"There you are." Hound dropped to the ground next to Bluestreak. "You missed rations again. I grabbed yours so that Chromia wouldn't yell at you again for under-fueling yourself."
Bluestreak glanced at the cube that Hound held out to him, then smiled at his friend. "Thanks. I sort of lost track of time." He set the cube aside and turned back to his rifle, which was still scattered in parts on the ground in front of him. "I'll drink it as soon as I'm done with this."
Hound watched Bluestreak clean the refractor coil, then carefully slot the flashguard against the body of the gun. "I can leave you alone if you want," Hound said after a few minutes.
"No, it's all right. I'm almost done." Bluestreak slid the jacket over the assembled rifle, and then inserted the battery clip. He turned it over in his hands once more, checking all of the connections, before setting it aside and picking up the fuel cube. "I just needed some time to think for a bit, and cleaning my weapon helps me organize my thoughts."
Hound nodded. "You've mentioned that before." He sipped at his own ration, then asked, "Did you want to talk about it?"
Bluestreak shrugged and peeled the top from his cube. "Nothing much to talk about. I was just thinking about... You know, stuff." He tipped the cube back and took a gulp.
"I've never known you to not want to talk about something," Hound said quietly. When Bluestreak looked up at him, Hound was watching him with an intent look. "Was it about today's battle?"
With a soft huff of air from his vents, Bluestreak nodded. "Yeah." He looked down at his hands, turning his free hand over to look at his palm, noting the gun oil that had seeped into the gaps between the joints that made up his hand. "How did you know?"
Hound leaned back against the trailer that Bluestreak was hiding behind and finished his ration before answering. "Things I know. Things you've said. And a guess." He glanced at Bluestreak. "This is your first tour since leaving Rodion. I know you didn't see any fighting there. And I know what we've run into since you've joined us."
"We've seen fighting before this," Bluestreak retorted. He grimaced at how sharp his voice had become, and he reset it, trying to keep the memory of the past afternoon from replaying. "I've killed 'Cons before."
Hound made a sound of disagreement. "That was just guerilla stuff before. Taking pot-shots at 'Cons from a distance, setting off their traps, little hit-and-runs. We were just disrupting their plans, and maybe taking a few of them out in the process." He nudged the cube in Bluestreak's hand, urging him to keep fueling, before continuing. "This was the first real firefight we've seen since you joined us." He watched as Bluestreak took another swallow of fuel. "This was the first time we could actually see their faces."
Bluestreak wasn't sure if Hound had meant to do it, but his words made the memory replay with perfect clarity. He remembered how he'd provided cover fire for his unit as they roared into the Decepticon camp. He remembered each sharp crack as he pulled the trigger on his rifle. He remembered watching each Decepticon fall as his shot found its mark.
He hadn't realized he was staring at the empty cube in his hand when Hound patted his knee. "Come on," Hound said. "Let's go for a little walk."
Hound led him behind another trailer, this one angled so that it totally blocked the light from the generator at the center of camp. Hound stopped and looked up, and Bluestreak followed his gaze.
The sky above them was spattered with stars. Some twinkled, flickering like sparks in the darkness, while others shone with a steady and pure light. To the left, the Hydrus nebula rose, streaking the night with reds and yellows.
Bluestreak stared up at the beauty, not sure how he'd missed seeing all of these stars come out as the sky darkened. Maybe it was because he'd been facing the generator in camp with its bright white glow.
"It'll be another hour or so before Luna 1 rises and washes this all out," Hound said, looking upwards with a small smile on his lips. He pointed to their right. "And look: there's one of our comm satellites." He was silent for a minute, then said, "Yeah, that's one of ours."
Bluestreak shook his helm in wonder as he took in the blanket of lights over his helm. "How do you know it's one of ours?" he asked. "Or when Luna 1 rises?"
Hound tapped the side of his helm, his finger creating a quiet chime against the metal. "I installed star charts about a hundred years ago, and try to keep them updated. They come in handy for when our nav system goes down: we can just look to the stars for direction." He leaned back against the trailer, resting his helm against its side. "There's something poetic about that, I think."
Hound's shoulder was warm against Bluestreak's arm. Bluestreak let himself relax, taking in the quiet sounds of the outback around them, and the burble of discussion and laughter from the other members of their unit as they sat around the generator behind them.
It was easy to forget all that had happened that day.
They stood there in silence for several minutes. Then Hound said, "You know, it's all right to feel conflicted about killing mechs, even if they are Decepticons." He kept looking up at the stars, so he didn't see the quick glance that Bluestreak threw his way. "I know I felt really awful when I got my first kill."
Bluestreak thought again of the feel of his rifle in his hands, of the tension in the trigger, of the steady churn of data and measurements as he made each shot. Then he shook his helm. "That's the thing," he said. "I didn't feel anything. Not like I'd expected to." Bluestreak looked down at his hands again, flexing his fingers. They were stained with gun oil instead of energon. Was there a difference? "I'd expected to feel upset, or sad, or angry, or... Anything." He looked at Hound again. "There wasn't anything except a... Except a feeling of satisfaction at having made the shot."
"There's no rule book for how you're supposed to feel or react to things," Hound said quietly. "There isn't a wrong or right answer to how your spark feels about things."
Rubbing his hand over his chest, Bluestreak hummed quietly. "It's funny you should say that. Back when I was still in the hospital, Smokescreen told me to be aware for any feelings that weren't what I was expecting. Things that I didn't think I should be feeling. He said that they could be coming from my spark, remembering things that my processor couldn't." He dropped his hand and let his helm fall back against the trailer. "If I don't feel upset about having killed eight mechs today, maybe my spark is used to it. Maybe I'm a killer."
Hound made a sound of disagreement. "You said you were in the Civil Defense Corps."
"That's what Prowl told me, and he had pictures and stuff to back it up." Bluestreak shrugged. "But what if he's not telling me the whole story? What if I was... I don't know, part of their strike team or something?"
"I don't think the Praxian Civil Defense Corps had a strike team, Blue," Hound said.
Bluestreak waved his hand dismissively. "You know what I mean. And I don't need to know the details. But what if I – my spark – is so used to killing that it just doesn't faze me?" He tipped his helm to the side and looked at Hound. "They say the more often you do something, the easier it becomes. I don't want to be good at killing."
Hound quietly blew air through his vents. "And yet, here we are," he said. His optics glowed in the darkness as he looked up at the sky. "I've lost track of how many Decepticons I've killed on my own, never mind taken out with traps or bombs and stuff." He was silent for a moment, then added, "I never wanted to be good at killing, but the alternative is giving up."
"I guess," Bluestreak said. He gnawed on his lower lip, thinking about all of the conversations he'd had with Prowl about the Decepticons and what they'd done: to Praxus, to the Autobots, and to Cybertron. He hoped that he wasn't becoming like them. He hoped Hound would tell him if he was.
Then he became conscious of Hound's shoulder against his again. He remembered how Hound had brought him his fuel, and came to check on him. He thought of Hound's easy smile, and how easily they talked.
Bluestreak smiled. He knew Hound would tell him if he was turning into something he didn't want to be.
They stood in silence for another minute, watching the stars.
Another satellite crossed the dark sky, a point of light moving quickly across the starfield behind it. "Is that one of ours?" Bluestreak asked.
Hound watched the satellite, then said, "I don't know. It must be new. It's not on my charts."
"Well then... Just in case..." Bluestreak stepped away from the trailer, and made a rude gesture at the passing mote of light. "Suck on a tailpipe, Decepticreeps!"
Hound laughed, then clapped Bluestreak on the shoulder. "Come on," he said. "Let's get back to the generator before they miss us."
Bluestreak fired another round of shots before ducking down behind the boulder, covering his helm as he was sprayed by chips of rock. "They've got us pinned down," he snarled over the sound of the Decepticon laser fire.
Beside him, Wideload ejected the spent clip from his rifle and shoved in a fresh one. "Of course they have us pinned down," he grumbled. He peered over the top of the boulder and fired off a barrage of shots before lowering his helm again. "They came out of nowhere. They knew we were going to be here. This is a disaster!"
Bluestreak didn't know if he would call it a disaster, but it definitely wasn't a good situation. It looked grim for both of them, cut off from the rest of the Autobots.
Ok, maybe it did fit the definition of a disaster.
They had rendezvoused with several other Autobot units earlier that day, preparing for a large operation near Kaon. Sergeant Chromia had explained that if they were successful, the mission would cut off a vital supply link for the Decepticons, crippling their ability to repair and construct new mechs for their army.
But while they were driving to the staging area, the Autobots were ambushed by Decepticons. Boxed in, the Autobots had nowhere to go except down into a blind canyon, where they found themselves trapped. All of the Autobots were scattered as they scrambled to whatever safety they could find in the canyon's rocks and crevices as the Decepticons rained fire down on them from above. Bluestreak couldn't tell how many Decepticons there were, since he had been too busy running for cover to count them. There could have been five, or there could have been twenty. He had no idea.
The Autobot comm channels were a confusion of voices and crosstalk, while the air was filled with the sound of blaster fire and screams.
There were a lot of screams.
Sergeant Chromia's voice cut through the comm chatter. ::Chromia to all artillery mechs! If any of you are still alive, we need some cover fire now! Transmitting coord-:: Her voice cut off suddenly and the channel went dead.
"That's our cue," Bluestreak said. He leaned out from their hiding place and fired again at the Decepticons. He couldn't even see any other Autobots, so he didn't know where he was supposed to be providing cover fire, who he was supposed to be protecting... Nothing. His engine growled in frustration.
He could see several Decepticons standing on the cliffs overhead. But he knew that if he leaned out far enough to get a good shot, they would have a clear shot of him. So he fired in their general direction, hoping that one of his shots might get lucky.
"I don't know what your sergeant has planned, but I can't see anyone else," Wideload said. He repeated Bluestreak's firing pattern after Bluestreak laid himself flat against the boulder again. "And I can't get a good shot at those 'Cons. We're either going to keep firing at each other until we all run out of ammunition," Wideload said, sending two pulses of shots up towards the Decepticons overhead, "or they've got something else waiting for us."
"Like what? A trailer full of more Decepticons?" Bluestreak asked. He craned his neck to look around. He suddenly realized that the laser fire coming from the Decepticons had stopped, and he turned his helm to mention this to Wideload.
Before he could say a word, Bluestreak heard a loud transformation noise. He froze. The transformation noise was followed by clangs and the groan of heavy machinery. "What is that?" Bluestreak asked quietly.
"I don't know," Wideload whispered back.
They both peeked out from over top of their boulder, then ducked back down as soon as they saw it.
"What the frag is that?" Wideload squeaked.
Bluestreak's optics were wide as he looked back at Wideload. "I think it's a fragging combiner!" he said softly.
They'd only had their first briefing about the Decepticon combiner technology a few days before. Somehow, the Decepticons had figured out how to modify protoforms and frames and sparks and processors and subspace and who knew what else so that mechs could bring themselves together to create a new, gigantic mech. Four or five mechs could combine to form a completely new mech who towered over everyone but titans. The whole thing had seemed utterly fantastical when Bluestreak heard the briefing: how could it even work? How would it even walk? Who would agree to have themselves irrevocably modified like that? It seemed utterly insane.
And yet, standing just a scant hundred meters away from him was a huge mech, with limbs made out of individual mechs and a scowling helm perched atop a torso that held it all together somehow. As Bluestreak cowered behind the boulder, he heard a deep voice roar in anger. Then he flinched when he heard the crash of metal against rock.
Frag them. They were so dead.
Where in the Pit were the rest of the Autobots?
Wideload peered out from behind their rock again. "I think it's going after the others," he said.
Bluestreak ventured another look, and saw the combiner had its back to them. It was pounding on a rock face opposite them, as if trying to peel open the narrow crevice in the rock. With a surge of certainty, Bluestreak said, "The other Autobots are in there," he whispered, pointing at the crevice.
"Then let's get his attention away from them!" Wideload said, surging to his pedes. Before Bluestreak could stop him, he stood up with his rifle ready at his shoulder.
He'd obviously forgotten the Decepticons still standing on the cliff looking down at them.
Bluestreak didn't hear the gunshot, but he heard the hollow whack as the round hit Wideload. The truck frame staggered back a step before falling to the ground, clutching at his chest.
"Slag!" Bluestreak said, leaping to Wideload's side. He pulled the truck's hand away from his chest to see a jagged hole below the mech's collar fairing. Energon pulsed out of the hole regularly.
Bluestreak knew from his field repair training what that probably meant, but he still yanked his data cord free from his wrist and jacked it into Wideload's medical port. He called up diagnostics, and his spark sank as his suspicions were confirmed. For this type of injury, the only thing his training had said was "get the patient to a medic as soon as possible."
Bluestreak opened a comm channel. ::Artillary to ops, I need a medic ASAP!:: Bluestreak listened to the comm channel intently, but all he heard were whispering comm ghosts and faint squeals of feedback. The Decepticons had set up a jammer. Nothing was getting through. He was on his own.
Wideload groaned, and Bluestreak grimaced at the data images of pain he got through the connection. He threw up what few pain blockers he could, then pulled his data cord free and patted Wideload on the shoulder. "Your fuel pump is hit," Bluestreak said, pulling his patch kit from his subspace. With shaking hands, he pulled a patch out of the kit and slapped it over the hole. It wouldn't do a slagging thing, but Bluestreak didn't know what else to do. He let his hand rest on top of the patch as he looked into Wideload's optics. "Stay still. Try to lower the RPMs of your pump. I'll get you to a medic as soon as I can."
Without a word, Wideload nodded, his face a mask of pain.
Bluestreak peeked out from their hiding place again, and saw that the combiner was still scrabbling and pulling at the cliff face. Faintly, he could hear gunshots and shouting voices. But if the shots were hitting the combiner, they weren't even slowing him down.
There were three artillery specialists in the Autobot forces that Bluestreak knew about: him, Wideload, and Downshift, who he'd seen fall in the first few chaotic minutes of the fight.
Bluestreak narrowed his optics in thought. Comms were jammed, so he couldn't ask for permission to use his missiles. Just last month, they were advised that due to energon shortages, they should only be using missiles when ordered, or when absolutely necessary.
Bluestreak decided this was one of those circumstances when it was absolutely necessary.
He angled the missiles on his shoulders upwards as he brought his targeting system online. In a moment, he calculated distance, wind speed, vectors, optimal thrust and sent that information to his launch systems. He compared his calculations to the data from his targeting system, adjusted his aim slightly, and released the safeties.
He fired.
His missiles flew true and slammed into the back of the combiner, one in its lower back and the other between its shoulders. In a blaze of flame and shrapnel, the combiner separated at each limb, and the chunks fell to the ground in a shower of debris.
Bluestreak had known that firing his missiles would paint a target on his location to any of the Decepticons watching. So he was not surprised when, a moment later, his sensor suite warned him of incoming missiles as the Decepticons on the ridge returned fire. He turned to run, his transformation cog spinning up as he took a step, then a second...
And then the world around him erupted in a roar of sound and light, before disintegrating into darkness.
...
Initiating reboot.
Bluestreak became aware of someone gently prodding at his systems, encouraging him back online. Before his optics even powered on, his HUD was scrolling a lengthy report of damage to his frame and secondary systems.
Everything hurt.
"Ops! I need a medic over here!" The shout was close, and probably came from whoever was plugged into his medical port.
He heard a whining buzz, and realized it was his ventilation systems. It sounded like at least one of his fans had become unseated from its mount. He pulled in a deep vent of air, and wheezed when it was filled with dust.
"Come on, Blue... Come on back. That's it." The steady voice was familiar. When his optics finally came online, Bluestreak squinted up at the fuzzy shape hovering over him as he remembered how to focus.
"Hey, Hound," Bluestreak croaked once the shape resolved into a familiar face.
Hound's smile was relieved, and his optics brightened. "Hey there, Blue," he said. He unplugged his data cable from Bluestreak's neck port. "Just stay still. You're pretty banged up. I've got a medic on the way."
"Sure," Bluestreak said, not really feeling like he had the energy to move even if he wanted to. He blinked up at Hound. "The combiner... Did my missiles really take it down?"
Hound's optics widened. "Those were your missiles?" he asked. When Bluestreak nodded, Hound patted him on the shoulder. "Yes! Looks like you managed to find the weak spots; command will be interested in where exactly your missiles hit." He grabbed at Bluestreak's hand. "You saved us, you know... All of us that were in that small canyon. Taking down that combiner turned the tide in our favour. We were able to rout the 'Cons. I don't think any of them got away."
"Good. I'm glad it worked," Bluestreak said. He closed his optics for a moment as his diagnostics finished prioritizing his damage: dislocated hip, wrenched sensor wing, punctured shoulder, ruptured hydraulic line in his knee... Suddenly his optics flew open again and he lifted his helm, flinching at the pain his motion caused. "Wideload! You have to find him. He was with me when –"
He stopped when Hound shook his helm sadly. "I found him first," he said. "He's gone."
"Slag." Bluestreak sagged back to the ground again, and he stared up at the sky. The sun was setting, and the sky had become a violent shade of orange. "How many did we lose?" he asked quietly as he looked up at the clouds.
Hound shrugged and looked around. "A lot," he said. "We're still triaging." He lifted a hand, gesturing to someone who Bluestreak couldn't see, then looked back down at him. "I'm really glad you made it, though," he added, giving Bluestreak's shoulder another pat before standing up as a medic arrived. "I'm gonna keep looking for other survivors."
"I'm glad you made it, too," Bluestreak said. He tipped his helm to the side to allow the medic to plug into his medical port, but he grabbed at Hound's ankle before the green mech could step away. "Hound, wait. Look at the clouds."
"What?" Hound glanced up and made a surprised sound. "Whoa. Nice call, Blue. Looks like we've got a rust storm brewing right over us."
At Hound's words, the medic also looked up. "Great," the medic said. "Just what we need with all these wounded."
"I'll let the Sergeant know so we can get shelters set up," Hound said. He smiled down at Bluestreak again. "You saved us twice today." Then he transformed and roared off in a cloud of dust.
Dear Prowl,
I got your letter yesterday! I love it when you write back so quickly, since it gives me something to do. I'm also pretty sure that you must be really busy, so I appreciate you taking the time to write me so often.
Also, thank you so much for the packs of rust sticks! I hope you don't mind that I shared them all around with the rest of my unit. Everyone could use a treat right now, and they all really liked them. They all said to tell you thanks.
Congratulations on the promotion! That's huge news! Second in command of all the Autobots is a huge honour that you definitely deserve. I hope that Optimus Prime is as good of a boss as you thought he might be. I mean, I'm sure he is, being a Prime and all. I'm sure you'll make a great second in command.
Speaking of promotions, Sergeant Chromia said that I got denied for another promotion. This is the fourth one that I've been turned down for. I don't understand why I keep getting overlooked! Everyone in my unit said that I deserve to be ranked higher than Private... Even Chromia said that there's no reason for me to be still ranked so low after twelve years in the Autobots. She said that the few bad marks on my record shouldn't be enough to keep me from getting promoted at least to Corporal, especially with all the decorations I've received.
I hate to ask this, but now that you've got the Prime's audial, do you think you could look into why I'm not getting promotions? If you have time, of course. I'd really appreciate it. If you don't have time, I understand.
Things are going all right here, although I'm sure you get the scouting reports. You probably know more about what we've been getting up to than I do. We got some new members in our unit a few weeks ago, and they've been fitting in fine. They're Sideswipe and Sunstreaker. I'm sure you remember them. I promise that we won't get up to any trouble. Not that you'd hear of, anyway.
(It's a joke! I'm kidding!)
Anyway, Sideswipe has a jetpack, which is the coolest thing ever! I had no idea that a grounder could learn to fly on their own! I've always wanted to fly, so I asked if he could make me one of my own. I guess it took him a long time to scrounge for the parts for his jetpack, but we're going to work on mine together. Maybe I'll be flying on my own soon! How awesome would that be?
Also... I mentioned to Trailbreaker how much I'd like to fly, and he said that our division is short on pilots. So I've been thinking about getting my pilot certificate, but that would mean going back to Iacon for training. I don't know if I want to leave the unit for that long. Do you know if there's any way I can do the knowledge training out here, and then... I don't know, apprentice with one of our pilots here? I know that's not how it's usually done, but since Autobot forces seem to be getting stretched pretty thin I thought that -
[[Blue, what are you doing?]]
Bluestreak turned away from his data pad and looked over at Hound. The green mech's optics were still closed, but Bluestreak could feel through the hardline connection that he was online. He'd been so engrossed in his writing that he hadn't noticed Hound's presence in his processor growing brighter as he woke.
He knew that staying connected overnight wasn't considered normal; most mechs liked to be alone in their own processors when recharging. But over the years, after they'd begun casually interfacing, Bluestreak discovered that Hound had trouble recharging, especially after a battle. Having Bluestreak's processor paired with his, especially after they'd blown out their charge in a most satisfying way, helped Hound fall into recharge and stay there. "I like feeling you puttering around on the other end of the connection," Hound had told him after finally admitting to his desire for that connection to linger. "It's like having white noise, drowning out all those thoughts that keep me awake."
So Bluestreak had grown used to recharging hooked hip-to-hip with his friend. He'd become so used to it that he occasionally forgot that they were connected at all.
Hound sent him another ping over the connection. [[You didn't have another nightmare, did you?]]
[[No. I didn't. I'm so sorry, pup. I didn't think to unplug before starting on my letter to Prowl.]] Bluestreak moved to pull his plugs free of Hound's hip connector, but his partner grabbed his wrist before he could touch their cables.
[[Leave it. Please. I don't mind, and I kind of needed it after today.]] Hound's optics came online, lighting their recharge pads with a dim blue glow. [[You're just thinking really loud. Maybe you could work on your letter in the morning?]] Hound brought Bluestreak's hand up to his mouth and pressed his lips onto the backs of his knuckles.
Bluestreak laughed quietly, putting his data pad into his subspace and rolling onto his side. [[All right. I'm sorry I woke you up.]] He smiled, nuzzling his face into the crook of Hound's neck, and planted a kiss on one of the cords he found there. His smile widened when Hound's vents hissed, blowing warm air across his chevron and the planes of his helm. [[Or, since you're awake now, maybe we could go another round?]]
Even if Bluestreak had missed the trickle of amusement and interest that came over the hardline connection, Hound's throaty chuckle would have been answer enough for him. Hound cradled Bluestreak's helm in one hand, and firmly pulled their frames together with his other arm. Then he kissed Bluestreak, his touch soft and gentle. Bluestreak hummed appreciatively.
"Could you two keep it down? Some of us have watch duty in an hour," muttered a voice behind Hound's shoulder.
"Or if you're gonna 'face again, at least go and do it behind one of the trailers," said a voice behind Bluestreak.
"Or invite us to join in this time," said a third voice from across the circle of mechs recharging around the unit's generator.
The mortification that shot through their connection from Hound almost made Bluestreak bark out loud with laughter. Fortunately he was able to mute his vocalizer before he could wake the rest of the recharging mechs. "Sorry, everyone," he whispered, and pulled back from Hound so that only their hands were touching, but close enough that their cables could still reach.
[[I didn't think we were that loud.]] Hound's embarrassment seeped through the hardline.
[[We weren't.]] Bluestreak sent his memory from just a few hours before to Hound, carefully stripping off all of the feelings of arousal and leaving only the audio. [[Besides, I know I heard a couple of others going at it at the same time we were. Everyone had a lot of charge to burn off tonight after the fighting we saw.]] He brushed his thumbs over the backs of Hound's hands. [[And others have been way louder than us before. I think they just enjoy teasing you.]]
Hound huffed quietly, but smiled. Then he closed his optics. [[They definitely enjoy teasing.]] His hands tightened around Bluestreak's for a moment before he relaxed. [[But next time let's find someplace away from the generator. That way they can't tease us.]]
[[You got it, pup.]] Bluestreak looked at Hound for another moment, taking in the square lines of his face and the blunt slabs of his nasal ridge and chin. He may not have been attractive in a conventional sense, but to Bluestreak he looked like friendship and affection and care. Then Bluestreak closed his optics and let himself be lulled by the quiet hum of Hound's processor sinking back into an idle state.
"Did you heard that the – what are they calling themselves now - the Protectobots left yesterday?" Hound asked.
"Yup," Bluestreak replied. His head was pillowed in his hands, and his optics tracked a satellite above them. There wasn't any point in asking whether it was one of theirs; all of the satellites belonged to the Decepticons now. "Do you know where they got deployed to?"
"Nope."
Technically, they weren't supposed to be on top of the shuttle, but it was the only place they could go to be alone for a little while. And besides, Wheeljack said that no one was going to be doing any maintenance on this shuttle tonight, and all shuttles were currently grounded to save energon. So they figured they weren't hurting anything by stretching out on the shuttle's roof and looking up at the stars.
The camp's population had boomed over the past week as High Command consolidated their forces. Prowl said that it was a little risky, since now the Decepticons could stage an all-out assault and wipe out almost the entire Autobot resistance. But Iacon and the surrounding territory was still relatively safe for Autobots, and they needed all the help they could get to ready the Ark for launch.
That... And the Decepticons had gone silent. Normally a lull in the fighting would have been welcomed. But instead of feeling restful, Bluestreak thought the silence was ominous. Megatron was obviously planning something big.
"I still think it's a little weird, volunteering to become a combiner team like that," Bluestreak said. "I mean, I would never give permission for my frame or my spark to get modified like they did. Messing with your spark is messing with who you are. They're all bound together now, forever." He shuddered just thinking about it.
"I heard the Prime himself asked them to consider it," Hound said. He crossed one of his legs over a bent knee, and bounced his pede idly as he lay on his back looking up at the sky. "It went really well for the Aerialbots, so it's not like this was the first time the Autobots were successful in creating a combiner team."
"I guess," Bluestreak said, letting his doubt show in his voice. He thought back to the soft-spoken medic he'd known back in basic training, and tried to picture First Aid working in a team with the others. "But their personalities are all so different! First Aid is so quiet, Streetwise is so outgoing, Groove is so laid back, Blades is... Blades. How could it ever work?"
"I knew Blades before the modifications were done," Hound said. "He's actually a lot nicer now than he used to be. I think the rest of the team... I don't know, moderated his personality a bit."
"Ugh," Bluestreak said, remembering the unpleasant run-in he'd had with the rotary just the other day. "I can't imagine what he was like before, then." He huffed a laugh. "But still... Imagine having your spark bound to Blades for all eternity."
Hound made an amused noise that made Bluestreak turn his helm to look at him. "I've seen the way you look at Blades. Are you sure you wouldn't want to be bound to him?" he asked, and nudged Bluestreak with his pede.
"No!" Bluestreak squeaked, instantly getting Hound's insinuation. "I mean, yes! I mean..." He collected his thoughts as Hound laughed beside him. "I was just looking. He's... I just think he's attractive, that's all. I can't help it if I notice that! But I'm with you and only you, for serious and exclusive, like we talked about. I would never..." He rolled over to his side to make sure Hound didn't look upset. But the green mech was grinning at him. "And you're teasing me," he said with a huff.
"I am." Hound accepted the kiss Bluestreak gave him, then waited as Bluestreak settled on his back again. "Besides, I know that you think he's obnoxious." He laughed and shook his helm. "But you really have the oddest tastes, Blue. Rotaries and truck frames... Most mechs go for racing frames or something sleek and fast like that, while you seem to like the gangly and kibble-laden, or the boxy and squat. Not that I mind that last one," he said with another laugh.
Bluestreak grunted. "I like rotaries for how they move, and how their alt modes look. They're exotic and a real treat for the optics. And truck frames..." He nudged Hound with his own pede. "They're sturdy, and dependable, and powerful. They make me feel safe when I'm around them." He smiled at Hound. "I think I got lucky to find you."
"And I think I'm the lucky one," Hound said. "You're a delight to talk to and you've got those pretty sensor wings..." He trailed off and they sat in silence for a moment. Then he said, "Listen to us, sounding like a couple on Dear Lonelysparks."
"What's that?" Bluestreak asked.
"Oh, it was a show that was on before the war, before everything went to Pit," Hound said. "They did old romance stories and stuff. It was really melodramatic, but I liked watching it to cheer myself up." His voice suddenly sounded sad. "I'd love to see another episode right now."
They lapsed back into silence.
Above them, the sky darkened and more stars appeared.
"Did you ever go off planet?" Bluestreak asked. "Before the war?"
"Nah," Hound said. "Truck frames didn't get those kinds of jobs. I've heard stories, though. Planets covered in ice, moons riddled through with caverns of liquid, organics everywhere..." He sighed wistfully. "I'd love to see it someday."
Bluestreak turned his helm away from Hound, craning his neck to the side. In the distance, lit by floodlights, was the Ark. Prowl's words about the ship came back to him, and he turned back to Hound.
"Prowl said we're losing Cybertron," Bluestreak said. "That's why they're gathering a lot of the army here, so we can all pile into the Ark and leave." He bounced the leg that was crossed over his knee, and spun his tire idly, contemplating all that leaving Cybertron meant. "So you might get your chance to see another planet after all."
"Yeah," Hound said, the note of sadness still in his voice. "I just wish it wasn't at the cost of losing our home."
