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.
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.
I have a soft spot for the Unicron Trilogy. I just had to. It's my nostalgia.
