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

I'm sorry it's late, stuff's going on. This chapter turned out exceedingly gay, you guys, even compared to everything that has come before it. I hope that makes up for the wait. Thanks for reading, enjoy!

Possible trigger warnings: self-harm, depression, memory modification/erasure.

"I'm going."

"Alone and unarmed?! I forbid it!"

"He won't hurt me."

"Perhaps not with his fists or flail! But his weaponised words, the machinations of his mind? He targeted you with a plot in play and I will not allow you to fall into his grasp!"

"Let me hear him out, maybe talk him down. I have to try. It's a chance to get through to him."

"Within that arena, you will lose to him!" Sentinel's chin quivers with emotion as he sneers. "No, when he persuades you that he is right, and we are wrong, I suspect you will surrender your will to his own and turn on us, like you did back then!"

Some of the light leaves Ariel's optics. She does not hear whatever Orion and Alpha Trion have to say to that. She just knows that they intervene.

Windblade hates these pointless meetings. They waste precious time, time in which Decepticons gain ground and Megatron acquires resources to empower himself.

"I speak out of a place of concern, and out of duty! I cannot coddle her and excuse that maniac, after what he just did to her! An invasion of her privacy, and all it entails otherwise! I will not, I refuse! Not after I failed in my obligation to keep these chambers secure! Don't you understand? We are not safe! That was the message he sent – a threat, veiled as a friendly invitation!"

Windblade lays a servo over Ariel's and squeezes, garnering no reaction.

"Perhaps it is a trap! That is a risk we must take! We have the coordinates, and I intend to send a strike team to take him down quickly and extract him in stasis cuffs!"

Windblade squeezes again.

Finally, Ariel acknowledges her, feebly squeezing back.

"Why are you grinning like that?"

"'Cause you're touching my tits, duh!"

Shadow Striker heaves a great sigh, stooped forward and assessing claw marks with her digits, scope focused on the damage scattered around a Deceptibrand which seems almost impervious, burned deep into the shell with laser precision and pain. It glows mournfully.

"Ow. Speaking of. Easy with the tits, boss bot." Flamewar goes on grinning, even as she winces when probed. "Buy me dinner first if you're gonna get rough."

"Fair enough. They are very nice tits. I'd take you some place fancy, for a night with these all to myself."

"Thanks! You can have 'em for three nights in a row, if you get me some greasy wheel-nuts. Don't gotta be fancy."

"Come now, you deserve better than that."

"Boss bot, do I look fancy, to you?"

"You don't have to look it, to appreciate it."

"That, right there, is a good answer."

A scowl. "And you're ruining these gorgeous tits of yours with all this self-destruction."

The grin fades.

"It's a damn shame," comes out softly, grouchily sincere, "seeing you hurt yourself like this."

"…Sir, I…"

"A damn shame."

"The Deceptibrand feels bad, boss bot. Really bad."

"You can't dig it out."

"I can't help it! I just do it, Sir, without thinking about what I'm doing."

"That compulsion isn't helping you."

"I'm damaged goods, boss bot, okay!"

The old mercenary sits back.

The bike huffs, folding her arms over her breastplate, looking aside.

"I'm damaged, too."

Flamewar sighs, sliding a pede over the floor to gently brush it against Shadow Striker's ankle joint, an affectionate gesture that could be deemed extremely flirtatious, yet it comes off as awkward.

"I know that sometimes we resort to one pain, to redirect ourselves from feeling another, different sort of pain." The mercenary reaches over for the medkit already opened upon her desk, its contents neatly labelled and laid out. She retrieves a jar and pries its cap off, breaking the seal with a hiss. "But in the grander scheme, pain is pain."

The bike wrinkles her olfactory sensor. "Ugh, that scrap stinks."

"It's sealant."

"I know what it is, and it's nasty. You're not putting that on me."

"It'll help."

"It burns."

"It heals."

"I'll bite you."

"Flamewar."

"I'm not joking, boss bot."

"Be nice."

"My self-repair protocols will handle this just fine! Don't bother. I've been through worse scrapes."

"This is not a sterile environment."

"I've been homeless. That wasn't a very sterile experience."

Shadow Striker softens, gazing down at the smaller femme.

"I can survive this. I've survived worse."

"Flamewar." The name is spoken in a distinctly different tone, this time. "Please."

The bike frowns adorably at the floor.

"You are my responsibility, as I am your boss, and you are on my team."

"You could just cut the scrap and say you care about me."

The mercenary lays her servo over that darling helm, caressing it fondly.

Flamewar relishes the affection. She purrs, pushing into Shadow Striker's palm, nuzzling against her digits.

"I'm trying, here."

"I know, boss bot."

"You're already suffering inflammation. I'm not a licenced medic, but inflammation often precedes infection." The mercenary does not bow to meet the bike's height, as many taller frames would. "An infection right above your Spark chamber is no joke."

"No, it's not."

"I'm treating your wounds, like it or not."

"Ugh."

"Flamewar."

"Fine! Fine. Yes, Sir."

"Now, then." Shadow Striker offers a parting pat on the helm, then smears the oily sealant upon those large, strong digits, expression softly stoic. "Are you going to make this difficult, or can I begin treating your wounds?"

"I'll behave. Mostly. Might bite you anyway."

"Attagirl. Try not to squirm."

"Yeah, yeah." The bike rolls her bright, wild optics aside, huffing, bosom pushed out, arms dangling on either side of her chair. "Just be gentle. Okay?"

"I'll try."

"Thanks."

The mercenary begins to apply the pungent sealant over the gauges. It hurts.

"Do you think that's why the Deceptibrands feel so bad, boss bot? Because they're so close to our Sparks?"

"Possibly. Though, I'd say it was the fragging high-intensity laser beam scorching our shells that did it."

"Do you think Shockwave's code… might've tainted us?"

"Megatron's got the mark. Wouldn't put it past Shockwave, but I doubt the big mech would permit it. Goes against his whole deal."

"Yeah. He wants to make the world fair. Tear it all down. Equalise what's left."

"You really believe in him."

"Not, like, religiously. But he's a hero. He says things I think and feel. Puts words to my lived experience. Sees the little guy."

Shadow Striker is very gentle, to her credit, even if being gentle is not in her nature.

Flamewar does her best to sit still, wincing and occasionally passing an anguished hiss through fangs.

"Your lived experience. Tell me about that."

"Sure. What d'you wanna know about me?"

"Everything. But I'll limit my reach."

"Wow. Okay."

"You're very mysterious."

"Heh. You like that, boss bot? A femme you can't read?"

"I do enjoy a good mystery."

"You think about me a lot, then, huh."

"I do. Your personnel file is woefully inadequate. You don't talk about yourself, all that much."

"You wanna get to know me. That's so nice of you."

"I'd like to. Would you answer some questions?"

"I'll try."

"Where do you come from?"

"One of the poor districts."

"Beyond that."

"Don't remember."

"Okay. Who did you work for, before we met, and what did your work entail?"

"I helped out at a tattoo parlour. Got shut down by health and safety. That was a while ago. Just sorta been… doing whatever, since then. Odd jobs here and there. Mostly unemployed. Generally causing trouble. Delinquent. Fun at parties. Epic in berth."

"Beyond that."

"Don't remember."

The mercenary has drawn very close, in order to massage sealant deeper into the bike's wounds.

Flamewar gazes into that scope, unafraid.

"Assassin," Shadow Striker surmises. "You're a hired killer with some pedigree. It explains your unusual construction, with those rather dangerous bodily mods of yours including a built-in cloak, and it would suit your signature weapon. I suspect you've done work for powerful people, who helped erase your past. Your shady lack of any backstory would be best suited for that line of work."

"I dunno. Maybe."

"Gimme something."

"Boss bot," the bike intones very patiently, "I already told you, I don't remember."

"So you said." The mercenary pauses. "And I say, it's a load of scrap."

Flamewar shakes her helm slowly. "No, Sir." Her undertone remains very patient. "It's not."

Shadow Striker scowls.

"I don't remember much of anything. I can't tell you who I am, where I come from, what I did to end up like this. I dunno if I even deserve it. But it's been hard. It's been hurt. You said pain is pain. All I have…"

A scope whirrs, tracking movement.

The bike runs her claws over the mercenary's cheek. "My name. My weaponry, both in body and bow. The programming to do unspeakable things to people, knowledge to kill and maim and infiltrate and destabilise and sabotage. A profound feeling of loss and a fear of abandonment. Needles. A lotta love to give, and hatred. Hurt, pain. I like long drives on winding roads and I think pirates are awesome."

Shadow Striker's scowl is broken down the middle..

"So, yeah. You could be right." Flamewar shrugs, removing her clawed servo from the older femme's cheek. "Your guess is as good as mine."

The mercenary exhales softly from her vents. "I see."

The bike blinks and for a moment twin suns die, before they are reborn again.

"Needles."

"Yeah." Flamewar wiggles her claws. "On his digits."

"A mnemosurgeon." Shadow Striker looks grim. "You've been tampered with."

"Butchered, more like. I just dunno why. Did I pay the guy to crack me open, poke around in there, hoping to scrub my bain module clean? Did someone set me up, so I'd lose my old life, my old personhood? He did a scrap job of it, too, boss bot. The mech with the needles. It's all in bits, see?" The bike taps herself in the helm. "Scrambled in static. Hurts to try and remember."

"Sounds like he put a block on those memory files he couldn't erase, or alter. Probably core files. Which means he didn't aim to destroy you. Not completely."

"So, maybe some of the old stuff's still left?"

"You might never know. I'll look into it, get you to a specialist. I can't promise results, but I'll do what I can."

"Yeah. Figures. Thank you, boss bot."

"Don't thank me yet," says Shadow Striker.

"You know a thing or two about mnemosurgery, seems like," notes Flamewar.

"I've considered it, myself."

"Maybe reconsider it."

The mercenary gazes at the bike.

"Please don't feel sorry for me."

Shadow Striker's grimace turns twisted as she leans in and bumps her forehelm lightly against Flamewar's own.

"And please don't distrust me."

The mercenary winces deeply, then withdraws.

"I'm part of a team again." The bike sniffles. "I want you to want me back."

Shadow Striker rises to her full height, looming over Flamewar.

"I'll be useful to you," the bike intones as she stares at the mercenary's reinforced pedes. "I'll protect the others. I'll do my chores. I'll–"

"Flamewar. Stop."

"I can't. I'm so scared."

Shadow Striker rubs around her optic, seething, scope rolling in its socket.

"You'll keep me, boss bot. Won't you?"

She sits on the edge of her desk with a heavy groan.

"Won't you."

"Flamewar, sweet Spark, listen to me, okay."

"Okay."

"I don't think I can help you like that. I don't think anyone on this team can help you. Not like that."

"But–"

"I don't think any of this Decepticon business can help you in the way you need to be helped."

"Boss bot, I just–"

"You need a safe, secure, loving home, Flamewar. You need safe, secure, loving people. This? Us? The Decepticons? Not what you need. Not in the lightest."

For a while, nothing more is said.

"I had people, once. I could have people, again."

"Flamewar."

"You and the guys. We're a team. I struggle to make friends, I'm a loner because I'm so difficult. We're Decepticons, Sir, and we're the good guys, united under a common cause. This is… a sanctuary. A second chance, for me, and something I can actually do with my time, with my life. Even if the accommodations suck aft." The bike rises from her seat and quietly approaches the mercenary. "How can this not help me?" Scuffed claws alight upon dark, gleaming metal. "I've got nothing else."

Shadow Striker maintains a strict no hugs policy. And yet she has to throttle the urge to scoop Flamewar up and hold her tight.

"You gonna send me away?"

"No."

"Then, you're keeping me?"

"Yes."

"Thank you, boss bot."

The mercenary grunts as the bike moves to embrace her regardless.

"Thank you."

Shadow Striker relents very easily. She loops her big, strong arms around shapely little Flamewar and draws her in, nuzzling atop her helm.

"You're so good to me."

"Actually, I'm awful."

"But I like you."

"You have terrible taste."

"You like me back."

"You're alright, actually."

The bike smiles into the mercenary's neck.

"My audials are still ringing." Windblade shakes her helm, in turn rubbing her face into Bumblebee's bosom. "Ugh. I feel nauseous."

"I'm sorry, bestie." He holds her, stroking her.

"I really, really dislike that mech."

"Yeah. He's a jerk."

"He's under a lotta pressure," Hot Rod offers kindly, with some reluctance. "Doesn't make it okay, just… puts it into perspective, maybe."

"Yeah, I guess. Like, what if the infiltrator really is one of the elite guard, with knowledge of all the inner chambers and stuff? Could strike again, at any time."

"Brrr!" Even Arcee grimaces. "It's hard not to get anxious over that."

"Do not give in to despair, my friends," intones Grimlock, setting a tray of hot drinks down and distributing the cups accordingly. "We must remain stalwart and face every obstacle together, with good cheer, no matter the odds. That is how heroes are made. We will overcome. Have faith."

"That sounds great, Grim, but easier said than done."

"I just feel so sorry for her." Windblade's words are muffled by Bumblebee. "If he spoke to me like that, I would've punched him."

"Right in the chin. Wa-pow!"

Although laying a servo upon Windblade in comfort, Chromia's optics are on the viewing port, looking out onto a burning Cybertron.

"You okay, Sir?"

"Obviously." Shadow Striker lowers the canister of refreshing coolant, meant to replace what they perspire from sheer exertion. She squints at Slipstream. "Why?"

"You seem otherwise occupied, Sir."

"I'm perfectly focused. You saying this lesson is scrap, and my teaching is scrap?"

"No, Sir, not at all."

"Good. I almost got offended, just now."

"You're being especially grumpy. Sir."

"You're cute. But you're getting bold."

The Seeker sets her palms on her hips, tilting her helm and quirking an optic ridge.

"Do not look at me like a disappointed mentor." The mercenary jabs a digit under the other femme's chin, making her take a respectful step back. "I was a disappointment to my actual mentor, I don't like the reminder."

Slipstream sighs, raising her palms peaceably. "Sorry, Sir."

"That's better. Respect me or frag off."

"I'm just concerned for you, that's all."

"Do not go on and on about how you care about me or whatever," Shadow Striker interjects with a huff, shoving over the canister so the other femme can take a drink, too. "I don't want to hear that right now."

"Sir," the Seeker tries again, in a very patient, gentle undertone, "what's wrong?"

"Nothing," the mercenary snaps, turning away. "It's nothing," she repeats, more quietly and dismally.

Slipstream frowns handsomely, holding the canister of replacement coolant to her bosom, gaze downcast.

Shadow Striker hates that she feels bad about being glitchy right now. She used to do it without remorse, to anyone. Her sigh is loud, and long. "I apologise. I didn't mean to snap at you."

"It's fine, Sir."

"No, no. It's not. You're just… being nice to me. For whatever reason."

The Seeker bravely steps into the mercenary's personal space, her field radiating harshly.

Shadow Striker feels a servo alight upon her pauldron, effortlessly turning her around to face her unwilling foe, possibly becoming a tentative friend.

"I apologise too, Sir. I don't mean to pry, or to be insensitive to whatever you're thinking or feeling. I respect your need for privacy."

"It's fine."

"No, Sir, it's not fine." Slipstream smiles in that damnably handsome way of hers. Her dermas are far too kissable to be fair play. Her optics are sad and soft. Her gaze conveys affection and concern. "If you do want to talk about it, though–"

"I don't wanna talk about it, okay."

"Okay, Sir."

"Just pretend I'm fine."

"I can try to do that, Sir."

"Thanks," the mercenary mutters almost shyly, now, peering closely at the Seeker. "I appreciate that. Really. I do."

Slipstream finally permits herself to consume coolant. The cords in her thickset, reinforced neck bob alluringly in tandem with the swallowing mechanisms buried deep within.

Shadow Striker wants to lean in and suck on a primary fuel line. Tug on it between her dentas. Pinch it until the inner Energon flow is stifled enough to make the gorgeous, kindly idiot feel euphoric.

The Seeker sighs, passing back the canister.

The mercenary accepts it, brushing their digits together briefly as the exchange is made.

All the while, Flamewar is thought about.

There is a knock.

"It's unlocked."

The door slides away.

"I asked to be left alone for a while."

"Forgive me, old friend. I am being selfish."

"Nobody's perfect."

"Indeed. Imperfections are what give life its meaning."

Ariel is tending to one of her organic samples. She measures out a solution of something Orion does not recognise and deposits it into a feeding tube, connected to a crystalline terrarium containing a squirming mass.

"I just wanted to…" He does not step over the threshold. He sighs at the door. "I love you. I wanted to say that."

"Love you too, old mech."

"And…" He smiles sadly at her. "Call me if you need something. Anything."

"Since you're here anyway," the imposing femme grumbles in her brusque, but ultimately charming way, "I could do with a hug."

"I would be most grateful."

"Come in."

He does, careful not to approach her too closely from behind. He waits for her to stop what she is doing to turn and face him.

When she does so, she pulls him against herself and kisses him. It is familiar, but distant. They have not embraced like this in millions of years.

He hums into her. She is one of the few to know him in this way. He lays his palms over her lower spinal strut and savours the sensation of her digits upon his hips.

"Sorry," she grunts once their intakes have parted. "Got carried away, there."

"I do not mind it, old friend. It is… comforting." He is a little flushed, handsomely soft. "May I?"

"Always the gentlemech."

"It was not my intent to–"

"Hush. It's okay." She regards him fondly. "'Course you can kiss me some more."

"Turn around."

Rubbing lukewarm recycled oil over bulky upper arms and broad pauldrons, Slipstream's husky, aimless humming stops. "Huh?"

"Turn your fine aft around, I said."

"Oh. Okay?" She obeys, trustingly baring her dark, firm back strut to Shadow Striker. "Like this?"

"Good girl."

The Seeker shudders, rippling throughout her armoured sheets.

The mercenary grabs the solvent and douses it over her own servos, before sloppily casting the solvent aside and lathering her palms together.

Slipstream gasps the moment Shadow Striker touches her.

"Tell me if I'm hurting you."

"Ohhh!"

The mercenary massages the Seeker's spinal strut.

Slipstream groans painfully, an erotic sound.

Shadow Striker leans in heavily as her servos work the solvent. "You like that?"

"Yes! Hahh! Harder!"

The mercenary smirks, applying more force, relishing in the noises her ministrations provoke from a usually more reserved femme.

The Seeker slaps her own palms onto the metallic tiles, bracing herself. Her wings flutter, rigid and erect. She drops her helm on her slumped neck.

"Does my good girl feel as good as you deserve?" Shadow Striker purrs, with an audible sneer of her own lecherous intentions. "Make those noises for me, Slipstream."

She does, with wanton abandon. It feels so good. She hardly ever gets to feel good.

"You're so tense. So many hotspots for stress. I could practically map constellations out of you. Poor thing. Tell me what you need. Is it here?"

"Down! Little to the left!"

"Here?"

"More left!"

"Ah, here?"

"Yeah, ohh, yeah!"

The mercenary props her chin atop the Seeker's pauldron from behind, grinning, massaging avidly.

Slipstream's delightful overstimulation almost is enough to distract from Flamewar. Almost.

Shadow Striker's grin fades. Her ministrations slow, soften, stop.

Quietening down, Slipstream turns with some impatience. "Sir?"

"Sorry." Shadow Striker grunts, shaking her helm, chin still propped atop that pauldron. "I'm a little fragged up right now."

"Do you still want me to pretend you're fine, Sir?" asks the Seeker very kindly, somehow.

The mercenary chuckles at that, wrapping her soapy arms around the other femme's tapering lower torso. Again, the zero tolerance for hugs is proved a fraud, of late. "You're a good girl. A genuinely good girl. I'm glad to have you, really, I am."

Slipstream reaches back to caress Shadow Striker's cheek with oil-slick digits.

"I like you a lot. And that's not gonna do you any good, either."

As it will not do Flamewar all that much good.

"You're too good for me, for this place."

"You're rather stuck with me, Sir."

"Unfortunately for you. It's to my benefit, not yours."

"I could've been decommissioned."

"Me, too."

Slipstream manages to turn around whilst remaining in Shadow Striker's arms, facing her, brushing their forehelms in spite of their difference in height.

"Don't."

"Sir?"

"We're having another moment. I know what you're thinking. Don't do it."

The Seeker flushes, caught so blatantly fantasising over a kiss with her grouchy, gorgeous, and not entirely gruelling commanding officer.

"Just don't." The mercenary sighs softly in the downpour of lukewarm recycled oil. "Even if it would feel… awesome."

"Okay, Sir. I'll refrain."

"Good girl."

"That really does not help."

"No. It definitely doesn't."

Slipstream resorts to burying her face in Shadow Striker's neck to stifle the temptation, smothering it in cables.

The old mercenary runs her palms slowly up and down the disgraced Seeker's spinal seam.

"Mmmph."

"I know, sweet Spark. I know." And Shadow Striker comes to a decision about a different femme entirely, sighing into Slipstream's helm. "I know."

"Forgive me." Sentinel looks up, optics brimming. "You called upon me, in your great wisdom, and I have failed us all."

Alpha Trion's smile is kind, patient. Like he knows more than he lets on.

Flamewar pushes her final ration of the day over to Demolishor.

"You sure?"

"Yeah, got no appetite."

"Okay, thanks!"

"Cool."

Only Shadow Striker seems concerned about the cause of that.

"So, Slipstream." Thunderblast is applying polish to the tips of her digits. "We're recharge buddies again."

"Oh. Yes." The Seeker smiles shyly at the boat. They like each other just fine, even with this fear of femmes. Recharge cycles spent together have actually been quite pleasant. "Will you tell me another one of your exciting adventures?"

"Wait. You guys talk pirate stuff without me?!"

Thunderblast gives Flamewar a look, then smiles back at Slipstream, winking.

"But that was our thing! Out on the mercury! It was special!"

"Sorry, sweetie, I've got commitment issues."

"Wow! Okay! Whatever, then!"

"I've told tales at the table. Why's it any different, sweetie?"

"Because it's for an audience, not one-on-one interpersonal pirate talk time. That was ours, not theirs, too."

"Aw. I love our trips out on the mercury. But seriously, drop the pirate fetish. It's weird."

Flamewar folds her arms and refuses to acknowledge that with a reply.

Seated beside her, Slipstream shuffles a little closer and slips an arm around the smaller femme, giving her a fond squeeze, amused but sympathetic.

"I'll forgive you if you do the pirate voice for me, Thunderblast."

"No. Also, that's a myth."

"What?!"

"Pirates don't actually talk like that."

Demolishor sighs into his extra ration, exchanging a tired look with Shadow Striker.

Slipstream strokes Flamewar's back plates as she appears utterly appalled by the news.

Thunderblast blows air onto her glossy digits to hasten the drying process of the polish, totally unbothered.

"Well, how do you know?" Flamewar huffs, narrowing her optics. "If you're not a pirate, and you've never been a pirate, you must've met a real pirate, to know what pirates sound like when they talk."

"Don't crush her," Slipstream intones. "Please just go with it."

Thunderblast rolls her optics.

"Yeah, gotcha there, huh."

"You sure did, sweetie."

"Thought so."

"Whoa." Clobber's optic widens. "You're a Decepticon, now?"

"Looks like it," Dead End drawls, peering down at his fresh Deceptibrand.

"But why?"

"I see the way things are going. They're the future of Cybertron, and so on. Besides, they're better than that joke of a High Council, since the Senate's gone. Doubt the neutrals will last long."

"That sounds kinda spooky," Lockdown intones. "Decepticons being our future. I liked them better when they were called Ascenticons. Sounded more optimistic."

"That's the point."

"Huh?"

"Ugh. The Decepticons aren't the bad guys, you know. In fact, they largely represent labourers like yourselves. Why don't the both of you join?"

"Uh…"

A heavy sigh. "Bolt-heads. Clearly, we need to talk."

"Ahh! I was crazy, back then." And so another thrilling tale draws to a close, punctuated with a musical giggle. "Good times."

"Wow. That was… violent."

"It was fun!"

Wings retracted, Slipstream rolls onto her side and gazes across the cramped recharge bay at her recharge buddy laid out beautifully upon the neighbouring slab. "Be honest with me, please."

"Mm?"

"Were you actually a pirate?"

"Oh, Primus, not you too."

"I mean… it sounds like you were. You did pirate things, ran a pirate crew, your ex had a hook like a pirate would."

"All stereotypes! I refuse that moniker."

"So, functionally, you were a pirate."

Thunderblast rolls onto her side, now, glaring gorgeously.

The Seeker gestures. "Well?"

"I suppose," mutters the boat.

"Then why don't you indulge her? She adores you for it."

"Because she insists on calling me a pirate."

"It's harmless."

"How about I call you a cargo plane, huh?"

"I don't carry cargo. You could call me a fighter jet, and that'd functionally be the same thing as a Seeker. I am, functionally, a fighter jet. I'm just called a Seeker."

"Pirates are tacky!"

"Okay, okay. Sorry. Didn't think it bothered you that much."

Thunderblast sighs. "Look, I would chop off my right servo for Flamewar, and it's my favourite servo. I dig her a lot, okay."

"Would you get a hook as a replacement?"

"Shuddup, sweetie. Mommy's talking."

Slipstream flushes, but obeys. She kinda liked that.

"I'm not meaning to be… mean."

A nod.

"But seriously, I don't want my epic backstory to be delegated to myth. I'm real. I'm amazingly real."

Another nod.

"And she won't drop the fragging pirate thing. She's fixated on it. I want her to like me for, well, me. Not just that part of my past." The boat flops onto her back strut and throws an arm over her optics dramatically, sighing.

"Can I make an observation?" asks the Seeker softly, politely.

"Mommy will allow it."

Slipstream is briefly stalled by that, but she recalls what she was about to say, with some effort. "Um, I think perhaps you need to sit down with her and have a proper conversation about boundaries."

"Yeah. That sounds sensible."

"Instead of teasing her, or indulging her, or getting mad at her, just tell her how you feel."

"And if she ends up liking me less?"

"I highly doubt that'll happen." Slipstream grins handsomely, now. "She called you her dreamboat."

Thunderblast lowers her arm, lifts her helm, and peers over. "She did?"

"Yeah, she said you're her dreamboat."

"Aw! I love that!"

"But maybe you should be less of a dream, and more yourself."

"Excuse you! I am a total dream!"

"I meant – ugh. Never mind."

"But I get what you're saying." The boat winks. "Thanks, sweetie."

The Seeker chuckles. "You're welcome."

"Say, you girls are close."

"Yeah. I'd say so."

A shrewd smirk. "You two got something going on, or…?"

A flush, a wonky smile. "Oh, well, yes, but–"

Thunderblast claps her servos together. "Knew it!"

"It's not like that."

"Huh?"

Slipstream scratches her neck. She is very tired, but she enjoys their chats before recharge.

"Well, what's it like, then?"

"She's not ashamed if I tell you, so, um… We cuddle."

"Cuddle?"

"Yeah, cuddle."

"Oh. That's it?"

"Sometimes there's kissing involved."

"Oooh!"

"But nothing, uh, hot and heavy."

"Wait. You're telling me, you've got that gorgeous femme in your arms, and you're not making out with her?"

"Sorry. Not really."

"Girl. What the frag."

"I just needed someone to hold me and be held by me."

The boat softens. "Aw. You lonely, sweetie?"

The Seeker nods shyly. "Mmhm. And touch-starved."

"Why didn't you tell me? All this time, I could've helped."

"Because you are absolutely terrifying, and I mean that with zero offence intended toward you, because it's a me-thing and not a you-thing."

"Ah. Gotcha."

Slipstream rubs her flushed cheek, sighing. "I'm sorry. I don't know why I'm like this."

"You're shy and you don't have much of a self-esteem," Thunderblast surmises breezily, but not cruelly. "You don't feel worthy of a femme's affection."

"I… Oh."

"It's interesting, really. Do you think less of her, than you think of me?"

"What? No!" The Seeker sits up now, scowling handsomely. "I was scared of her, too!"

"Mm. You were scared of her."

"It changed. Somehow."

"If you cuddle her, now, then you must feel safe with her, for whatever reason."

"She doesn't make me feel bad about myself. I was super vulnerable and desperate for someone just to be close to me. I was scared, even when I asked her to cuddle me." Slipstream gnaws on her own lower derma. "I wouldn't have blamed her for laughing at me, or telling me I'm weak. Everybody here thinks I'm a sappy dumbaft and she acknowledges it, but… in a way that's affectionate. She likes me as I am."

Thunderblast is smiling softly, now.

"She's my friend. I don't make friends easily, and I'm not a good friend to bother keeping. She's just so accepting of myself."

"I'd like her to be accepting of myself, too."

"Please talk to her. You'll still be her dreamboat. I promise."

"Okay, sweetie. I will."

"Thank you."

"Oh, and Slipstream?"

"Yes, Thunderblast?"

The boat gazes at the Seeker. "We can cuddle, too, if you'll let me close enough to hold you, or be held by you."

Slipsteam stiffens all over, optics wide with excitement and terror alike.

Thunderblast sits up, throwing her long, shapely legs over the edge of the berth, perching with her palms in her lap.

"Uh."

"I'll be gentle."

"Errm."

"I won't make any moves you don't feel comfortable with."

"Thank you. I just…"

"These nasty recharge slabs are cold and lonely. Maybe we can fix that, together."

The Seeker feels her Spark throbbing in her throat. Primus, that sounds really nice.

The boat's gaze is inviting, like a portent of doom sung over a storm, seducing one to drown just to sink into her embrace.

"Okay," Slipstream croaks, before timidly shuffling her rather large self over to make room upon the modest slab.

Thunderblast is suddenly occupying the same berth, her delicate servos braced upon the crystalline cockpit, pushing.

The Seeker allows herself to be gently eased into a recline, pinned onto her back plates.

The boat slides into place beside, resting her helm upon a pauldron with a sigh. "Comfy?"

"Uh-huh."

"Relax. You're safe. I'm safe."

Slipstream is utterly astonished that any of this is happening. She stares up at the ceiling and feels a curvaceous frame nestling in her boxy nooks and crannies like mercury seeping into vents.

"You're so warm."

"I'm overheating."

Thunderblast giggles softly, drawing aimless shapes over chiselled abdominal plating.

"But… I like this."

"Me, too."

"Thank you."

"You're so welcome, sweetie."

A large servo accepts slender digits, interweaving.

"Sleep well."

"You, too." The Seeker doubts she will be able to recharge, but she finds herself smiling.

The boat goes heavy and slack when she finally shuts down, entering into a peaceful rest mode without any effort.

"Hey, boss bot."

Since being noticed, lingering awkwardly in the entrance is no longer a plausible option. Shadow Striker steps into the armoury, clearing her vents gruffly. "Hi. Uh. Got a minute?"

Flamewar looks up from the ridiculously huge shotgun laid out across her workbench, surrounded by a scattered assortment of metallic files of various grains, stained textile rags, pressurised spray-cans and some charge packs in need of recharging. "Sure. 'Sup?"

"I might not know who you were, and what you did, and whoever you were affiliated with, and why you had your memories tampered with," the mercenary intones all in one go, evidently having thought about what she might say, or try to say, standing upright and rigid before the workbench. "But I want you here. On my team. I don't perceive you as a liability, or a risk. Actually, you've proved your usefulness, and beyond that… I…"

"You like me," the bike supplies mildly. "You like me enough to keep me."

Shadow Striker grimaces. Nods stiffly.

Flamewar smiles with her optics, twinkling, but tries to keep a neutral, relaxed expression.

"That's all I wanted to convey. So, focus on doing your part and don't worry about the rest. You're a Decepticon. You're one of us."

"One of yours."

The mercenary flushes. Snaps her helm aside, as if to make it less obvious, because she can feel how hot her face plate is as that flush of Energon bleeds under the membrane, so close to the surface. "Don't be so… Y'know."

"Romantic? I'm a hopeless romantic. I fall fast and hard."

"Primus' ball-bearings."

"Anyway!" The bike takes pity. "So, I had an idea about modding this shotty."

Relieved to talk guns instead of feelings, Shadow Striker perks. "Yeah? Whatcha thinking?"

Flamewar caresses the shotgun fondly. "How about I cram an extra charge pack, under the barrel?"

"An extra charge pack." The mercenary quirks a bladed ridge above her scope. "On a shotgun."

"Yeah, this shotgun. My shotgun."

"It's… a shotgun."

"Uh, yeah?"

"What would be the purpose of another charge pack?"

"Extend the range on this baddie, of course. Duh." The bike giggles. "What, you think it's a bad idea or something?"

"No. It's interesting. Shotguns operate best short to mid-range. Besides, it'd be a tight fit, it'd make the weapon heavier than it already is, and it'd compromise on accuracy."

"Okay, those are valid concerns, but it's a shotty, boss bot. Who cares about accuracy in a shotty? It's all about spread!"

"Which will widen with range and reduce the damage output. You must know that. Shotguns aren't rifles. You should try my rifle. It's a beaut."

"I can compensate with some modifications to the barrel. And in case you forgot, boss bot, I've been maintaining that rifle for you, Sir, and it's gorgeous. But not my style. I love my shotty. I'm a shotty sorta girl."

"Oh, come on, branch out, try something new. It's healthy for you."

"Well, why don't you give my shotty a blast sometime?"

"Hrrm. It's a magnificent piece, but cumbersome. Especially compared to your bow. Now that is a work of art."

"You wanna try my compound bow so bad, don't you, boss bot?"

"Yes. Please. I've never actually used one before and it's cool as frag."

"Heh. Okay, okay. On one condition."

"Name it."

"I'll install the charge pack and have you test my shotty for me, tell me what you think. Then you'll have a chance with my bow."

"Alright, but here's a counteroffer. All of that still happens, but you will also agree to go to target practice with me and try my rifle. I've been meaning to have it recalibrated anyway, but my circuit memory's too deep-set, so I'm biased. I need an outside opinion. Deal?"

"Deal." Flamewar snaps her clawed digits with a wink, producing a clicking noise out the corner of her smirk. "It's a date."

Shadow Striker scoffs, shakes her helm, turns and saunters on out with a smile and a little extra swing to her hip joints.