[The Cyberverse continuity is the primary inspiration, with references made to the 2019 comic reboot and other sources of events, lore and characterisation.]

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.

"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.