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

Please enjoy a big gay chapter with some lighter world-building elements operating in the background and loads of depression heaped all over the place.

Possible trigger warnings: discussion of execution as punishment, perverted power dynamics, overall mental unwellness, self-harm, implication of suicidal thoughts.

Flamewar's intake trembles with emotion. Her optics are almost too bright to meet. She is handsomely adorable and barely holding herself together, yet she says nothing. Her aching, itchy mark is covered in criss-crossing claw scrapes. She scratches at it again.

"Stop that," Shadow Striker snaps, glaring down at the shorter femme. "You'll infect it."

"Hey, be nice. She's worried about you! Ease up on her already," Thunderblast mutters back, running her servo soothingly up and down Flamewar's helm. "Sweetie, it's okay. Try to stop picking at it like that, alright? You'll hurt yourself."

Slipstream's fuel pump is having the most troubling palpitations. Her digestive tank feels bottomless. She can hear herself venting in and out slowly, like she was told to do when the urge to panic comes upon her too strong to pretend like it is not there, like it will just pass on its own, unaddressed. She is struggling not to be consumed within herself.

"She'll come back. She's just gonna go get told off for being a dumbaft. That's all. It's just a meeting. You hate meetings. They're totes boring! She's way too important for Megatron to just… y'know. Be done with her. Just like that."

Flamewar twitches and Thunderblast cringes.

"Demolishor."

"Yes, Sir. At your service."

"You're in charge until I return," Shadow Striker intones lowly. "Or I'm replaced."

"Primus' sake, don't say that in front of her!"

"Understood, Sir," he replies stoically, yet his grimace says everything about the thoughts and feelings he is so very private about. "Good luck."

"Thanks."

Flamewar shudders all over, claws curled into fists at her sides to stop herself, fangs bared. Her engine gives off an aggressive bark, throaty and loud and startling.

"Stay here. Do your chores. Do not follow me."

"Be a little more delicate, please!" Thunderblast scowls, stooping into a hug. "Aw, sweetie, she'll be fine." The boat cradles the rigid bike with a soft, feminine sigh. "There, there."

"For what it's worth, serving with you lot has been…" A begrudging smile. "Strange, but not terrible." Shadow Striker gives each one of her team an almost fond look, allowing her scope to linger on their familiar faces for what may be the last time. "You're a decent bunch. Take care of yourselves, and each other."

"We will continue to do so, Sir!" Demolishor salutes, maintaining perfect soldierly form, a tired old war machine retrofitted to keep on living so he may serve again. "It has been our honour!"

Thunderblast rests her chin atop Flamewar's helm and hugs her tight.

Slipstream clutches at her chassis, panting.

Shadow Striker's smile fades. She makes a soft sound, then turns and departs without another word, or even a backwards glance.

"W-wait!"

"Can't."

Slipstream finds herself lurching after the older femme. "Sir, I – frag's sake – wait!"

"Won't help my case if I'm late to my own execution."

"Take me with you!"

"You can't arrest us all," the mech sneers, slamming a fist to his insignia and refusing to wince at the pain. "This is our world now!"

"Megatron's gettin' us what we deserve," a massive labourer snarls. "And you're not gettin' in our way."

"Yeah! We don't gotta hide from you!" cries a femme, lifting her servo above her helm. "Rise up!"

Thus begins a by now familiar chant of voices exalted altogether, a flurry of living metal advancing as one unified force that flows through the streets like Energon in a fuel line, sending unmarked neutrals scattering.

"Oh, frag me!" A fresh young police cadet with stars in his optics nervously braces himself against the bigger, grimmer, senior officer Strongarm. "W-what do we do? There's so many of them!"

"Rise up! Rise up! Rise up!" the Ascenticons, or more disparagingly, Decepticons, shout as one unified voice whilst turfing makeshift missiles of trash that bounce of off armoured frames of blue and white.

"Primus." Strongarm ducks behind a transparent shield. "I really miss you, Prowl."

"Take me with you, Sir."

"Only I was summoned."

"You're permitted to take a witness of your own. Let me be your witness, Sir."

Shadow Striker's perpetual scowl darkens a bit as she pauses at the threshold between the underground and the overworld. Slowly, she turns her helm, peering back with a whirring, unblinking scope. "I told the other idiots to stay here. To let me go alone." A nod aimed further down the tunnel. "Why would I take you with me, but leave them behind?"

"Because I'm a Seeker, and Acid Storm is a Seeker, and we answer to the same Captain who wants you dead, Sir. I can tell Shockwave, Megatron and Starscream that you weren't, um…" Slipstream hesitates, pondering her choice of words. "In your right state of mind, at the time it happened. It'll mean more, coming from me than any of the others. It'll mean more, because I'm with you."

That scope flickers, refocusing.

"You don't deserve to be decommissioned, Sir. I don't want that to happen to you."

"Well, too bad if it does. It's not your responsibility to look out for me."

"I can't help it!"

"This will cost you dearly, someday."

"It already has!" A servo grips a chassis again, handsome facial rigging wincing. "Please. Let me help you."

Shadow Striker is suddenly standing right there. She lays a digit to one of the primary fuel lines in Slipstream's neck, measuring the pulse of the Energon flow.

"Sir?"

"Uneven. You're not having Spark attack or pump failure, are you. Get this checked out, while you're young and spry. This sorta scrap kills later on."

The disgraced Seeker allows for a moment, then fumbles to grasp the old mercenary's arm, drawing up her servo and nuzzling into its palm.

Shadow Striker pulls a rather twisted facial expression. Even for her.

"It wouldn't be right if I just let you go alone to maybe die, Sir. Your life matters to me, to us." Slipstream reflexively averts her optics, face halfway buried in the other femme's palm. "We care about you."

"Shuddup."

"You need to hear it, Sir."

"Don't you dare make me feel… things, for you," the mercenary murmurs as she brushes her thumb tenderly over the Seeker's nuzzling face plate, "and for those other fools I've already left behind me. Don't make this hard."

"Don't leave, Sir." Slipstream sniffles, muffled by palm. "Take me, too."

"Look at me."

She refuses, until she feels a digit hook itself under her chin not entirely gently, tilting her helm back so their gazes finally meet. Soon, her entire jaw is captured in Shadow Striker's servo. There is a painful squeeze, distorting handsome features.

"I'm not worth it."

The Seeker shivers as the squeeze is slowly released, but the servo remains, still capturing her jaw.

"I'm convinced that when they cold forged you," murmurs the old mercenary who may be condemned to die this day, "your Spark was meant for softer things than soldiering. You were born to be some sorta caregiver or something. Probably would've flourished, mentoring a little group of freshly forged protoforms emerging for the first time, eager to choose their alt-modes. Fate's been a real glitch to you."

Slipstream gazes soulfully up at Shadow Striker.

"You are going to get yourself killed, someday, trying to save someone else." That same thumb now brushes over her intake, tracing the plump dermas which part far too eagerly in reaction to being touched like this, exhaling hot and fast under the stare of that scope. "You'll feel really stupid in your last moments when you think back on what I've just said and realise I was right all along. Then this whole effort will seem like such a joke."

The disgraced Seeker sighs when that thumb traces her cheek, less seductive, more affectionate.

The old mercenary is having unwise thoughts. Again.

"These could be… our final moments together, Sir."

"Yes."

"Is this really… how you want me to remember you?" It is difficult to speak in the grip of those curled digits. "You think being deeply unpleasant… will make me miss you any less?"

"Silence," Shadow Striker snarls softly.

"No, Sir," Slipstream defies her, gentle yet intense.

The old mercenary's digits suddenly let go, only to scrape their way around the back of the Seeker's helm, seizing her there.

"Don't do us any favours, Sir," Slipstream intones bravely into Shadow Striker's trademark scowl. "This won't make it any easier on me. Or them. Or yourself."

"You're so fragging handsome right now."

The Seeker sighs, almost breathing into the mercenary's snarled intake.

"Stop."

The distance between them is such a small thing.

"You don't wanna push me too far. You don't wanna pull me too close."

"I'm just here for you, Sir. It's my duty."

Shadow Striker finally smirks down at Slipstream, who is a little shorter, yet equally as well-built. "I don't deserve you."

"No. You really don't, sir."

"Does anybody else?"

"No, Sir. Windblade and Bee could do better than me. I don't deserve them."

Shadow Striker cradles the back of Slipstream's helm in a vice-like grip, closing the distance so that their brows come to rest in silent companionship.

The Seeker trembles now.

The mercenary is silent and still, bolstering.

"It almost happened to me. I was almost decommissioned. Your report to Starscream could've got me killed," Slipstream says softly. "But I'm not angry. I hate what's happened, yes, but… I'm also a little glad. Or maybe grateful. You took me in when he didn't want me, and I got the chance to get to know you. You were my saviour, and you damned me."

The mercenary nods once.

"I'm terrified, Sir. I'm sick, to think you might not see me tomorrow, and I might never hear your grousing over that disgusting Energon, and I'm freaked out by how badly I'll miss the heat of your scope on me when you think I don't notice you staring."

Shadow Striker groans lowly. "I thought I was so subtle, too."

"You're weird."

"I am." She permits Slipstream's palms, settling over her pauldrons. "Bet you're into that."

"I'm begging you, Sir. Take me. Please."

The mercenary chuckles.

The Seeker manages a smile.

Shadow Striker still has one servo free. It fumbles for Slipstream's abdominal plating, then crawls upward and splays out over Megatron's mark.

"I want you to live, you mean, crooked, tired old glitch."

"Yeah."

"It's not like you deserve to die. I don't think that's anybody's call to make but yours." The Seeker's voice is low, husky, dangerous. "Your payday is under threat. Let me help you."

"Mmm."

"Besides, Sir, if you die, it affects the whole team. That would devastate unit morale. And… you're accepted here. They won't want another commanding officer with you gone. I think Flamewar would be devastated. She really likes you, Sir."

"I haven't had anyone give a frag about me like this since the war."

"You're really lonely, aren't you."

"I wouldn't call it lonely. I've forgotten what interpersonal attachments could feel like, is more accurate." The mercenary huffs. "All my war buddies are dead."

"We're your war buddies now, Sir. We're Decepticons. We're stuck in this. Together."

Shadow Striker suddenly grins. "Using my own words against me."

Slipstream feels the grip relent itself from her helm, leaving a dull ache and lingering warmth behind.

"How about this. I'll take you with me, let you speak on my behalf. If I'm not decommissioned, you'll let me buy you a celebratory drink afterward. Deal?"

"Okay, Sir. Deal."

"Something strong. High-grade. Not the cheap scrap. You're a solid femme, you get the good stuff."

"I'd appreciate that, Sir."

"C'mon, then. You better not have made me late."

The femmes emerge from hiding to greet the surface of their burning world.

"It's a lovely day outside."

"Yes, Sir. It is."

Bumblebee did his job. Thanks to his covert scouting efforts, another of Megatron's disguised clinics is stripped down during the raid. More Decepticons are detained for further questioning. More equipment is seized for subsequent analysis. He has already proved himself a useful and capable asset, this early on in his career. He should feel good about himself. Yet he feels no accomplishment when he looks around and finds his efforts have achieved virtually nothing. It is hard not to be discouraged.

It would appear to the pessimists out there that it is already too late. Decepticons are everywhere and continue to multiply. Megatron broadcasts his untraceable propaganda far and wide across Cybertron and seems completely and utterly unbothered by the High Council's best efforts at stopping their rise. Social media is awash with memes that are increasingly pro-Decepticon, indicating that many of the people have spoken for themselves despite Sentinel's dedication toward censorship and Orion's efforts to use reasonable arguments to placate the masses. Ariel tries to keep the morale up whilst offering her rugged strength toward getting jobs done that need doing, pretending that she is too big and strong and tough to worry about the world she left behind.

Bumblebee does not vilify the Decepticons like others do. He would count some of them among his more peripheral friendship circle. Being quite the distinct and sociable little mech that he is, he loves meeting new people and is always hopeful to make new friends. When he is not operating as a covert scout on a mission, and he is permitted to walk among their number, unmarked and presumably unaffiliated, he will answer their smiles and wave back at them and engage in chatter. Without any sort of insignia to denote to whom he belongs, he is not perceived as the scout. He is just himself. Bumblebee. He has never felt so small. He has way too much to think about.

"Hi." Nova Storm steps into his path and he practically bumps into her.

"Oh, hey there!"

"You're one of Slip's friends, right? I'm sure we've met, but I was a little fragged up at the time. Bumblebee, right?"

"Yup. Just Bee if you like. And you're Nova Storm, yeah?"

"Just Nova. This is Thundercracker, or Thunder. He's my everything."

"Hiya."

Bumblebee marvels at how big and beautiful Seekers are. He cranes his neck to look up at them, smiling down at him.

Thundercracker's countenance is handsomely shy.

Nova Storm is self-confident, a little flirtatious.

"How's it going, guys?"

The Seekers exchange a shared grimace.

"Eh, it's not all bad, but it could be better," Thundercracker intones with a sigh, rubbing his neck. "The depression hits hard, sometimes. Captain Starscream's been working the scrap outta us. We miss Slip so bad, and Acid got attacked…"

"Oh!" Bumblebee is visibly appalled. "I'm sorry to hear that."

"They're okay. Like, fully repaired. Captain Starscream's gonna do one of those disciplinary things, y'know, the whole works. He's given us the day off so he can, uh, focus on that and stuff."

"I would've punched the old glitch's lights out."

"Yeah, but Acid's not a fighter, like you. They hate punching stuff."

"Lucky for her. You dated the glitch for a bit, right? I saw you two at Mac's a few times."

Bumblebee blinks. "Uh… Can you be more specific? I've dated a lotta people, sorry."

"Big scary lady with the…" Nova Storm indicates her right optic, realises this is the wrong one, and quickly swaps over to the left optic. "Scope thingy. Scowls all the time."

"Shadow Striker?" he utters in a very small voice.

"Yeah, that old glitch. She strangled the frag outta Acid. No wonder you dumped her. You did dump her, right? No offence, but she was not your type, like, at all. Nice little guy like you, with your cute face, you can do so much better. She's mad old."

"Nova, c'mon, don't insult his taste in femmes."

"She, uh… kinda dumped me, actually. Not that we were really a thing, I guess."

"Well, good. 'Cause if I ever get my servos on her, I'll snap her neck entirely, like, just pop her helm right off. Sorry, Bee, but it's personal."

"She's… a Decepticon?"

"Yeah, unfortunately. If Captain Starscream gets his way, though, she won't be for much longer." Nova Storm is a gorgeous femme, arguably the prettiest among them with her open features and innate sensuality, but her optics are sometimes astonishingly cruel.

Thundercracker cringes at the expression on Bumblebee's face plate and quickly steps in. "Good news, though! Heh-heh-heh. We, uh… We got a new Seeker! Fancy that, right?"

Bumblebee tries not to agonise over Shadow Striker's fate, smiling awkwardly up at the much bigger fliers. "Wow. It's been forever for you guys."

"Yeah, she's great! Her name's Skywarp and she doesn't say a word." Nova Storm grins, wings erecting from her back to fully extend and flutter her excitement. "Not to brag or whatever, but I think I'm her favourite. She never pranks me."

"Of course you're her favourite, Nova. You're the best."

"Aw, Thunder, c'mon! We all know you're the best."

"No, no, no. You are."

"Nuh-uh. You!"

The Seekers purr and preen together.

Bumblebee is about to contemplate an exit strategy when he finally notices the object tucked under Thundercracker's burly arm. "Is that Cube?"

"Oh, yeah, we were gonna play a couple matches." Resisting Nova Storm's kisses, Thundercracker presents the dull, battered old Cube to Bumblebee. It is not shiny or glowy like the official model the professionals use and its AI is even more simplistic. "You play, too?"

"I sure do!" Cube always makes Bumblebee feel so much better. And anyway, he assumes that Shadow Striker is about to get fired, which he figures is probably a good thing for her. Once she is a free agent, he hopes that he may convince her to recruit over to the High Council's side. He is optimistically naive.

"Come join our match!"

"Yeah! I'd love to!"

"Uh, not to be, like… y'know." Nova Storm is not a delicate femme, but she is trying to be nice. "I mean, you can't fly, so… Like, no offence, but we fly, see?"

"Oh, right," Thundercracker intones with a grimace. "Could be tricky, huh."

"You guys play Cube in the air?!" Bumblebee almost passes out at the prospect of such an exciting thing. "That's so awesome! Can I watch?!"

"Sure. I mean, we can play on the ground, for once."

"Yeah, Thrust's gonna love that."

"Bah! Let him complain."

"As usual! C'mon, Bee."

"Coming! Lead the way!"

"Slipstream," Starscream utters with almost fragile disbelief, assessing the saluting Seeker with a frown, "what are you doing here? I did not summon your attendance."

"I am Shadow Striker's witness, Captain."

"Oh. Hmm. I see."

Shockwave does not have a face, and yet he looks shocked. Acid Storm's absence at his side is as predicted.

Megatron's optics are burning. "I shall permit it."

"Ah, yes. Of course. You have come to corroborate Shockwave's report," Starscream intones in a beguiling rasp. "Datawork would have sufficed. Very brave of you to do so in person. You truly are the responsible one, Slipstream. I'm proud."

Cringing, she again opens her intake to speak, only to be interrupted.

"Dearest, surely you have come to seek my protection as well," her Captain purrs, surging forward and suddenly cupping her face in his palms, smiling far too sweetly. "Look at you. Poor little thing. Was she cruel to you? Was she horrible?"

"Uh, actually, Sir–"

"That brute! If she has ever laid a digit upon you in violence, whilst you were entrusted to her care, I will have her melted down into scrap. Do not be afraid to tell me all she has done to hurt you."

Shadow Striker twitches, but only huffs.

Again, Slipstream is denied a voice.

"I must confess, surrendering you over to her was not my best decision. I should have known a common mercenary would know no better than to act on her violent impulses! Clearly, I gave her too much credit as a professional." Starscream gives Shadow Striker a disgusted glare, then returns to fussing over Slipstream. "Tell me, darling. Has she attacked you, as well?"

"No, Sir," the subordinate Seeker declares. "Shadow Striker has not attacked me."

"Do not hesitate to speak the truth. I will keep you safe. She cannot harm you now."

"It is the truth, Captain. I am not coerced to lie to you."

Starscream's bright, piercing optics search Slipstream closely.

She meets his gaze with dull fatigue and just a hint of discomfort.

"…Well," he surmises eventually, slowly withdrawing, "then consider yourself lucky. Clearly, it is just a matter of time before she snaps again and outright kills someone."

"Sir, I do not believe that I am at risk. I do not believe Shadow Striker would kill a fellow Decepticon unless she had to, or was commanded to."

"Rather a bold stance, considering she throttled Acid Storm on camera! Oh, Slipstream. You always were far too trusting of authority figures."

Shadow Striker rolls her scope at Starscream's utter lack of self-awareness.

"Let us forget the reassignment. You have suffered enough and surely learnt your lesson by now. I will withdraw you from her command and reclaim you at the conclusion of this disciplinary. Understood?"

Slipstream grimaces softly. "Understood, Captain."

"Very good. We need your maternal instincts now more than ever, you see, as our number has recently grown."

"We have a new Seeker, Sir?"

"Oh, yes! You will adore Skywarp, she is such a character! Never says a word, always pulling pranks on the others, but mostly Thrust."

"We are getting sidetracked," Shockwave intones with distinct irritation.

"Yeah. Can I speak for myself, now?" Shadow Striker's scowl remains impervious.

"I suppose so." Starscream glances at Megatron, who nods. "Now then, Shadow Striker. Did you, or did you not, violently assault one of my Seekers, unprovoked, when they were fulfilling their duties?"

"I was plenty provoked," Shadow Striker replies readily, arms folded. "But I'd call them a victim, just as I am."

Slipstream rubs her brows, cringing into her servo.

Starscream bares his dentas. "Acid Storm would not provoke violence in anyone. They are the mildest, least confrontational personality I have ever known."

"I recognise it wasn't exactly their fault, is what I'm saying. Wrong place, wrong time."

"Yet you seem… less than contrite."

"I am not proud of my conduct. But I stopped myself before I could apply lethal force."

"Only because of security measures."

"It wasn't just that."

"Oh, please. Killing and self-preservation are all you hired guns know."

"I didn't wanna upset Slipstream."

The Seeker jerks, glaring aside at the mercenary.

"You lost out, Scream, when you threw such a good girl to me like trash. Your loss, my gain."

Slipstream looks caught between flattered and horrified. "Sir, please!"

"If I'm gonna die anyway," Shadow Striker replies with a shrug, "I might as well just say what I think."

"Take this seriously!"

"I am serious. It's been a pleasure to have you around."

"You really shouldn't turn this disciplinary into an entertaining diversion." Starscream sneers. "You do realise I could have you decommissioned for what you have done?"

"Actually, I'm fragging bored stiff. But that's not your call to make, Scream," Shadow Striker intones, irritable yet calm. "It's Megatron's."

There is a brief, but tangible hush.

"How dare you!" The Captain is shrill and furious, all of a sudden, his bladed wings fanning outward. "My Seekers are not yours to assault! They are mine! Only I may own their bodies, and use them as I decide, as is my right!"

Slipstream's helm falls upon her pauldrons. She sighs.

Megatron grimaces softly. "Star, please compose yourself."

"Yeah, about that. Isn't my savagery the point?" Shadow Striker sneers at Starscream's flushed fury. "You thought I'd be a fitting punishment for Slipstream to endure, so who the frag are you to act all high and mighty now?"

He sputters, clutching at his chassis.

"That does not excuse your treatment of my laboratory assistant." Shockwave's scowl is a heavy one. Almost as heavy as his low drone.

"You're absolutely right about that." Shadow Striker nods once, and sighs, sombre. "Look. I'm not condoning what I did to Acid Storm."

"I came here for just recompense, and I will not leave without it!" Starscream is in Shadow Striker's face, shrieking at her close enough that she catches a fleck of oral lubricant to the scope. "I demand an apology!"

"I won't say sorry to you."

"You wretch! I should dismantle you myself!"

"As if you could."

"Enough," Megatron interjects with his soft-spoken forcefulness, the sort of undertone that could topple a mountain. "This is not how we conduct a meeting. Particularly a disciplinary. This infighting must cease at once."

"What would possess you to harm one of my own!" Starscream demands with an ache in his rasp, ignoring the interjection. "They are beautiful and innocent! They are angelic!"

"Yet you'd condemn your own to the Pit, with me. You hypocrite." Shadow Striker neatly pushes Starscream aside, addressing Shockwave. "I wasn't exactly doing so hot at the time," she mutters, in a rare display of honest vulnerability. "I was in pain, I was… confused, and kinda freaked out. Okay. Frag me. I admit it."

Slipstream softens.

"Acid Storm just so happened to be in control of the situation at the time. Literally, at the control panel, operating the machine that was causing me a fragload of pain… and distress. So, I reacted."

"You were informed that it would be painful."

"Does that really matter? It was agony. Your code was chewing on my circuits and this stupid insignia was an open wound. My whole team was gonna undergo what your assistant put me through. I was upset, alright? My combat parameters and adrenaline protocols kicked in and I perceived Acid Storm as a threat. I'm a provocative personality, I tend to lash out when I feel… unsafe."

"You should have composed yourself! You're supposed to be a professional!"

"Says you. I notice you don't have a mark anywhere on your pristine shell. Too pretty for it, Scream?"

"You barbaric, dirty little ground-pounder!"

Megatron really hates it when Starscream talks like that, especially after so many apologies and promises to do better than that. "Language."

"If given the chance to address Acid Storm myself," Shadow Striker carries on with a grimace, "I will not apologise, because I'm not sorry. I hold my grudges forever. But, that being said, I'm not gonna do them any further harm, so long as they don't harm me first, or threaten me with plausible harm, or do anything that could harm my team."

"Acknowledged," Shockwave intones reluctantly, after a moment of thought. "Your logic is… I will acknowledge it. Limited. Acknowledged."

"If I may add to that," Slipstream speaks up, "Shadow Striker is not a nice person."

"Oh-ho!" The old mercenary almost laughs. "Isn't that just sweet?"

"Sir, please." The Seeker is upright, earnest. "I request that you do not decommission her, she doesn't deserve that at all!"

Megatron quirks an optic ridge when Shadow Striker actually smiles at Slipstream.

Starscream exhales harshly.

"Of course I disapprove of her treatment of Acid Storm. But I was there. I witnessed what happened. And I took the mark, myself. Even I wanted to…" Slipstream sighs. "I wanted to slam my helm into the wall. The code, it was fire in my brain module. My mark has not stopped aching since I got it."

"You are a gentle temperament," Megatron intones. "I am sorry that you have suffered so."

"I'm not the only one who's suffering."

"Indeed. I shall address this."

"How could you?" Starscream demands, quivering. "Acid Storm must be avenged, we must have justice!"

"Acid Storm isn't here, Captain. They wouldn't support the motion to have Shadow Striker decommissioned and you know that."

Starscream is loathe to recognise the sincerity Slipstream is known for.

"I serve Shadow Striker without resentment, even if she is meant to punish me. I respect her. The team respects her. Decommissioning her would be wrong."

Megatron nods.

Starscream seems like he is about to explode. "Are you defective, Slipstream?"

"I am unfortunately very lucid, Captain. I acknowledge the dissonance, but I stand by Shadow Striker."

"Are you doing this to spite me?!"

"No," Slipstream answers softly, "of course not. I love you."

He averts his gaze, seething, momentarily silent.

"With all that outta the way." Shadow Striker looks to Megatron. "Am I gonna die today?"

"No," he concludes readily. "I think not."

"Awesome."

"Perhaps I should have taken measures to better prepare my troops for receiving the Deceptibrand. After all, I took it, first. I knew what to expect."

"That's seriously what we're calling it, now?"

"Soundwave's suggestion. I think it's rather catchy."

"I demand restitution!"

"Retake Slipstream and consider that enough, Star."

Slipstream perks. Hopeful.

Starscream, however, will not look at her, now.

"Captain, I'm ready to come home."

"And I'm not ready to receive you."

She flinches.

"Do not be cruel, Star. She has done nothing wrong."

"Oh, but I think she should remain with Shadow Striker and those other degenerates underground. Slipstream seems rather comfortable in their company, partaking in the dank and the dark."

"Captain, please, I'm ready to go home!"

Shadow Striker shakes her helm. "You're being a fragging fool, Scream."

"Don't leave me!"

"I've got a helmache."

"Take me with you!"

"We are done here." Starscream has already sashayed out, without waiting for dismissal. "Ugh! I must see Knock Out. He'll know what to do."

"Wait! Please! Captain!"

Megatron gazes down at Slipstream with rugged pity.

"I miss you."

"I will talk to him."

She hugs herself.

"In the meantime." Megatron looks to Shadow Striker next. "Do not make me regret this. Mind how you treat your fellow Decepticons. Take care of her."

"Understood," Shadow Striker replies grimly, looking intently at Slipstream.

"Good. Dismissed."

The old femme turns to depart, then pauses at the door. "Come along, you." Gruff, but not unkind. "I owe you that drink, remember?"

The Seeker sighs and follows, obedient. "Yes, Sir."

"Hey. Don't feel too bad."

"Yeah. At least I can't feel any worse."

"Exactly. You just screwed yourself over on my account, and I'm never gonna be worth the sacrifice, but Scream's a stuck-up little glitch anyway and he can go frag himself. He doesn't deserve you, either."

Slipstream sniffles, then grunts when Shadow Striker grasps her by the pauldron, steering her along.

"Here, I gotcha."

"I am so fragged, Sir."

The mercenary smirks at the Seeker.

"It's not funny!"

"I'm not laughing."

"You're not helping either, Sir."

Shadow Striker squeezes the pauldron in her grip.

Slipstream is thus steered along.

"Look at all the Decepticons."

"Yes, Sir, there are so many of us."

Cybertron is full of frames bearing Megatron's mark. It would seem more than half of the population has surrendered their will to his own by now. Far too many for the police to ever hope to arrest, far too many for the elite guard to ever hope to intimidate.

Slipstream is counted among the innumerable multitude. She paws at her Deceptibrand self-consciously, already miserable.

Shadow Striker swaggers alongside, smiling strangely.

For a while, nobody says anything.

"I think you want to tell me something, Sir."

"Nothing important."

Maccadam's awaits them.

"Just wanna say thank you."

"Okay. You're welcome."

"No, I'm not. Don't be so polite."

"Well, well, well." Soundwave tips his cup over at the bar. "You're still alive, you cantankerous old glitch."

"I sure am." Shadow Striker grins at him. "Was hoping you'd be waiting for me here."

"Of course."

Slipstream does not like the mech, truthfully, but she would never say so. And besides, being steered by the older femme via her grip to the pauldron makes escape rather difficult.

"And you have your little Seeker with you. I'm sure Megatron's glorious second-in-command really appreciated that."

"She testified for me, in fact. Scream was delighted."

"So, she spoke up against Shockwave, and her own Captain? That's rich."

"Good girl, this one."

Slipstream feels Shadow Striker squeeze her pauldron again, which does not help much.

"He's an idiot."

"Indeed, on that we can agree." A flourish, a stylish snap of the digits, a casual point. "Slipstream, was it?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Not Sir. Soundwave."

"Good to, um, be formally introduced. Soundwave."

"Cute. Slipstream."

"Be nice to her," Shadow Striker mutters at quite possibly her only friend in the world. "I mean it."

"I cannot do nice."

"Well, try. For me."

Soundwave purrs with soft, melodic laughter. "Fine, fine. Here, Slipstream, sit."

Shadow Striker all but pushes Slipstream atop an open bar stool, ruffling her helm. "Lemme get you that drink."

"Yes, please. Thank you."

"Oh, she's so sweet."

Slipstream is actually very grateful for the Engex. The distinct burn of high-grade on the way down gives her something else to agonise over, beside how bitterly she has ruined her life, trying to do the right thing for someone who does not deserve the compassion.

Shadow Striker and Soundwave chat surprisingly amicably together. Their mutual fondness is abrasive, but genuine, freely expressed. They are actually very close. They are good friends.

Slipstream keeps her helm down and drinks, saying as little as possible. Her wings are lowered and her shoulders are slumped and her elbows are propped up on the counter, making her look broody and handsomely pathetic.

Maccadam tries to engage her in a gentle chatter, bless his Spark. But his propensity to make predictions that prove true cannot quite seem to reassure her faithlessness now.

She believes only one thing – she is doomed and the world is ending soon, at least, her world is ending soon. She has drained three cups when he gently recommends that she stop there.

"How about something a little less strong?"

She shakes her helm, rubbing her face.

"Perhaps a detox solution?" He smiles a paternal smile, adopting a soft-spoken voice. "I promise you, mine doesn't taste bad."

"M'fine. Thanks."

"Alright, Captain." A playful salute.

A scoff. "I'm not a Captain any more."

"Oh, but you will be Captain again. You, and that enigmatic Skywarp. You haven't met her yet, but trust me, she'll grow on you. She grows on everyone, eventually."

"How can you know all this stuff?"

"All it takes is time. Hang in there."

Shadow Striker laughs harshly at something Soundwave coos into her audial. They have both had a few drinks themselves.

Slipstream lapses into tipsy imaginings as to what Skywarp could be like. Almost flinches when a palm brushes over her spinal seam.

"You wanna dance?"

Slipstream turns to stare stupidly at Shadow Striker.

"You're not too far gone to understand me, are you?" the mercenary mutters with a handsome smirk. "C'mon, big femme like yourself can't be a lightweight." She does that thing again where she might have just winked. A little drunk herself.

"Um. No. Sorry." The Seeker's face plate feels hot. "I don't dance."

"So you've said. Just checking."

"I still do not dance, at all."

"That's just fine," croons Soundwave, already shuffling through his personal playlist for something suitably Decepticon. After all, he figures they practically own this planet by now, including the old oil house. "Then watch us."

"Uh. Okay."

Maccadam silently pushes over a little bowl of Energon goodies. "Here, I believe these are your favourite."

"Thanks." Slipstream helps herself to one and sucks on it. She sucks harder at the way her foggy optics perceive Shadow Striker in motion with Soundwave. "…Wow…"

"Yes, they are quite impressive."

"They look so free."

Inevitably, almost everyone wants to dance with the handsome Decepticons who simply do not care what the cops or the elite guard or the panicking rich people think, effortlessly dominating a flurry of bodies that come together to revolve around them. Most of these bodies bear Megatron's mark. But there are also unmarked neutrals among them. Perhaps even a few who would prefer Orion's way. He has not yet visibly branded his own resistance, but he shall have to.

Slipstream reaches for another Energon goodie.

It almost seems as if Shadow Striker has a sort of platonic romance with Soundwave. He lays his servo on her hip and she loops an arm about his neck and their helms brush together, and yet the twinkle in her optic does not resemble lust, and the way he effortlessly makes her giggle does not seem lecherously intended.

Slipstream's chiselled cheek bulges a bit as she swirls the Energon goodie about with her nimble glossa, watching the dancers with wide, befuddled optics. She misses her friends. Mostly Bumblebee and Windblade. Unfortunately still very much in love with them.

Shadow Striker brushes her smirking intake against Soundwave's cheek as he draws her against himself, to the envy of hopeful mechs and femmes moving snugly around them.

Slipstream wishes really hard that she could be the sort to get up and dance.

When Shadow Striker eventually returns, her dark, glossy frame is slick with perspired coolant and she is panting raggedly from her intake. Very satisfied and moderately drunk, she collapses at the bar, slouching beside the rather foggy yet responsible Slipstream.

"Feeling any better, Sir?" enquires the Seeker mildly whilst sucking on an Energon goodie.

"Much, thanks."

"Ready to go back?"

"Yeah," the old mercenary groans. "Guess so."

Soundwave is still dancing, still dominating all these other bodies gravitating around his own, still in control of the music they devote themselves to.

"I think he's good for you, Sir."

Shadow Striker grunts under the soft roar of her automated cooling fans, then offers Slipstream a servo all of a sudden.

The Seeker accepts it and is pulled to her pedes.

"Mind if we lean on each other a bit? Brain module's swimming in Engex."

"Might have to. That stuff was a little too high-grade for me, Sir. Here, I've got you."

The mercenary thus braces herself against a pauldron, smearing coolant and panting into a flushed cheek. "Good girl."

Slipstream shudders. "Bye, Mac." Tosses a polite, stiff nod at Soundwave in passing whilst helping Shadow Striker walk with dignity, in turn being helped. "Uh, take care."

The mech dances and salutes the femmes at the same time, without breaking rhythm. "See you, ladies." His dulcet croon, his playful movements, all give form to a smirk.

"Chromia, please. I don't want to argue about this again. Cybertron is my home, too. I'm committed to the struggle. I'm staying to help. I'll fight if I have to."

"This should not be your war. You would be within your right to return to Caminus with me. Your first home. Please, Windblade, do as I ask of you just this once."

"I'm sorry. I can't."

"Have I not always tried to protect you?"

"Of course! I've never, ever doubted you."

"Then know that I often doubt myself."

The flier's delicate servos are captured in the bike's larger, stronger digits. Their optics are lost altogether, a limitless connection of their throbbing Sparks.

"I have failed you before."

"You've never failed me. I wish you'd stop saying stuff like that."

"I need you to be safe. I must know you are safe."

"Your shield means more to me than all that's beautiful. But you know I can protect myself."

Chromia's handsome facial rigging is softened with grief and anxiety. "I just need you safe, with me."

Windblade leans in and brushes their intakes gently together. "I love you." And then pushes hard against those dermas she knows so well, it is virtually instinct. "But I'm staying." The kiss numbs nothing. "You can go home."

"I already tried that. The time apart only hurt me. I felt so displaced."

"It hurt me, too. But I don't begrudge you for taking care of yourself. You're precious."

"My home… is wherever you are."

"There you are."

Flamewar is curled up small and sharp and shapely in the tight recess of an old storage locker, silent, staring.

"I've been looking everywhere for you! You didn't answer me when I called," Thunderblast says with distinct irritation, but her optics are soft. She slowly kneels, running her digits along cold, still fire. "Hey. Come on out the closet." Playful.

The bike sniffs, drags a palm over her optics, and finally crawls into the boat's arms.

Thunderblast deposits a little kiss atop Flamewar's helm, rising with her carefully, coaxing her along.

"It was this," the bike croaks, speaking for the first time in hours, "or the armoury, where the weapons are."

The boat cringes prettily. "Sweetie…"

"This is why I don't do friends, or family. Long ago I told myself, hey, Flames, that ended really badly the last time, so don't get attached to people ever again, 'cause people come and go and they leave all the hurt behind."

"You can't be all alone all the time. You need to let people in. It's okay to get hurt, just be smart about the risks you take."

Flamewar lifts her gaze up at the statuesque stunner that is Thunderblast.

"I'm a bad glitch, and even I care about others. Sometimes. Like, selectively. Guarding your Spark is what you've just got to do sometimes, sweetie, but that doesn't excuse closing yourself off. You'll end up lonely and miserable and bitter."

"Like boss bot."

"Yeah, pretty much."

"I wanna care about you guys. I wanna feel safe, and secure, and… like I'm a part of a team again."

The boat cups the bike's darling face.

"Shadow Striker's as fragged up as I am, so I got attached fast, I guess. I don't wanna lose her."

"Sweetie, whatever happens to her, you've still got the rest of us."

Flamewar tries to smile. She really does. "You guys like me, right?"

"Sure, girlfriend! I think you're super strange, but charming. We have fun."

"You won't all just disappear and leave me alone to die. Right."

"Something truly tragic happened to you."

"Yeah, a little bit."

Thunderblast hums, then kisses the shorter femme's forehelm.

"You smell nice."

"Mmhm."

"Don't you have work to do?"

Flamewar practically squeals.

Thunderblast giggles, rising to her full height. "Hey, you're back."

"Surprise." Shadow Striker is flushed, slouching, an arm draped over Slipstream, who smiles tiredly. "You're stuck with me. Lucky you."

Flamewar throws herself at Shadow Striker, embracing her about the torso with a roar of the engine.

The mercenary scowls down at the bike, permitting the hug for about five seconds without protest. "Geddoff." There's a smile, in the midst of all that scowling.

Flamewar releases and steps back, grinning upwards.

Shadow Striker grunts when Thunderblast kisses her intake.

"Mm. Glad you're not dead, handsome. Also, are you drunk? You seem drunk."

"A little bit."

"Go lie down."

"I give the orders around here."

"Slipstream, take the boss over to the recharge bay and put her to berth. In fact, go take a nap yourself."

"Yes, Sir. Right away."

"Ugh. Femmes. Frag me. I'm too old for this scrap."

Thunderblast ruffles Flamewar's helm.

Demolishor is standing guard, but he will be happy when they tell him their commanding officer yet lives.

Slipstream thus brings Shadow Striker over to the recharge slabs and, with much grumbling, has the older femme sprawl out on her aching spinal strut with a groan.

"Primus. This is barely better than my chair."

"You really should be careful. Your posture matters, Sir."

"You know, you slouch a lot, so don't talk to me about fagging posture."

The Seeker smiles down at the mercenary. It is very affectionate.

"And don't look at me like that. I've been through way too much touchy-feely emotional scrap today."

"You could've died."

"Well, I didn't, largely thanks to you." Shadow Striker's scope follows as Slipstream settles on the neighbouring recharge slab. "Maybe it's the high-grade talking, but…"

"…But?"

The old mercenary never finishes that softly spoken thought, lapsing off into grumbling, moody recharge.

Wings retracted, the uncomfortable and depressed Seeker sighs and somehow manages not to sob herself quietly to sleep this time.

Flamewar sneaks in at some point and curls up in the crook of Slipstream's arm, tucked snugly against the boxy curves of her bulky side, because Shadow Striker is taking up the other berth and probably does not do cuddles, but Slipstream definitely does do cuddles, and Flamewar is kinda into that. The snoring remains wonderfully unobtrusive, a low throaty purr of contentment.