Blurr is doing Fine. As fine as he can, circumstances considered.

Blurr spent the days following his spectacular exit of the command center (as Bumblebee had put it, bemoaning the fact that he could not have witnessed it himself) checking the real estate market. He needed a project, ideally a project which could also double as work and would hopefully keep him occupied enough to keep his traumatic experience where it belonged - in the past.

He flagged a couple of locations and gathered intel on the Iaconian districts which were bound to become popular over time but were not there just yet. His unbiased network of real-estate spec-ops agents aka Jazz, Blaster and, surprisingly, Ratchet provided him with plethora of ideas for possible areas.

Prowl had suggested going through city development plans to glean a bigger picture. The prospects were publicly accessible and after an early morning visit to the city hall the blue speedster leisurely traveled down the street with relevant pads secured under his servo. He sped past a news-banner, scrolling the latest political development with regards to Decepticon fugitives. Blurr forced himself not to look into it too much, all he needed to know was that they were still on the run.

He settled in one of the open-air diners, ordering his favorite blend of energon (finally after decacycles of subsiding on med-grade) and pored over the municipal development plans. The old docks looked promising, he cross-checked with his list of prospective buildings and came across an abandoned oilhouse east side of the old dock district. Humming to himself he pinged the owner.

To a casual onlooker he looked like a young enterpreneur mech out for his morning energon. He sipped his cube and looked at the mecha rushing around; courrier mecha and cargo shuttles zipped down the street, cleaning drones maintained the glistening buildings, an occasional rescue vehicle trudged past. His sight drifted towards another news-banner, now displaying the images of fugitive Decepticons, one in particular drew his attention. Antennae and a single red optic, seems Shockwave was among the ones who had escaped, Blurr's mouth drew into a tight line.

Resolved not to let the news spoil his day he checked his personal messages; the oil-house owner had responded, they were meeting that afternoon. It was mid-morning, the solar rays pleasantly warmed his plating and he stretched in his seat. The way things were going he was in for a lot of fun being his own boss.

The way to the meeting point was a tad bumpy but the area was surprisingly neat and just teetered in that end of lower-end income which was not necessarily criminal. Blurr allowed himself a look around the surrounding streets as the owner had pinged him that he would be late.

The oilhouse stoof on the corner of a crossing and it was missing a couple of windows, the thick metal door was dented, spoting marks of what seemed to be a couple of kicks of construction-class mech and, most notably, perhaps, a vulgar graffiti adorned the entirety of one of the walls. Blurr regarded it with fascination pondering just how much detailing one could put into a 7-mechanomter interface cord; as it appeared, a lot.

He was in for a surprize when the owner arrived and he got to see the inside of the place. Yep, it had dead glichmice, yep, it was rusty and dirty but otherwise the place was literally perfect. The leftover piping and mechanics added a nice touch to the atmosphere, the oil tubs would serve great repurposed as booths. Fingers under chin, Blurr hummed and squinted, already imagining the layout. He had seen a couple of other locations earlier that day, this one was more run-down but it tugged at his spark.

Grinning he turned around to face the owner -"I'll take it."

The credit exchange was complete in a moment and so was the transfer of ownership rights. While the previous owner cast Blurr one last disbelieving glance the racer was already busy cataloguing which things needed to be done. He could not stay long himself, though. His internal alarm pinged him that he had a session to attend.

-"Whoa mech, you've transformed the place!" Several weeks later, Jazz admired the interior - the rust-free support beams, newly-laid floors and repaired windows. -"Not to mention the exterior."

Having known that graffiti in this area was going to be an inevitability Blurr decided to go with the flow of the neighborhood and offered the local street artists a cleaned, primed wall with only 2 rules in place - no political manifestos and no profanities or slurs. The resulting mishmash of colors, wibbly glyphs and in some cases, really stunning patches of work drew an optic but at the same time did not stand out too much from the aesthetics of the surrounding area.

-"It is only the beginning, I am waiting for the bar-table to arrive." Blurr spun around backwards on his wheel, facing Jazz. -"Still thinking on the name."

-"You gotta keep the 'Oil house' in the name. They don't make them like they used to, gotta bank on that." The black and white bot grinned then turned towards his ex-colleague. -"Blurr… I'm so happy for you."

Blurr rubbed his forearm -"Actually I was wondering, I know you like playing the electro-cytar and I know you wanted to go semi-pro."

-"You want me to…" Jazz's visor lit up.

-"Only if you want, I figured you could use a place to start."

Oh Jazz was in on it and at a later point, so was Blaster, asking if he could use Blurr's joint as a venue for launching his mixtapes.

All was good and nice on the surface, Blurr could keep up his buoyant, fast pace of life until he had to recharge, in fact, he would aim to exhaust himself so thoroughly that the only thing he could do after arriving home would be to slump on his sleeping mat and power off.

If the day had not proven to be taxing enough or if exhausting himself did not do the trick some nights he would fill his time with anything that would dampen the echos of what had transpired within the walls of his minimalistic quarters. He would practice juggling, exercise a manner of speaking slower before a polished slab of metal to monitor his movements and gestures and finally fall into recharge whilst reading datapads on interior design.

On the first night he had returned to his home he had (contrary to First Aid's advice not to exert himself) dragged all his bedding and the couch out of his apartment. He had speculated setting it on fire but refrained from it in favor of leaving it on the curb for someone who might actually need it. That night he had slept on the floor and it had been the most liberating feeling he could imagine. That is if his processor did not glitch during his recharge hours.

Like a clock, several cycles into his slumber he would be up, venting heavily, still feeling the remnants of the constricting sensation of his fuel tank pressing backwards into his intake. This time he had an unexpected bonus in form of a red optic which had proven to be the tipping point. Nausea struck and moments later the tang of the back of his fuel tanks indeed graced his taste receptors.

Shivering on the washrack floor he vented deeply and slowly, keeping the onset of a panic attack at bay. He was not going to recharge anymore tonight and he could not stay in his apartment anymore either, since the feeling of walls pressing on him still lingered in the back of his processor. So he went out, drove to the old oil house, pinged the door open to get some more work done. Before he could enter, however, he was blinded by several sets of headlights zipping past him at breakneck speed. Instinctively he jumped into the opened doorway for cover and watched the lights as they disappeared behind the nearest corner.

Street racers… a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, not attackers. The night was still young and he was not inclined to sleep, racing sounded like the right remedy. Keyeing the door back shut he transformed and revved his engines before launching in pursuit of the other participants.

He would have caught up with them sooner had the race path not zigzagged so, several times he lost their sight and had to follow the scattered light reflections to follow the race. He politely drew up to the finish line, making sure not to surpass anyone. He was gatecrashing and he did not wish to steal anyone's spotlight just yet. If he played his cards right he even could gather a little pool of mecha in the know who would spread a word for him once he was in business.

Following the racer courtesy of not crossing the finish line of the race he had not been invited to, he transformed into his root mode and approached the racers.

-"Hi, I'm Blurr and I'm new here."

Heavy hints at Blurr's occupation in Windblade continuity. And now we know why :)

Yes, Blurr's new building had a dick on it.