly flops over onto the berth, pulling the Seeker down with her.
Slipstream thus rests her helm atop Windblade’s breast, wings folded flat to take up less space and retain warmth close to the body.
“Starscream’s the jealous one, Slip. He lost me to Bee.”
“Except they’re sorta getting along okay now.”
“It’s weird and confusing, but good, right?”
“So weird and confusing. But good.”
“I’m willing to forgive Starscream for trying to kill me, for hurting my friends, for helping to start this war and even for drawing the other Seekers into it. But for what he did to you, I don’t think I have the Spark to forgive.”
“Why am I special?”
“You gave him your whole life and he threw you away, but when I pleaded with him to let me take you and have you as mine, he said no.”
“You asked him for his blessing over our union?”
“Hmm. Sort of.”
“That bastard. Why does he hate me, hurt me?”
“Does he actually hate you?”
“No. Not really. He loves his Seekers, in his own way. It just hurts me like he hates me.”
“Then is he just terrible at expressing his own hurt? Not justifying the guy, but I suspect he loves you in a very possessive, mutually destructive way because he doesn’t feel safe with vulnerability. There’s trauma there.”
“It’s about Jetfire. It’s always about Jetfire. He left him. Left him behind, left him in charge, left him to hurt. We weren’t enough for my Star.”
“Was Jetfire like a mentor?”
“Hardly. He was too traumatised to raise us, didn’t stick around long enough. I did most of the mentoring, since Seekers are generally stupid and need someone responsible taking initiative to ensure they take care of themselves properly.”
“Oh, Slip, beloved. You really tried for them. You tried for him.”
“I remember when Star was just a bit strange, a bit difficult. But he had his good moments. Never joined us in our cuddle piles, but he would smile like he meant it and he laughed and when he was in a very special mood, he would let me sit with him quietly and I could touch him, then.”
“Hugs?”
“Those were rare and at risk of being volatile, but he was okay with holding my servo, resting my wings against his if we sat back-to-back together, and eventually he’d let me leave him with a kiss on the cheek. He might’ve grumbled, but he wasn’t rejecting me.”
“Wow. I never really thought of Starscream like that.” The Cityspeaker hums, cradling her Seeker. “Affectionate, intimate, approachable.”
“He was less so with the other Seekers, as they tended to aggravate him more than I did. He mocked me, minimised my contributions and tempered my confidence to make me submissive, but I always got the sense of some favouritism compared to the others. Favouritism, and dependence. He needed me.”
“That’s really messed up. But Starscream did tell me as much, in his own words.”
“Oh?”
“You’re his favourite Seeker, he said.”
“Then that confirms what I always sensed, but never said. Jetfire left us. We were all damaged. But I feel like Star is freaking out because without me there to emotionally support and regulate him, he’s wading through his own storm all alone, unable to find help in our own kind, only dooming them. Megatron made my Star worse, weaponised him and claimed our people as collateral. But after all that…” Slipstream’s vocaliser hitches with emotion, optics welling with tears. “He’s my brother. We were forged on the same day. I’ve known him, been known by him. He wasn’t all bad, he really wasn’t. He was smart, he had swagger, his jokes used to be funny and he needed me even if he pretended like he didn’t.”
Windblade feels a painful lump form in the cables and mesh of her throat.
“Even my disastrous failure of a love life garnered sympathetic questions and attempts at brotherly advice, but seeing as he fancies mechs and I fancy femmes exclusively, we’d end up just commiserating together since he never could find someone either.”
“Until he found Megatron. Until you found me, and then Chromia.”
The Seeker nods against the Cityspeaker’s bosom, dragging cheek to breastplate.
“It’s not your fault, Slip.”
“Thank you. But I’m not so sure.”
Notes:
I'm trying to write Pyra as somewhat mild, and so whilst she may at times be disapproving/disappointed where the living Prime proves to be imperfect after all, she won't be vehemently against Optimus for being an old guy thrust into woeful destiny because he's tortured enough by his imprisoned Orion.
Chapter 91
Notes:
I may be going away on a work trip in the coming weeks, so I'm not sure when the next update might be, but please don't worry if I'm gone for a bit. I've been feeling less tired lately (maybe my body is adjusting to the medication?) and I've had free time, so I put together this big chapter. This should hopefully tide you guys over if I do disappear for a while.
Also, apologies! I put the wrong date down for this update's publication. I've made the adjustment for the correct date. I'm not riding the front page, that isn't something I condone either, this was a genuine error on my part. Please forgive me and accept my pardon.
Potential trigger warnings: depression, anxiety, guilt, shame, reference to reproductive abuse and coercive speech, toxic familial dynamics, overbearing maternal figure as matriarch, childhood trauma, bullying, implications of unintentionally and unwillingly causing a loved one physical harm.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“You’ve suffered so much. I do hate to make you angry. But…” Starscream massages his brows, hissing. “Our stocks have depleted. I need those false Sparks to replenish my armada. In order for me to maintain control, I must be the progenitor of their little lives. They cannot be permitted to do so without me. My vision, my will, my people. Primus, the Senate knew how to cage us. It goes against all you stand for, all I strive for, yet you must be convinced somehow and I must succeed…”
Megatron says nothing.
“By any means necessary, my love. The ends justify the means. And still, I am having doubts that I can do what I know I must do.”
First thing in the morning, Ravage hops onto the berth, steps directly onto Soundwave and meows loudly into his face until he stops pretending to be asleep.
“Indoor voice, please.”
The next meow comes out at a more acceptable volume.
“That’s better, thanks.”
“Boy wants breakfast,” Hot Rod mumbles drowsily, rolling over in berth with a yawn and a stretch, pulling the anti-scratch synthetic sheets up and under his chin. “You’ve been chosen. Not my turn today. Heh.”
Meow.
“Yes, my little prince, I hasten to obey.”
“Thanks, babe.”
The Decepticon rises with a muscular stretch and a synthesised yawn behind his face guard, peeling back the covers and slouching to his pedes. He pauses to squeeze the Autobot’s pauldron fondly, then follows the cybercat.
However, this morning Ravage takes an unusual turn, leading Soundwave to a bundle on the floor.
“Did you dig this out of the storage unit?”
Meow.
“You hate this thing.”
Meow.
“Unless…” The mech raises the walking harness before his visor with a hum, gazing at the cybercat beyond, sat neatly on the synthetic carpet with an expectant look. “Do you want to go for a walk, Ravage?”
Meow.
“Then I’ll have to get your breakfast arranged and coax your father out of berth. You know he’ll be excited by the prospect of ‘family walkies,’” Soundwave croons with a tender caress to Ravage’s pointed audials. “You were so resistant to this harness before. After all, a cat goes where he pleases, when he pleases, and prefers to walk alone. Why change your mind now?”
Meow.
“You’re doing it… for us?”
The cybercat actually nods. It is the most uncanny thing, even for the mech with such an affinity for befriending creatures.
“You are far too intelligent, Ravage. Thank you.”
Meow.
Evidently hungover and unused to the sensation, the Mistress of Flame gingerly enters the room whilst hanging onto Pyra Magna’s broad arm for support, squinting irritably against the sunlight pooling in through a viewing port. It would be funny, but it is not.
“Good morning,” Slipstream greets pleasantly, seated with Windblade over hot mugs of Energon tea. “Did you both sleep well?”
A surly grumble answers that. Evidently the Mistress is in no mood for pleasantries as she is lowered into a comfortable chair.
“Good morning,” the Torchbearer answers for them both, with a polite bow of the helm. “We slept very well.”
“Tea?”
“Tea would be most excellent, thank you.”
“Allow me to prepare the cups,” mutters the Cityspeaker, gently laying a palm over the Seeker’s knee to still her. “I know how they prefer it.”
Slipstream and Pyra Magna exchange a look, one politely helpless, the other resigned.
“Excuse me, Mistress, but you appear groggy this morning,” Windblade notes with a hint of vengeance whilst elegantly pouring tea. “I noticed that our Lady also slept in. Do you feel well-rested, or would you wish to retire again to berth?”
“Mind your manners, child,” grumbles the Mistress of Flame with her helm in her palm, optics narrowed, dermas drawn in a soft snarl. “I am not too fragile to put you over my knee.”
Brow ridges arched, Slipstream imagines just that, then quickly erases the thought for being a bit too weird even for her.
Pyra Magna’s severe face admits the faintest flicker of a smile, before quickly rearranging itself into a dull, vaguely chastising expression. “Cityspeaker, apologise to our Lady at once.”
“Forgive me, my Lady. I meant no offence.”
“Mmhm.” The Mistress accepts her tea with a disapproving sniff, in turn finding the Torchbearer’s thumb joint and idly playing with it.
For a while, uncomfortable silence reigns.
“I would hope that once you have taken the doctor as your wife, she might teach you the manners I clearly could not instil.”
Stunned and hurt by this comment, the Seeker looks away, cringing aside. She thinks this family dynamic is awkward as frag, the superficial veneer of civility thin and brittle, toxicity oozing to the surface from deep below in every interaction. She does not say so, of course. She must be patient and supportive. She just feels terribly sorry for the Cityspeaker, who never intends to take a wife, or a husband, and must now contend with her past.
“My Lady, please.”
“And on that matter, when am I to expect Sparklings?”
“My Lady, please!”
“I do anticipate at least three,” intones the Mistress of Flame with a placid sip of her tea. “Doctor, it is unfortunate that you do not possess Sparkling-bearing hip joints, but you know as well as I do that there are ways to work around our bodily limitations. Do not be deterred if you cannot carry, for Solus Prime has other intentions for you.”
Pyra Magna sighs as Windblade finally loses all composure, slamming down her cup and spilling tea upon the polished table.
“I am not a breeding drone, my Lady, and neither are my life partners!”
“It is perfectly natural to reproduce.”
“It should be by choice, my Lady!”
“Do not raise your voice at me.” A long, slender digit wags in warning. “Behave. I am not one of your friends, with whom you may speak disrespectfully.”
“I respect my friends very much, my Lady!”
“My brain module aches. Lower your tone.”
“Grrrrmph!” The Cityspeaker tenses all over, then grows slack, scowling hurtfully, hatefully into her cup. Evidently that is the limit of her will to fight back.
The Torchbearer shakes her helm as if this is all quite a shame, adding another sweetener cube to her tea and stirring in the solution. She has taken her tea unusually sweet to wash away the bitterness.
The Seeker drags a palm over her face and feels the urge to purge her tanks. Does she intervene? Would that help, or hinder? Where is the familial love in this room?
“Are you composed yet, child?”
“Yes, my Lady, I am composed.”
“You spilled your tea. Clean it.”
“Yes. Right away, my lady.”
“Ugh. Solus Prime wept.”
Windblade looks close to tears as she stoically makes amends.
Pyra Magna focuses her stern gaze on some indeterminable speck upon the pristine wall opposite.
“You are a more patient and forgiving femme than I, good doctor.” The Mistress of Flame blows air softly over her cup with a sigh. “How you tolerate her wilfulness and peculiar moods, I can only imagine. Indeed, our Cityspeaker is beautiful, intelligent, and gifted beyond most. Many suitors would dare to try and fail. From the moment I discovered her, I discovered a force of nature, and so as she grew I did my utmost to shape her and guide her. I have done all I can, and beyond my power, I must trust in Solus Prime and her perfect design.”
Slipstream tightens her jaw and sits forward as if to speak out of turn. She has a whole script of truly nasty things she wants to say spontaneously generated within her burning, throbbing processor, but a sudden claw-like grip on her thigh tells her to keep quiet.
The Cityspeaker shakes her helm ever so slightly, glaring through the urge to cry with furious fear for consequences she faced when she was a child and never healed from even now that she is an adult.
The Seeker swallows her nasty words she wants to say with a sip of tea, the cup unsteady in her trembling digits. She feels the bile rising. A nice person, people would say, but inside she does not feel nice.
“They will produce beautiful offspring, Pyra, do you agree?”
“Solus Prime willing, my Lady, I am certain of this also.”
The Mistress smiles at that, evidently pleased. “Three would permit playmates among themselves, and there would be all the more possibility that at least one child would show signs of Cityspeaking.”
“Solus Prime permit,” says the Torchbearer, kissing the slender digits in her rugged palm. “Do not neglect your tea, my Lady, or it will cool.”
“Ah, of course. I was distracted with thoughts of the future. You do take good care of me.”
“It is my life’s purpose.”
Starscream icily tolerates Elita and Optimus’ visitations. After all, why deny Megatron all the love and support still left to him?
Bumblebee is a rather odd addition to the ensemble. He has grown to fear and distrust Megatron, but was once an admirer, and now attends to Elita and Optimus as a sort of support system for them both.
Starscream is reminded of a cute little emotional support pet. Yes, that or a mascot, like that ridiculous debacle back at that boring Cube game, in which Windblade chose wrong.
“How’re you managing, dude?”
The Seeker blinks back the fugue of his thoughts and realises he has been spoken to. “I’m managing as well as can be expected, ‘dude,’ thank you very much.”
The scout nods gently at that, shuffling a little closer, leaving the protective shelter of the elders to linger beside someone decidedly dangerous.
The femme narrows her harsh blue optics warily, squeezing the Prime’s interwoven digits a little tighter.
The old gladiator’s vital signs are strong. He will not sleep forever.
“Thank you for asking how I am,” Starscream says softly, with an awkward inflection. “You needn’t care to ask.”
“I ask because I care,” answers Bumblebee with a huff, flicking his door-wings. “So what?”
“After all I have done to torment you, I have no idea how or why you would ever care for me.”
“I’m a nice person. Besides, seeing you so small and scared in that cell really changed my perception of you as, like, a whole. You seem more like an actual person now. Not just some character out to get me, the big bad guy in my life. Now, you seem like just a weird guy.”
“Please don’t pity me.”
“I don’t call it pity.”
“What do you call it, then?”
“Empathy. I know how it feels, when you’re small and scared.”
“I have been the one to make you feel so small and scared, bug.”
“And I’d never wanna make someone else feel that way.”
“Not even me?”
“Not even you.”
“You confuse me, bug.”
Elita gives Optimus a sidelong look, which he returns with a slight tilt of his helm. They do not quite know what to make of it, either.
“But I’m beginning to… appreciate, perhaps… these strange, nonsensical, ridiculous elements to your character.”
“Cool. You’re not as bad as I thought.”
“Ha. I’m bad to the very core, bug.”
“Oh, yeah? Would he think so?”
Megaton does not answer.
“No. He would tell you there remains some good left within me.”
“I think you’re just messed up by trauma. No offence. Me too.”
“None taken. Trauma is the currency of today.”
“Yeah.” The scout notes the way the Seeker sits so perfectly composed upon the chair, with the shadows of sleeplessness sagging below his gemstone optics, downcast upon the old gladiator who sleeps as if in envy for observing such perfectly peaceful rest. “Lotta trauma going around lately. We gotta figure things out and stick together. That makes us stronger.”
“I don’t scare you any more, do I.”
“Uh, maybe a tiny bit.”
The Prime and his chosen companion opt to discuss something quietly between themselves to avoid listening in on words unintended for them.
“Not like I’ve forgotten what you did to me and my friends. And don’t think I’mma forgive you for that stuff either, mister.” Bumblebee pokes an armoured pauldron with a stubby digit, scowling cutely. “I just feel like you’re not this cartoonish monster. Dramatic as frag, but there’s at least something in you that’s grounded. But I still hold you responsible for how you’ve been. Acting all tough, strutting about like you’re better than me, pushing me around, pushing my friends… I don’t suddenly think you’ve changed into a good guy. But you’re still just a guy. You can hurt me, but you can hurt like me. Seeing you in that cell… I don’t like seeing someone hurting, and you were hurting bad. Now that you’re vulnerable, it’s proof that you aren’t invincible.”
“I have no desire to hurt you,” Starscream notes with a clenching of his pretty jaw. “Not any more. I see you differently now.”
“Well, that’s a relief. I did bake you pie one time. Hey, remind me why you wanted to hurt me before? For closure, I mean.”
“I confess I took out my own frustrations upon you, because I have felt as if what I want I cannot have - the very things you embody so naturally, things you attain so easily - and I felt you were harmless enough not to be a threat to my reactivity. Windblade soon put a stop to that. She is ferociously protective over you. But seeing you fight Functionaries thrice your size, I realise now that you do not need her protection.”
“If I wanted to, I could’ve knocked you on your aft, huh.”
“Well. I have newfound respect for you, put it that way.”
“Respect? You? For me? Reeeaaally?”
“Oh, do shut up, bug.”
“Made you smile!”
And so it goes.
“Is my baby boy so excited to go for his family walkies today? The first family walkies, even! Whoa!” cheers Hot Rod in his silly voice, overflowing with happiness. “And just look at you! Aw! My baby boy looks so precious in his little harness! Such a little guy! I can’t wait for all our neighbours to see you being sooo cute! And you’re so well-behaved right now, too! You didn’t claw me or dad to bits this time! We’re so proud!”
Sat in this ridiculous walking harness intended to keep dumb animals from straying from their masters, Ravage sighs patiently and endures it for the benefit of his family cohesion, giving Soundwave a tired look as if to say, father, please make it stop.
“I think he’s ready to go now.”
“Hooray!”
The door opens with a hiss of shifting pressure and the family steps out into a bright, beautiful day.
“Isn’t that just the cutest thing?” asks a passing civilian of her husband, who smiles and nods amicably.
“Yup, that’s adorable.”
Ravage trots ahead in his little harness, a leash connected and held by Hot Rod due to his own insistence, to which Soundwave readily surrendered with affection. Indeed, the indignity aside, the cybercat is rather enjoying his walk with his dads, tail lifted high and optics wide with confidence.
A cyberdog stops and stares with dumb befuddlement, apparently never having seen a cybercat go for a walk on a leash before.
“Isn’t this just the best?” Hot Rod gushes warmly, happily, his arm looped through Soundwave’s own. “We’ve finally got time to be a family.”
“Yes, this is very nice.”
“I never wanna go back.”
Although the harness is still the worst thing ever and terribly humiliating to endure out in public, the mechs’ happiness is Ravage’s happiness.
“I think you need a distraction. Me too.”
“Honestly, bug, do I seem in the mood?”
“Hence the need for a distraction. Moody.”
“I’m a busy mech and in high demand. You may wish to spend time basking in my delightful presence, but tragically, I have work to–” Starscream turns sharply, sneering down the length of his handsome olfactory sensor, when he is given pause for whatever reason.
“…Do?”
“Mmyes. Quite.”
Bumblebee is stood at a most unfortunate angle, gazing boldly up with his big blue optics aflame, his stocky frame relaxed and a most cheerful yellow interspersed with alluring black panels clinging tightly to his curves, a cheeky smirk softening his face.
“Stop that.”
“What?”
“That!”
“I’m literally just standing here.”
“Uuugh! Stand there less cutely, then!”
“Sheesh, sorry. Dunno how to be less cute.”
“Never mind! What distraction did you have in mind?”
“There’s this little place that just opened up not far from here. They got Energon slushies and snacks. Wanna grab a bite with me?”
“You wish to be seen out and about in public… together.”
“Yeah, wild, I know, right. I can go alone, no biggie.”
“I didn’t refuse the invitation, bug. Don’t be rude.”
“Oh-ho-ho. But I thought you said you’re busy!”
“I can spare an hour or so.” The Commander rolls his gemstone optics with a handsome sneer, gesturing gracefully aside. “Lead on, bug.”
“I’ll try not to forget my directions and get us hopelessly lost.” The scout waddles past, smirk deepening. He waddles a bit ahead, then asks slyly, “You staring at my rear bumper again?”
“N-no! Don’t be ridiculous! I would never even dream of it!”
“Alrighty, then. Keep up, or this rear bumper goes without you.”
Starscream glares defiantly at Bumblebee’s aft, following after the hypnotic sway. Ugh, so annoyingly fat. How dare he!
Clobber sips Energon through a straw noisily due to recent repairs to her face plate. She is cheerfully unbothered by the sneers and scowls she garners just existing and being less pretty or polite than other femmes dining in the mess hall. The Seekers are arguably the most judgmental lot, especially considering the Seeker happily sat with her seems equally unbothered.
“Hey, Warp, uh…” Nova Storm clears her vents, elbowing her sister. “Since Lord Megatron’s still in recovery and the Commander isn’t in the mood for us, we’re left to our own devices. We kinda have some free time to kill but we don’t gotta actually kill people. Sounds relaxing, right? Wanna play Cube with us?”
Skywarp flicks her wings with interest. She adorably chews on raw Energon crystals, too low in quality to be worthwhile expending the resources required in processing the crystals into liquid, although they are given to the soldiers as nutritious and tasty snacks. Shockwave intends to have them all consuming his artificial Energon alternative eventually, despite what Megatron would proclaim.
“Think the old battleaxe could spare you for a couple hours for some family fun?”
“Aw, the General won’t mind, Sky, I say go for it,” the tank interjects, laying her pincer fondly upon her Seeker friend’s pauldron whilst the siblings sneer at the surely dirty, bruising touch.
Only Thundercracker makes the effort to be nice to Clobber, venturing with timid politeness, “Would you like to come too? We can play grounded, since you don’t fly.”
“Thunder, c’mon,” Thrust groans under his vents. “Don’t invite her.”
“Hey, be nice,” frowning brother whispers aside to scowling brother, as if to avoid the tank’s notice. “She’s Warp’s girlfriend. I think?”
“Sure!” Clobber apparently hears none of this, smiling sweetly. “I’d love to! Can I be on Sky’s team? Please?”
Skywarp answers that by giving Clobber a hug, smiling cutely up at her.
Nova Storm sighs through her vents, as she had wanted to pair up with Skywarp due to favouritism, but she forces a smile all the same. “Suuure. ’Course you can.”
“We won’t go easy on ya,” boasts Thrust with a nasty leer. “Seekers play for keeps. We play to win. Can get pretty competitive out there.”
“Oh, I don’t mind losing, I just enjoy being with Sky. So long as she’s having fun, I am too.”
“That’s so pure,” Thundercracker murmurs with a palm to his breast. “I love that.”
“We need one more player if we’re pairing off.” Nova Storm taps her chin. “I’ve got Thunder. Who’re you taking, Thrust?”
“Dirge and Ramjet, duh. My boys.”
“Bro, that’s not fair.”
“They’re a package.”
“Yeah, but that makes your team a trine! The rest of us are in pairs! Take one!”
“Uuugh. Fiiine. I’ll have them wrestle each other for the privilege.”
“That’s so fragging weird, Thrust.”
“We must return to the Prime. There is so much to discuss.”
“Indeed. Thank you for having us,” Pyra Magna intones with a bow of her helm, not too dramatic. “We were honoured to be in your presence.”
The Mistress of Flame is rather less inclined to give thanks to anyone who is not her rare equal or even her rarer superior, but she does manage a small smile and a parting flourish. “Caminus will always welcome a visit, good doctor. Do allow us to return the hospitality sometime soon.”
Windblade looks nauseous at the prospect of going back just for that, but she keeps her gaze modestly downcast and her posture meek because it is what she was taught to do and it is easier than being authentically herself, or the version of herself she tried to sell to Cybertron – the unbowed, confident, mighty Cityspeaker.
“Thank you. It was lovely to meet you both,” Slipstream says in her best pretence at sincerity, looping a protective arm about her lover’s slender frame, resting their helms together. “I’ll let Chromia know you’re both well. She sends her fondest regards, of course.”
“Of course,” echoes the Mistress with an airy little laugh. It is somehow very offensive. She turns and flounces off. “Come, Pyra, my dear. The Prime awaits.”
“Coming, my Lady.” Pyra Magna hesitates to go however, lingering a moment longer to give Windblade and Slipstream a stoic look each. “I wish you all the happiness of both our worlds. I truly do mean that.” And then, she is gone.
The Cityspeaker sighs quietly. “Thank you, Pyra.”
“She’s not so bad,” murmurs the Seeker.
“No, she’s never been bad.”
“I think she cares.”
“I know she does.”
Halfway down the manicured path, the Torchbearer offers her arm to the Mistress with the exchange of a genuine smile.
Once Pyra Magna and the Mistress of Flame have vanished from sight, Slipstream bursts into tears and Windblade bursts into apologies.
“Have I got something on my face?”
“No.”
“Oh, okay.”
“Why?”
“You’ve been looking real hard at me.”
“Have I?”
“Yeah, but not with murder, y’know? You used to look at me like that, but this look is different.”
“What do my optics convey?”
“I dunno.” Flamewar is is poised over a little holobrochure courtesy of Knock Out, contemplating Shadow Striker’s surgical options with a frown of intense, adorable focus. “But it’s kinda distracting, since I’m trying not to look back and end up caught in a weird staring match.”
“Sorry.” Roulette averts her penetrating gaze then, unable to resist a smile. “I’m just… grateful. You’re helping her and that helps me. So I’m seeing you differently.”
“I said I love her. That’s my boss bot.”
“You just might love her as much as I.”
“Didn’t think I could, right? Because of how evil I was, back when I first knew you, and you knew the original me.”
“I’m an old femme, Flamewar. I’ve carried my burdens far longer than you’ve been alive. What Cannonball and his crew did before you were forged, I never had the right to blame on you. You did enough evil all on your own, but you never hurt my family.”
“Then are we finally cool, for real and not pretend, for your sister’s sake?”
The bounty hunter answers that by leaning over the bike’s pauldron to browse the holobrochure with her, comfortably close.
“Cool,” Flamewar says with a fanged smile, leaning back against Roulette’s breast. “Help me figure out a budget for these parts. It’s gonna be a big one.”
“Primus, that’s depressing.”
Shadow Striker practices lifting and lowering a modest weight under the supervision of a nurse with some time, pretending not to notice her lover and sister nestled together over plans for her future.
“I’m so sorry,” Windblade says within a crushing hug. She is so much stronger than she should be, based on her general scale. “Forgive me. I failed to keep you safe.”
Slipstream is unable to break away. Not that she intends to attempt an escape. She just thinks about walking away and disappearing forever, as if to escape the mortification, the pain.
“I love you, Slip. I honour you and treasure you and desire you in every way that matters. She can never, ever take that away from us, no matter what she expects from us. We owe her nothing.”
“I’m destined to disappoint her.”
“Me too. And that’s too bad.”
The Seeker rests her chin atop the Cityspeaker’s helm.
“It’s our life, Slip. We’re living it for ourselves and the people who make living worthwhile.”
“Yeah.”
“We don’t need anyone telling us who we are or what to do. We can choose for ourselves.”
“Yeah.”
The non-committal replies to these impassioned pleas draw Windblade’s upcast kisses, seeking Slipstream’s throat, jaw, chin
The Seeker smiles weakly and helps by leaning in, lowering herself to meet the Cityspeaker’s desperation, kissing her back.
“Mmmph. I fragging love the scrap outta you. Mmmph. Big, beautiful person of mine. Mmmph.”
“Yours.”
Windblade’s kisses are tokens of apology and reassurance and reconciliation. The glossa that slips between them and worms hotly inside happens because sometimes she redirects emotional passion into physical expression so as to diffuse and cope with just being herself.
Slipstream has the day off and she has nowhere to escape to, but part of her wants to go. Where would she flee? Back to him? No. Never again, surely, not that again. But she does miss him. She does miss her siblings. She would not be happier for leaving, so why can she not be happy here, where she is, if she is condemned to stay?
Perhaps sensing something is wrong, the Cityspeaker breaks their kiss and withdraws just far away enough to gaze upon the Seeker with those big blue optics brimming with tears.
“Don’t stop.”
“Are you sure?”
In reply, Slipstream sinks slowly, joints creaking with the strain of poising her large, heavy self upon her knees. She seats her callused palms upon Windblade’s shapely aft and coaxes her closer, nuzzling into the hot crux between her thighs, ruby optics upcast.
“You know I always want you,” the Cityspeaker utters breathily as her codpiece is kissed. “But if you don’t want me right now–” Her shutters flutter at the swipe of a glossa over her tightening modesty panels.
“Open,” the Seeker says, her voice rich and powerful.
“Slip, I’m trying to be decent to you.”
“I know. You’re the best thing, and the worst thing, to ever happen to me.”
“You’ve said that before.”
“I have. And I’m telling you, I regret knowing you every day, but I could never undo the things you do to me.”
“Damn.” A slender servo fondly caresses a rugged helm. “That’s just what a pretty femme does to a good girl, huh?”
Ruby optics flash with inward light against the outer darkness framing an angular, pale face pressed to the musk of interfacing equipment powering up. “Frag my face,” say those inky dermas, smiling ruefully under plump gloss.
“It’ll distract us, I guess. Make us feel better for a while. Bring us closer, after… all of that.”
“Do you feel me drifting away?”
“I won’t let you go, Slip. Never.”
“The Cube’s a bit old, so it might not work a hundred percent of the time.” Thundercracker pats the ancient, thoroughly abused toy fondly and it lights up, flickering sickly blue, on the fringe of death yet defiant. “Not fancy like the real one they use in the stadium, but it does the job. Mostly. Could just power down and fall on someone’s pede, but whatcha gonna do?”
“If Acid was still here, they’d maintain it for us,” Thrust mutters moodily, leaning on Dirge’s huge arm. “But they’re not here and our Cube won’t last forever.”
Nova Storm sighs sadly at that, nodding. “Yeah.”
Skywarp’s wings drop as she finds Clobber’s pincer to hold, garnering a very gentle little squeeze back.
The Seekers collectively take a moment to mourn their loss.
“…Okay. No more moping. Let’s play.”
“Frag yeah!” Thrust kicks off on his thrusters, performing the most magnificent twirl mid-air that even Starscream would applaud. After all, this is the finest flier the Seekers have, as well as a suitable show-off. “We’re gonna trounce you aftholes, right, Dirge!”
Dirge grunts unintelligently but enthusiastically, attempting a twirl of his own, but with far less the grace of a dancer and more akin to a cyberbull.
“Yeah, right!” Nova Storm flexes her muscles beside the gently smiling Thundercracker. “My mech and I are gonna show you how it’s done, for real!”
“Nuh-uh!”
“Yuh-huh!”
Skywarp bounces playfully, pulling eagerly on Clobber’s arm, the shy but enthusiastic tank attempting a little dance to express her own excitement.
“Remember, Thrust! We play grounded today! No aerial advantage for you!”
“Ugh! Nova, I know! I’m not dumb! We gotta make it fair. Whatever.”
“But you are gonna lose! Ha! You’re way slower on pede than me!”
“Bring it on, glitch!”
“Guys, play nice.”
And so the chaotic game of Cube commences with Nova Storm throwing the Cube above their impromptu playing field, thereby activating the rudimentary software within.
Clobber is not good at Cube, it turns out, but by Primus she does her best, laughing with Skywarp every lumbering step as they chase the Cube together. They do not take the game nearly as seriously as Thrust and Nova Storm, who vie the most for control over the Cube, with Thundercracker doing his best to make sure nobody gets hurt and Dirge finding himself generally just confused as to what the rules actually are but having a great time anyway.
Passing Decepticons and Autobots stop to watch the ridiculous game, amused. A modest crowd is assembled, cheering on their favourite competitors, typically split between Nova Storm and Thrust as the most obviously decent players.
In a shocking turn of events, Skywarp sneakily snatches the cube from between her siblings and sprints off, trilling mischievously as they pursue her.
“Warp, you scraplet, gimme it!”
“Gonna getcha for that, sis!”
“Damn, Seekers are so dumb, almost as dumb as tanks,” says an onlooking Decepticon, scoffing at the ridiculous game. “Can’t do scrap right, ’cept fight. Decent soldiers, nothin’ else, the whole lot.”
“Yeah, but Seekers are really hot,” answers an Autobot in the audience. “Makes up for having ’em around. Can’t say the same for tanks.”
“What ’bout Megatron?”
“He’s kinda bad, for an old guy. Would.”
“Would.”
Skywarp, finding herself cornered without any escape from Nova Storm and Thrust, elects to hurl the Cube over their helms with force.
“Whoa!” Lumbering behind, Clobber catches the Cube, unexpectedly lobbed at her. “I got it?” And so she suddenly finds herself clutching the Cube in her pincers, feeling the Energon surging within. “I got it!” Now all she has to do, is hold onto the Cube long enough to score an absorption. Thus far, in this chaotic match, nobody has managed it. “Sky, look, I got the–”
Perhaps due to being played with too roughly for too long with minimal maintenance to stave off the inevitable, or perhaps due to the sheer strength within this clumsy and cumbersome grasp, or perhaps due to the cruelty of life itself, none will ever know – the Cube shatters into bits.
Suddenly, the game is over.
Autobots and Decepticons burst into raucous laughter whilst Clobber sags where she stands over a pile of flickering, sputtering bits, meekly apologising.
“That was so uncool! We let you play with us and you break our stuff!”
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to–”
“That was our only Cube!”
“Maybe I can get you guys a new one?”
“Oh, please! Don’t bother!”
“But I’d like to make it up to you.”
“Make it up to us by staying away! You smell bad! Warp, c’mon! If she smashes a Cube without even trying, she’s way too outta control for you anyway! Glitch is dangerous!”
“Dangerous…?” Clobber looks utterly devastated, contemplating her crude pincers with the horror for her very shape.
Nova Storm and Thrust exchange a nasty look and mutter darkly about how dumb this whole idea was whilst strutting off in a shared sulk.
Thundercracker is utterly appalled, trying and failing to say something nice, so he quietly escapes the situation with a sigh.
Dirge gives Clobber an apologetic pat on the back, because even he thought that was way too mean, then hurries after his older siblings, grunting all the while.
Skywarp stays here, silent and staring, wings pointed to the ground.
“I’m a demolitions bot. I work in construction, so I can put big things together, like building a home or something, but that’s not why I’m built like this.” The tank snaps her pincers with a soft sigh. “I’m only really good for smashing stuff, even when I don’t mean to. They’re right about me. Now they’re mad at me and people are laughing at you. I’m so sorry, Sky.”
The Seeker warbles her disagreement as she throws herself forward and hugs her friend tight.
“I’m getting you in trouble. You don’t deserve it.”
Skywarp does not stop hugging Clobber until the outer world calms around them, quietening down.
The crowd thus soon loses interest, dissipating and taking their mockery with them.
“I, uh… I oughta go look for something to clean this mess up.”
The concerned Seeker eases away, gazing up at the humble tank.
“Go after your people, Sky. I’ll catch up with you later.”
Skywarp shakes her helm and remains exactly where she is. “No.” Her voice is rough with disuse.
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
A tear bursts free from the curve of Clobber’s singular optic and pools in her soft, sad smile.
“Love you.”
“Love you too, Sky.”
“You know, instead of bullying me out of your own jealousy–”
“Envy, bug. We’ve been over this distinction, if you can recall.”
“Whatever. You totes have a bad case of both for me. Anyway!”
Starscream gives Bumblebee a withering look from across the booth.
“Instead of all that salt, you could’ve just asked me to be your friend.”
“You cannot actually be serious.”
“Dude, ouch. I love making friends.”
“I do not.”
“You should try it,” the scout retorts cheerfully over his Energon slushy, before a noisy slurp, gazing adorably across the booth at the sullen Seeker. “Mmm. That’s good.”
“It’s also exceedingly fattening.”
“It’ll go straight to my hips.”
Starscream really has no idea what he is doing here with Bumblebee, apparently seated together in a cosy booth in a recently opened establishment of modest means intended to amuse rowdy families and host uninspired romantic dates. They are sat together to partake in some sort of social affair, whatever it might be, and it is surreal.
“Windblade likes my hips. She’ll dig me plump.”
“I truly don’t need to know that, bug.”
“Anyway, like I was saying. If we were friends back then, you could’ve solved a lotta problems and spared yourself a lotta stress.”
“I… suppose.”
“You could’ve had a whole crew hanging with your Seekers. It would’ve made things way easier for Windblade when she was acting all silly over how hunky Slip is. Might’ve got a new recruit, even. Imagine if that night at the Cube game, instead of trying to sabotage the championship match like a total dweeb, you, me, and Windblade were rocking it up there in the best seats, having fun.”
“I hate Cube. I would’ve been terribly bored.”
“Buuut not lonely!”
The Commander’s gemstone optics widen.
“Ah, that hit a nerve. Sorry.”
“No, I concede to it.”
“You do?”
“I have always been lonely. My Seekers never could comfort me with their company, though they did try. None could satisfy me, nobody could contend with this - this - I know not. A yawning ache for more, ambition ever gnawing. This sensation of unfulfilled potential burning like madness within my–”
The scout picks the wrong moment to noisily slurp his slushy. “Oops. Sorry.”
“Ugh. It’s nothing. Never mind.”
“Clearly it’s something to you.”
“It never ends, bug. My unhappiness is incurable.”
“Hey. Don’t say that.”
“Not over. Never over. Never, ever over.”
Bumblebee pushes his cup aside. With a brave inhale and a passing thought as to how dumb he is being right now, he reaches over the booth and finds that larger servo clenched in a trembling fist atop the little table between them.
Suddenly touched, the sensation is electric. Starcream’s seared gaze darts from his salad to the small servo laid over his fist, then scrolls upward to glare into clear, crystalline blue framed in sunny yellow opposite.
“It can get better.”
“Even for me?”
“Even for you.”
The Commander’s fist quivers and dissolves, freeing his digits to slacken into a surrender below another servo laid atop.
The scout offers a kind, patient smile, dragging his thumb across sculpted knuckles bereft of violence.
“You are not as disgusting as I wanted you to believe, bug.”
“I know I’m not, but you can’t handle how I make you feel.”
“You have friends who love you. You smile and laugh with these people who want you. There is always someone to welcome you in.”
“I’m not afraid of being close to people. Also, I’m adorable and charming and tonnes of fun. You’re rude, aloof, and no fun at all.”
“Perhaps I’m just a different sort of fun.”
“You get no glitches. I get hella glitches.”
“Do I look like the sort who would care?”
“You look like you need a hug, actually.”
Starscream sniffles wetly, his wings hiked in embarrassment. “Dammit.”
“Aw, I’m sorry. I was just teasing you with the no glitches bit.”
“It’s not that, you sunny idiot. It’s… everything. Everything!”
Bumblebee does not dare a hug, because that might be suicide, but he does gently weave their digits together atop the table with a friendly buzz of his engine. “It’s okay. Let it all out.”
“They shall look at m-me. They shall laugh at my weakness…”
“Nobody’s laughing. Nobody’s looking. Have a good cry.”
“Megatron is hurt, my Seekers are hurt, I am hurt…”
“There, there. Express the way you feel.”
“It’s all gone to ruin. I am a failure.”
“You’re not a failure. C’mon, now. There’s loads more you could do.”
“Do y-you really think… I could still succeed?”
“You can always turn things around.”
The Commander recalls his many plans with a shuddering sob, yet he is bolstered, encouraged, clinging to the sole friendly servo in this world, offered to him.
“Here,” the scout says sweetly, using his free servo to dig within his storage to retrieve a nearly folded silken textile. “I’ve been meaning to give it back to you. Remember? Those two Decepticon goons had me cornered in a stall. They wanted to hurt me and you scared them off.”
Starscream blubbers and accepts the token, mopping daintily at his face.
“Don’t worry. I washed it. You’re not getting my cooties.”
“Ohhh, don’t be r-ridiculous. There’s no such thing.”
“So you do admit grounders aren’t inherently dirty.” Bumblebee chuckles softly. “Ah, Starscream. I dunno quite what to make of you any more.”
“L-likewise, bug.”
“We must prepare a pilgrimage to Caminus, oh living Prime! There, the people will have their faith rewarded and hope restored by the light of your Matrix! You will be worshipped as a god!”
“I do not desire worship, my Lady, nor do I believe I am the figure to frame one’s faith and hope made manifest.”
“What?”
“Though I would be glad to visit your home-world at an opportune time. Windblade has told me it is most beautiful in person. Unfortunately, this is not an opportune time.”
“How can you be so… humble?”
“Hi, General. We’re reporting back, like you said.”
“Very good. Hello to you both, Clobber and Skywarp.” Alpha Strike is seated at her desk, reviewing a data packet with intelligent optics focused on the task, capable of great concentration in spite of her brutish appearance. “Welcome back to base.”
“Thanks, General. Good to be back.” Clobber admires her commanding officer for being so smart and strong. Admires her a whole lot. “Good to see you. We like seeing you, Sir.”
Skywarp chirps her agreement as she flops into her assigned chair, as she spends much of her time in this office, being a surprisingly clever and capable assistant. Being competent (and cute) does come with certain perks.
“Did you have fun?” This is such an absurd question, coming from the fearsome, ferocious old General, still busy reviewing her latest report.
“Um.” The tank glances at the Seeker, sharing a cringe. “Mostly.”
“Mostly?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Why mostly?” Alpha Strike finally looks up, her piercing gaze sweeping from Skywarp to Clobber, back and forth a few times. “Why not entirely? You both seem upset.”
“You noticed. You notice everything, General. It’s like nothing can escape you. It’s really cool.”
“I must always be aware of the condition of each member within my unit.” Alpha Strike leans in slowly, elbows propped heavily upon her groaning desk, peering through narrowed optics as she assesses her subordinates more closely. It is a very intimidating situation to be in, except for the concern in her voice as she intones lowly, “What is the matter?”
Skywarp makes a moody warbling sound, flicking her wings irritably, sullen in her seat.
“It’s my fault. I broke something I wasn’t supposed to, by accident. Now everybody’s mad at me and Sky’s mad at everybody because of me.”
“Everybody?”
“The Seekers.”
“What was broken?”
“I broke their Cube trying to play with them. Poor Sky got caught up in it, since they’re her family, and they were really mad at me, but she still wants to be with me so now I’m worried what they’ll say to her later.”
“I see. And now you both feel ostracised by association together.”
“Something like that, Sir.”
“Unacceptable. I will not permit any of my heavies to feel unsafe within Decepticon territory through no fault of their own. We are the fists of Megatron’s army and we will be respected as such.”
“General?”
“I will speak with the Commander and arrange for a replacement Cube. In addition, I intend for a meeting between affected parties, in which peace will be settled. This resentment will not be prolonged into a feud. We are all comrades here.”
“A feud. You think people could get hurt.”
“The disorganised, unruly Decepticons stationed beyond the scope of my authority are consistently engaging in fights. Have you seen them?”
“Yeah. I’ve seen a few punches thrown in the mess hall. One guy stabbed the other with a fork just the other day. Such a little fork, such a big guy, but it was horrible how he screamed so high and hard, and then he just passed out in his tray. Never even fought back against the little guy, just took it and screamed. They had to carry him out, almost as big as me. The little guy just went on eating like he hadn’t just stabbed someone. I felt so bad. Like I should’ve done something to stop it.”
“There is responsibility in being bigger and stronger, Clobber. You would not do anyone harm on purpose, except by my direction, yes?”
“I don’t wanna hurt anyone, General, but if you tell me to, I will.”
“That is all I need from you. You are a good soldier, Clobber. You are obedient and you are capable, but your Spark is pure. I can trust you to do what is right even without my direction. Not every soldier can be so trusted. In time, you may master your full strength. Until then, practice forgiveness for yourself.”
Clobber rubs her burly forearm with a sniff, looking up into the optics of her superior officer with puppyish forlorn. “Thank you, Sir. I’ll try.”
“In the meantime, I do not wish for you to come to harm, reluctant as you are to defend yourself. I would be deeply angered, if you were harmed because of your innocence.”
“I’m the bigger guy. But you’re worried I’m the one who gets hurt.”
“Seekers are not weak. They are exceedingly dangerous pack hunters.”
“Even Sky?”
“Well…”
Skywarp is gently teased by a huge digit hooked gently beneath her chin, stroking against her throat as she coos against the stimulation, fluttering her wings and perching ever more cutely in her chair. Her seat is situated close to her superior’s desk, easily within reach for occasional pettings like this one. Very strategic.
“I know Skywarp could do significant damage to me, if she truly wanted to. She could gauge out my optics, slice the cables in my throat, disembowel me in an instant, faster than my combat protocols could react. Is that correct, Skywarp?”
A musical chirp seems to confirm that this is no pet cyberdove, but a different beast entirely.
“Wow. But Sky’s so…” The tank gestures at the adorable Seeker enjoying scratches under her chin courtesy of the smiling old General. “She’s so Sky! I haven’t met any Seeker sweeter than my friend Sky. You couldn’t hurt the General, Sky, you couldn’t hurt anybody unless it was soldier stuff.”
Skywarp suddenly bites the huge digit that pets her, evidently overstimulated from being touched.
“Oh!”
Unoffended, Alpha Strike withdraws as demanded, wagging her wounded digit with a hiss through vents. “Ouch, songbird.”
“Too many pets,” Clobber intones with endearing seriousness.
“Indeed. Too many pets.”
“Does she usually bite?”
“No. Only sometimes.”
The tank giggles as the Seeker preens herself with cool confidence, like she did not just bite the General.
“Sometimes she will give me the look and I will succumb to it,” Alpha Strike grumbles with humour, inspecting her digit for any bleeding. “Only once I have drawn close enough for pets, does she bite me hard. Other times I am not bit and it is harmony within this office. Our dynamic is like a game to her.”
“Sky’s nibbled on me a few times, but nothing sore.”
“That is because she is especially fond of you.”
“I think she’s real fond of you too, General.”
“Is this true, Skywarp? Am I tolerable?”
Skywarp pauses her preening, currently busy inspecting one of her wings for dirt or damage, and winks in answer before resuming her self-maintenance.
Alpha Strike chuckles throatily.
Clobber smiles at them. “Maybe you should let Sky give you pets.”
“I am sure she would, if I were so designed.”
“You don’t think you’re the right shape for pets?”
“Do I look appropriately shaped to receive pets, Clobber?”
“I think so, ’cause I’m shaped like you and I love pets. I’d give you pets, Sir.”
The Seeker pauses, very intrigued to see where this is going.
The General stares at the tank.
“Uh. Did I say something weird?”
“Moderately weird, yes.”
“Oops. Sorry.”
Skywarp looks from one hulking femme to the other with interest.
“Forget what I said.” Clobber raises her pincers with a mournful sigh. “I’m not built to give pets to anyone, anyway.”
Alpha Strike feels a pang in her ample breast, where her ancient Spark still glows.
“I don’t blame the Seekers for worrying about Sky. They’re scared for their sister, worried I might…”
“You would not harm Skywarp, Clobber. Not in the way you are imagining, never on purpose.”
“But a mistake can be just as terrible, Sir.”
“The bond between you two comes with many challenges. There are certain differences between her frame and yours. Such challenges can be overcome together. Forgive yourself and let her tell you what it is she wants and needs. You are a good person, Clobber, and Skywarp trusts you to be gentle.” The old General pauses to admire the bite wound in her digit. “If gentle is what she prefers, that is.”
The Seeker trills, bobbing her wings and kicking her heels as she now perches on the edge of the desk, forgoing the chair entirely. She gestures invitingly to the tank, encouraging her to approach.
“Sky?” Clobber does so, lumbering into the office until close enough for her pincer to be captured and cradled against a cheek. “Sky…”
Skywarp nuzzles the crude pincer as if it were a conventional servo, kisses the powerful tool akin to digits.
“Aw, Sky.”
“You two will figure it out,” Alpha Strike rumbles reassuringly, the facial vents lending distortion to her contentment. “Young love almost always does. That is a lesson I have learned now that I am too old for such things.”
“Nobody’s too old to be loved, Sir.”
The General remembers her dearly departed consort from long ago, taken again by that same deep sense of sadness that has faded with millennia but never goes away. Her vents rattle with a sigh.
The Seeker purrs against the tank’s pincer, coaxing an awkward yet undeniably tender stroking motion from the unfitting implement.
“Gonna bite me too, Sky?”
Skywarp grins wickedly as if to say maybe, bobbing her wings and kicking her heels.
“That’s okay.” Clobber smiles down at her friend, then looks up at their superior officer, smile fading a bit. “Thank you for the talk, Sir. I’ll think about what you said, especially about forgiving myself. With Sky’s help, I’ll figure things out. Maybe the Seekers can forgive me too.”
Alpha Strike is still thinking about Obsidian as she nods distantly, watching her subordinates express their bond through gentle intimacy in her presence. She does not mind, truly she is glad for them to have discovered each other, but it does feel lonely. She is without someone.
The gentle pincer attempts to trail the length of the Seeker’s jaw, only to slip and loosely wrap about her muscular neck.
“Sorry!” Immediately, the tank intends to yank back her pincer, only for two servos to seize her by the swell of her forearm and keep her there. Her singular optic bulges, cheeks flushed.
Even the old General’s brows arch. It is not easy to draw actual astonishment out of her.
“Sky, what – oh!”
A low hum passes from Skywarp’s throat as she excitedly processes the feeling of being collared by Clobber’s pincer about the neck, loose enough not to harm. Her optics are entirely unafraid. When she releases that huge forearm, the pincer stays and she inhales deeply within the restraint.
“Oh…”
Alpha Strike is ready to intervene, though she knows she does not need to.
The tank opens and shuts her intake a few times, optic wide upon the Seeker’s own expression of surprise and desire. She looks to their commanding officer as if for further instructions.
“Ah. I am not permitted to witness this. It is fraternisation. There are rules.”
“Oh! Sorry, Sir. It’s sorta just… happening? Sky, we should stop. C’mon.”
The Seeker flutters her wings, bodily shuddering as the pincer withdraws, freeing her throat to bob reflexively with her swallow, gulping audibly. What the frag was that, she wonders, rubbing her neck and emulating the feeling with her caged digits, and why did she enjoy it? What has awakened in her?
“Do you two wish to take this outside my office?” proposes Alpha Strike with some amusement. “Besides my rank, I am too old for this sort of thing.” Her HUD sends forth very interesting prompts to long-neglected sensory subsystems regardless.
“We definitely need to have a good talk in private about it, Sky.”
Skywarp nods at that, hopping off the desk and following after Clobber’s lumbering exit.
“Oh, I almost forgot – are we dismissed, Sir?”
“You are dismissed.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
The subordinates salute, then let themselves out, leaving their commanding officer to stew alone.
“…Far too old for this…”
“Hey, that wasn’t awful!”
“Of course it wasn’t awful!”
“Oh boy, here we go again…”
“My companionship is most delightful!” Starscream sets his palms on his ample hips and stoops forward, wings flared, optics narrowed. “You should be giddy with delight, bug! Giddy with it!”
“Uh-huh.” Bumblebee looks very unimpressed, in his placid way. “I was gonna say that I had fun.”
“Of course you did!”
“Like, I know we had a tough talk back there, but we salvaged the occasion. I actually didn’t hate hanging with you.”
“I tolerated you, bug. It was… not too difficult.”
“Cool. Super flattered over here.”
“You’re the one honoured to be seen with–” The Commander juts out a hip, wiggles his wings coquettishly and pouts, still stooped forward to even out their difference in height. “Me.” His shutters lower.
The scout sighs at the display. “I must be going crazy, because you’re actually a little endearing all of a sudden. Big dork.”
“I am exceedingly endearing. Little twerp.”
“Heh. Okay, pal. See you?”
“If fate smiles on you.”
Bumblebee ignores the flutter in his fuel pump as Starscream rises to his shapely height, turns and saunters off with a click-clack-click-clack of his lethal heel struts, propping up his long, shapely legs that move with power and purpose. “Damn, I wish I could move like that.”
For whatever reason, the Commander pauses, turns to look back over a pauldron, and smiles. “One last thing, bug.”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you.”
The scout blinks dumbly. “For the distraction? Sure, no problem. Maybe we can do this again sometime.”
“Not just the distraction. I listened to what you said, about doing better for myself despite the challenges I face. I had my doubts, though I lack the liberty of many choices, and I am now resolved that this is my way to success.”
“Dude, that’s great! Uh. What’re you gonna do, then?”
“Make a son, of course. The plan remains unchanged.”
“…What.”
“Anyway, I must go and see Shockwave again to present my designs. The decision is final! Toodles, bug.” Starscream resumes his swift saunter, leaving Bumblebee behind, gawking after.
“I can’t remain berthbound whilst the Mistress of Flame–”
“You will remain berthbound until I deem you fit to leave.”
Windblade cannot resist smiling as Slipstream swaps into her matron mode, effectively settling Chromia back into the berth with some grumbling. “Listen to our girl. She knows best.”
“That she does,” the bike mutters, laid back with a huff. “Please tell me the Mistress is not in a fury in my absence.”
“She’s been a bit hungover today, but that should’ve cleared up by now.”
“Hungover? The Mistress of Flame?”
“The very same.” The Cityspeaker sits at the end of the berth, reaching to play with a long blue leg, tracing the firm shell from knee to ankle joint. “It would’ve been funny, but it wasn’t.”
“Windblade, my love, I am so sorry.”
“Hush, Chromia. You did no wrong.”
Slipstream takes advantage of visitation hours by pulling up and chair and making herself comfortable beside the gurney, reviewing the patient’s chart with a nod of apparent satisfaction.
Chromia’s anguish subsides just a little when Windblade smiles.
“Now, I’m no artist,” a rather frazzled Starscream says whilst passing over a datapad, “but I was, shall we say, suddenly inspired. I drew a design for the son. Feel free to change it so that it’s functional, but I think I got the aesthetics down just right.”
“Analysis – there is a prevalence of purple. I approve.”
“As does Megatron. Purple is his favourite colour.”
“Data has been filed away for future reference.”
“Mmyes, very good. Can you work with this?”
“Adjustments to scale and articulation will be necessary.”
“Oh, fine. Again, I’m not an artist, just sleep-deprived.”
Shockwave’s singular optic narrows in critical thought. “Hmm.” He produces a stylus from the multi-tool attached to his severed arm and swiftly doodles a small addition, then turns the datapad around for the other’s purview. “What is your assessment?”
“Oh, um. A Deceptibrand… for a face?”
“Affirmative.”
“Is that not… a little too much, perhaps?”
“Negative.”
“I know we’re trying to appeal to Megatron with the perfect son, but honestly, this branding seems a little cruel, like a mockery.”
“I dislike the resemblance to Soundwave. However, this will be the embodiment of Megatron’s stated ideals.”
“The perfect Decepticon…”
“Affirmative.”
“Are you always this smooth?”
“Nah, not always. Just sometimes.” Arcee points her digit-guns at Greenlight with a wink. “I save it for special occasions.” The digit-guns pretend to fire off a few rounds. “Bang, bang. Mmyeah? Did I hit or miss?”
The green femme giggles shyly behind a palm, sat at the pink femme’s berthside.
“Is it working?”
“It might be.”
“Knock-knock,” Windblade intones from the doorway, smirking knowingly. “Sorry, ladies. You’ve got visitors.”
“We can come back later?”
“Get your afts in here! Gimme hugs and kisses!”
Slipstream inspects Arcee’s repaired helm whilst stooping into a hug, depositing a motherly peck on the shimmering solder. “Any residual dizziness? Visual distortion? A buzzing sound? Pain?”
“I’m doing great, babe. You patched me up real good back there. Any day now they’re gonna slap those fancy medic’s colours on ya.”
“Aw, Arcee, thank you.”
Greenlight smiles at the friends, appreciating their affection from a safe distance, then flushes as she is suddenly under their combined gaze.
“Ladies, this here’s my new friend, and yours too!”
“Oh, um, hi?”
“Forgive me, Prime, you are just…” The Mistress of Flame is pacing in agitation. “Far from whom I imagined you would be. No desire for devotion, no concern for custom…”
“Please look at me, my Lady.”
“Yes, truly, I see you, Prime.”
“Do you see Optimus, or Orion?”
“Who is Orion? Is he the host?”
“I do not like to think of him in that way.” Optimus sighs deeply, stilling her agitated pacing with a raised palm. “Forgive me, my Lady. I do not intend to spurn your devotion. I do not intend to reject the customs of your people.” He has endured this for some hours now and finds his Primely patience frayed at the edges, though he maintains a very gentle countenance as he lays his palm upon her pauldron, his warm touch making her knees tremble. “Mutual understanding will come to us in time. Perhaps we should focus on befriending one another first and foremost.”
“I could do that? Befriend you – a Prime?”
“Indeed, my Lady, I have many friends.”
“Pyra, dearest, is he not most peculiar?”
“Most peculiar, my Lady.”
“I shall need to think…”
Disappointed by this reaction, the Prime removes his servo, but the Mistress snatches it quickly, kissing it over the knuckles. He gives the Torchbearer a faintly awkward look, which she levels with a deeply contemplative narrowing of her piercing optics in return.
“I shall simply have to study you most closely, oh living Prime, and dissect your many mysteries.”
“…Oh.”
“I feel like stuff’s different between us all of a sudden.”
Skywarp and Clobber stand side-by-side beneath a downpour of lukewarm oil, glancing shyly at each other, sneaking glances lower down.
“Used to shower together like it was nothing. But now?”
The Seeker hums lowly in acknowledgment.
The tank sighs, foam gathered upon her heft.
Heavies pay them no attention, preoccupied with their own cleansing and conversation, lumbering about with towels slung over hips and sat on sagging metal benches with scrubbing brushes dug into greasy joints.
“Don’t get me wrong, Sky. I wanna be with you, always.”
Skywarp shuffles a little closer, wings wagging under the oil. She sighs as a huge arm slings familiarly about her slick form. She snuggles against Clobber’s bigger, greasier body.
“It’s cool. We’ll figure this out. It’s not bad. It’s… nice.”
The Seeker chirps.
“Nice.” The tank flushes, smiling coyly aside, singular optic fluttering demurely. “Really nice. Nicer than I can say. Nicest thing to ever happen to me, and it’s with the nicest girl I’ve ever met. I feel nice with you. Just wish I had fancier words, but it’s like I ate a truckload of cyberflies and they’re fluttering around inside my tummy. Does that make sense, Sky?”
Yes, it certainly does, and the feeling is entirely mutual.
“I wanna explore this nice new thing we got. I mean, if you want. We can probably go back to how it was before, or maybe we can’t, but I’ll always be your friend, no matter what.” Clobber brings her pincer before her face. “I trust you, Sky. Way more than I trust my own strength. But you trust me. So, uh, I’ve been thinking about the General, what she said to us. Been thinking about you.”
Skywarp reaches for her own throat, squeezing softly, massaging.
“Maybe…”
“I’m sorry, Bee. I should’ve told you, I just hoped to somehow pretend. I swore Chromia to secrecy, so please lay all the blame on me, only I deserve it.”
“Bestie, you know my mentor was a real piece of work, so I have zero intention of ever letting you meet the bastard. Why would I ever judge you? I was taken aback by all that, but I wasn’t gonna blame you for it.”
Windblade’s cheek is kissed.
“Thank you for telling me your truth,” Bumblebee says, nestled against Slipstream atop their couch. He does not wear his sling this evening, though the bruising has yet to fully subside. “I just wish you felt safe. I can see how unsafe you feel right now.”
“My past haunts me, Bee.”
“We’re your future, bestie.”
“Too sore for a shower.”
“Okay, sponge bath it is.”
Shadow Striker slouches on a bare metal stool, scowling at her pedes whilst allowing her mismatched limbs to be manipulated as needed throughout the cleansing process.
Flamewar and Roulette do this intimate activity together, coordinating calmly and quietly over soapy suds and scented oils.
The mercenary’s arms are raised as sponges pass below. She winces in pain, but grits her jaw and stubbornly stifles it. Her optic glares hotly ahead, her scope swivelling in its socket, a crimson pinprick. Her arms are soon lowered again, joints screaming.
“Easy,” the bike murmurs as she mops at belly and breasts, leaving the bounty hunter to wash the back. “We won’t be long, boss bot, then we can get you tucked into berth with a nice nutritional paste.”
“I hate that fragging scrap.”
“It’s good for you.”
“Don’t care.”
Flamewar meets Roulette’s gaze from over a dark pauldron.
Shadow Striker’s scope fixes in place as the all-seeing, unblinking lens swells with fire.
“Sky, I really don’t have a lotta, uh, experience in that sorta stuff, so…”
Skywarp shrugs as if to say, hey, me neither, I dunno what I’m doing.
“I’m not saying it makes me feel uncomfortable or that it’s a hard no. But…” Clobber takes up most of the bunk they share, but she is also very cuddly, and so she tends to overflow at least partially on purpose just to have a warm place to rest her helm upon the smaller femme’s breastplate, hugging her about the chassis, one heavy leg thrown over another to hug about the thighs, entangled. “You know I never wanna hurt you on purpose. I’m just so big and clumsy, so I’m scared I might make a mistake, like how I crushed that Cube by accident.”
The Seeker warbles softly in acknowledgment, drawing shapes with her digits over the tank’s ample back strut.
“I really didn’t mean to. It just happened. One second I had the Cube, and then the next it was in a million pieces at my pedes. Didn’t even feel it happen. If I ever did something like that to you…” Clobber clutches her helm with her pincers, shuddering all over. “I can’t even imagine that, Sky.” The whispers, intended to avoid disturbing other heavies in their own bunks, convey genuine fear.
Skywarp kisses her friend atop her helm, soothing with a coo.
“How could you even want me like that? How could you look at me and think of me that way? I’m not pretty, or smart, or–” The tank’s self-deprecation is entirely silenced by a single digit to her intake, very gentle on account of recent repairs to her face.
The Seeker traces those soft dermas, depositing more kisses lazily over the domed helm.
Clobber’s intake is still tender from repairs as she kisses the rubberised pad of that digit.
Skywarp smiles at the sensation, then gasps when her digit is suddenly submerged it tight wet heat. Her interface array activates with a hum of her cooling fans on full blast in an instant of undeniable arousal. She is sure others can hear the telltale hum, because someone in a neighbouring bunk giggles immaturely at her expense.
“Mmm,” moans the tank about the digit, suckling slow and deep, mindful not to put too much pressure on her jaw. With her helm at rest upon the Seeker’s bosom, the air cast by those humming cooling fans blasts across an emerging shy smirk, sealed about the knuckle of that submerged digit.
Skywarp has never taken a lover. She has flirted with a few potential suitors, but she has only really wanted two people, and one of those two people can surely only reside in the realm of naughty fantasy of an older femme taking proper command in every sensual way. The other person, a best friend unaware of her beauty and charm and grace, is attainable after all, it would seem, if she can overcome being afraid of her own strength.
Clobber’s temperature readings have spiked. She is huge and hot and very cuddly, overflowing across her berthmate, evidently receptive. “Mmm. Mmm. Mmm.” Oh, how the fear subsides, something equally primordial swelling in its place.
This activity will not progress far beyond the suckling due to there being so little privacy in the barracks. It is nearly impossible to so much as self-service without someone noticing. And possibly self-servicing too.
The Seeker is panting, pinned against the shapely body of the hot, huge, heavy tank, stuffed together upon this cramped berth. If simply having one digit sucked is enough to get this excited over, interfacing can only be incredible.
Suddenly, the suckling and those quiet moans stop altogether. The digit is released, popping free with a trail of drooled oral lubricant, dermas smacking softly in the dim. Clobber shuffles upward with a terrible groan of the berth below, trying to move carefully so as not to actually collapse the strained recharge slab and risk squashing her berthmate. She hovers over the curve of that throat, singular optic soft and deep, her pincer hovers too and hesitates.
Skywarp bites her derma like a little slag, admittedly, cooling fans practically screaming her intentions to any heavies yet to fall into recharge. She ignores the juvenile giggles and flirty whistles and curses to be quiet, just gazing lustily into that sole optic that matters.
“You trust me.”
A nod.
“I love you.”
Another nod.
“You want this. Right?”
An enthusiastic array of nods.
“If I hurt you, I’m so sorry. Just signal me to stop, okay? I’ll be so gentle, gentle as I can. I’ll really try for you, Sky.”
The Seeker whines as the pincer collars her again, with enough space for her to bend her neck, leaning into the tank’s grasp from different angles as if to feel her everywhere.
“Do you like that?”
The nodding is accompanied by a grin by now.
“Is it okay if we stop here? I dunno if I’m ready for…”
Skywarp interrupts with a whorish moan.
“Oh, would you two keep it down!” Demolishor snaps from across the barracks. “Primus’ ball-bearings, femmes, some of us need our sleep to function! I’m old!”
“Sorry,” Clobber calls back with a nervous chuckle. “We’re done, I think? Sky, we’re done, right? We can stop?”
The Seeker nods with a knot between her brows and a gaping intake, the image of a femme caught in passion. Seekers are all built to be beautiful, but she happens to be among the finest of the flock, particularly with a look of indisposed abandon.
“Later, okay?” The tank removes her pincer very carefully, then leans into the crook of her friend’s neck and kisses her there, nuzzling into the cables. “Let’s give the guys a break, maybe get some sleep. Cuddle sounds nice, yeah?”
Skywarp purrs, writhing atop the berth, effectively pinned down. She loves it. Her arms wrap around every bit of this bulky body.
Clobber settles here, face buried against that handsome throat, smiling.
An initially terrible day turned out to be one of the very best days ever.
Notes:
You've all been wonderful to write for. I treasure your feedback and readership. Thank you.
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