Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Then:

The walls were an optic-searing cryo-mint blue, no doubt chosen by some corporate decorator for its "relaxing" qualities. Streetwise could only wish more of it were hidden by the bad corpo-art that kept those walls from being entirely unbroken optic killers. He'd been sitting alone in the nondescript office suite in the nondescript building since before the rising of the sun that morning. By the time Smokescreen actually showed up at the mostly empty office designated for their clandestine meeting, more than twice the pre-established length of time between their arrivals had passed on the chronometer. Sitting in a simple swivel chair on the far side of an unimpressive table—it didn't even have a drawer to stash a datapad or stylus in—Streetwise crossed his arms and gave the swaggering, smiling mech a narrow-opticked look.

"Oh, come on, Streetwise," Smokescreen greeted with a smooth purr of his engine, "don't give me that look. You know the longer that goes between you and me getting here, the less it looks like we have anything to do with each other." He leaned back against the closed door, a quiet clatter rising in the air as his doorwings clicked against it. He laughed and stepped farther into the small and unremarkable office, stretching the sensor appendages behind him. "There's a lot of people that know you and a lot of people that know me. Some of them even know both of us." He eased across the room to the table with that sway to his hips he'd used to hold Streetwise's attention so many times, setting his hands down on the edge as he leaned across toward Streetwise. "Considering what we're doing here, I don't think we want them having any reason to catch a clue by way of me getting here too soon."

Judging from the gleam reflecting off his frame—from golden yellow chevron helm crest to the rally racer blocks of blue and red with white detailing on his plate and the shadowy black of his base armor—Smokescreen was late because he'd spent an awful lot of time making himself shiny. Streetwise felt entirely justified in calling him out on it. He arched an orbital ridge. "I'm thinking you just got caught up in making yourself look pretty. You didn't have plans on trying to turn a work meeting into something else, did you?"

"Streets, babe," Smokescreen cooed, leaning farther across the table—he'd tip over it if he kept going, "if I don't come out of the building without at least a small paint swap or smear of wax—"

"Your reputation will survive," Streetwise said, cutting him off before he could derail the meeting before it even began. He'd spent too much time around Smokescreen, let himself be wooed by those wily doorwings and glinting blue optics, to be easily influenced anymore. Setting his elbows on the edge of the table, Streetwise rested his chin on his folded hands. "As long as you took the entrance you were told to, no one will be the wiser of our meeting."

He allowed himself a small smirk at the way those blue and white doorwings dipped in an obvious display of disappointment. Smokescreen's helm fell forward as he sighed in defeat. "Fiiine," he said, drawing the word out with extreme petulance. He lifted his chin enough to show off the unsubtle glow of knowing in his optics—he wasn't known among those in a position to know as a top notch confidence mech and infiltration specialist for no reason. "So… if I can't talk you into a little behind the panels playtime—for old time's sake, you know—why am I here?"

Streetwise sat back in his chair, working his jaw a bit because trying to work with Smokescreen had a tendency to get him tense. He drummed his fingers across the unblemished black surface of the table. "Cut the scrap, Smokescreen," he said, letting a hard release of air pulse through his vents. "You know exactly why you're here, otherwise I wouldn't be talking to you, but whichever bot was better than you, instead."

Slapping a hand over his spark as he stood upright again, Smokescreen grimaced. "Ouch. You really know how to ruin a mood."

"What mood?" Streetwise asked, not bothering to wait for an answer before continuing. "You're here because we need to take down the Decepticons. Maybe not entirely, but at least hobble them before they take over the city. Iacon will not become the next Kaon or Vos."

The look on Smokescreen's face shifted to something a little more business-like. He sat his weight on his side of the table for lack of a second chair, one knee crooked up so his leg curled across the surface. His doorwings fluttered, casting a faint breeze over Streetwise's armor, tingling over the tips of his audial spikes. The shrewd look Smokescreen tossed his way told Streetwise the mech was taking the situation seriously. Smokescreen rubbed a thumb along his chin as he considered what he knew—undoubtedly more than Streetwise realized, proven every time Streetwise was forced to call on him—then said, "I would have thought you had a guy inside already."

Sighing, Streetwise let himself slump a little in his seat, tapping idly at the table again. "We do, but they're not in a position to do what needs to be done. For safety's sake."

Smokescreen's mouth stretched again into a wide and immediate grin, his optics glinting with new mischief. "Oh, is that right?" His doorwings flicked with amusement. "A real shame. Guess this isn't a plot to get under my panels. You do need me."

Streetwise wished the barren office had some small bit of detritus to flick at the annoying dipstick.

Now:

If Smokescreen knew how to do anything, it was how to play the long game. The amount of time he spent building himself a place in the Iaconian underground equaled at least thrice the time he'd put into building his name in Polyhex. Which, in itself, had been twice the time spent in Praxus, though only a fraction of that in Vos—a city-state with underground politicking surpassed only by Kaon, the Decepticon home turf. Smokescreen hadn't expected the greasy underground of Iacon to be an infiltration on par with trying to gain a spot in the powerhouse that was Kaon, but he hadn't expected it to be quite so involved, either.

Starting as low as he dared in the criminal infrastructure of Iacon, Smokescreen worked his way through a handful of gangs lingering at the bottom of the Most Notable list. While not padding his financials terribly much, they had given him something more valuable than shanix—local clout as an up-and-coming information specialist. Of course, Streetwise grumbled in that terribly cute way of his when forced to turn a blind optic to his crimes, making it slightly more worth the effort. Just thinking about it put a crooked grin slanting across Smokescreen's face as he stopped at the corner of the lower level sidewalk he followed, checking for oncoming traffic. He quickly wiped the grin away, though. Streetwise could grumble all he wanted and Smokescreen would slurp every bit of it up, but at that moment he needed to focus on his meeting at the seedy little bar situated across the street.

As he waited for an oversized, grubby Constructicon to trundle past him through the intersection, Smokescreen checked his chronometer once again. He'd been checking it far more than necessary, but he knew better than to risk missing the meeting. It wasn't like meeting Streetwise. The Decepticons didn't take kindly to their time being wasted. If Smokescreen showed up late, every bit of his knowledge regarding the top criminal organization of Cybertron—outside of the slagstains making up the majority of the Senate—told him a second chance was highly unlikely. With as much time as he and the rest of Streetwise's team collectively had put in, Smokescreen did not want to tell Streetwise the job was shot due to missing a drink at a dive bar so deep underground the next level down was probably stone.

With the Constructicon out of the way finally, Smokescreen perked his doorwings and made a swift walk across the grungy street under the bare wisps of sunlight that managed to delve so deep. The too loud buzz of dying neon tubing filled his audials as he passed under the sign that hung outside the door of the bar. The light was so dim that none of it could be read. Smokescreen figured the establishment owner turned it on only as a way to indicate they were open at that point. He paused outside the door, rolled his shoulders, and cranked his to either side to release the building tightness in his tensor cables.

"Showtime," he murmured, reaching for the door handle. Before his hand closed around the grime blackened brass, the door swung in his direction. It caught him in the chest with enough force that the smoke-clouded, transparent polymer of the small window rattled in its setting. The bot that stumbled out of the bar looked like they hadn't exited the establishment in at least a deca-cycle, their plating dingy and pitted with neglect, their optics dull.

"Out of the way, slagger," the bot slurred as they shoved past him, barely keeping on his wobbly pedes.

Smokescreen rubbed at his chest plating, hoping it wasn't too scuffed from the impact. He took a moment to wonder how much longer the drunkard would remain upright. He smirked, doorwings fluttering with shameless mockery when he heard the clatter of the bot landing in a pile just around the corner of the building. Catching the door before it closed all the way, Smokescreen strode into the shadowy interior, his mood vastly improved.

He wasn't much surprised to find the place mostly empty—the orn was still early, after all. Sidling up to the bar, Smokescreen gave the filthy bottles lining the shelves behind the counter a wary optic. Not one of them looked like they would treat his tank with any respect.

A hand slapped down on the counter and the boxy frame of the bartender suddenly blocked his view. The guy was big and looked like he could hand Smokescreen his aft if he got out of line. Smokescreen made a note not to do so.

"What'll you have? Make it quick because I ain't got all orn," the bartender said, his vocalizer sounding as if it had been filled with rusty ball bearings. Under the lackluster lighting, it was difficult to tell what color his paint was, but it didn't really matter. Smokescreen didn't intend to come back to the place any time soon. At all, if he could help it. He preferred drinking holes that were a little more uptown. Or at least clean. He wouldn't need to remember this guy.

Smokescreen gave the guy a tilted nod and a little smile. "I'll take a mug of your cheapest. Diluted. I'm here on business."

The blocky mech narrowed a set of greenish optics, small cracks forming at the corners of the lenses. Whether from pure age or from hard use, Smokescreen didn't care to guess. Then, the mech snorted, a smokestack over his left shoulder belching black smoke in time with it. "Whatever. I don't give a frag as long as you pay for it," the mech said, turning away from him and heading toward a lonely looking tap down on the far end of the counter. A half-full glass was poured, the rest filled with a low grade that looked like it was chunky from the amount of silt it contained. The bartender walked it back down to Smokescreen and held out his empty hand. "Twenty shanix, shiny mech. Pay up," he demanded. "And you better tip good."

Doorwings dipping as he sighed, Smokescreen reached into a forearm frame pocket and pulled out a credstick. He input a more than reasonable amount, biting his glossa the whole while, and passed it over. He watched as it was plugged into the register behind the counter, then flicked his doorwings in relief as the amount was drained from the stick. The little details like not tipping a local enough had a tendency to come back in a bad way. He accepted the returned stick and the glass of thick gunk masquerading as engex was settled in front of him. "Thanks."

The mech grunted and returned to whatever he'd been doing when Smokescreen interrupted him. Judging from what little Smokescreen could make out, it involved very little actual work and a lot more watching some trashy vid on a tiny screen hidden behind the counter. Smokescreen kept his mouth shut. He wrapped his hand around the not-so-clean glass in front of him and cautiously lifted it to his lips. It wasn't going to be any kind of good, but he'd paid way too much actual money for it and he hated wasting money.

The engex didn't exactly flow from the glass so much as plop over the rim onto his glossa. Smokescreen nearly gagged at the odd mix of gritty and squishy chunks, quickly turning off his taste receptors before they could feed him more than the most basic of information.

Turning the glass in his hands, Smokescreen checked his chronometer yet again. It wasn't nearly enough kliks after the last time he'd looked. He grimaced at the glass and sighed, swallowing down the thick sludge of the diluted engex, cringing at the bits of low quality ore that scratched along the interior of his intake. He glanced toward the entrance door, willing it to open and his contact from the Decepticons to come in like some sort of saving grace. He'd gotten there with time to spare, the Decepticon headhunter coming to poach him was running late. Typical, he thought.

His doorwings whipped downward in a show of annoyance. They couldn't take it, but they obviously liked handing it out. He dared to lift the glass to his mouth again—and nearly choked when a soft hand stroked from the base of his neck down his spinal stack. His doorwings swept out and up with the intensity of his shock. No one ever snuck up on him! He was practically immune to being caught by surprise. Sitting bolt upright on his stool, Smokescreen took in the figure that appeared and leaned against the edge of the bar to his right. He'd seen seekers before, but this one? Black with violet accents. Sleek wings, narrow limbs, a central frame like—

Another hand whacked him against the back of the helm. Smokescreen turned a scowl to his other side, finding himself met by another seeker. This one a deep blue with accents of red, the thin featured face set in an expression of something that wasn't quite amusement peeking through intense professionalism. The way both looked at him said his contacts had finally shown themselves, the pointed purple face-like emblem on their wings proved it. It was the blue seeker that spoke first, voice smooth and low in a way that wasn't often found outside seeker frames. The tone that should have had his array pinging for release was so distinctly no nonsense, though, that Smokescreen didn't quite know what to do with himself.

"Smokescreen, correct?"

Setting down what remained of his "engex," Smokescreen let his mouth slide into his widest, flirtiest grin. His doorwings flared wide in a display of his assets. He tossed another look toward the dark seeker, finding that one watching him with very interested optics. "That would be me," he replied with a slow drawl. "And you gentlemechs are…?"

"Ladies, for one," the black seeker corrected him. The smirk she gave him pointed with a sharply raised orbital ridge.

"Oh, is that so? My apologies," Smokescreen said, dipping his doorwings in accordance with what he knew of seeker frame language. "Let me amend myself. Hello, ladies."

A faint snort came from the blue seeker. She tilted her helm a bit, ruby gaze intimidating as she gave him a decidedly unimpressed lookover. When she spoke, it wasn't to him. "It's him," she said, tapping a hand to one audial. "Secure the premises."

Smokescreen blinked his optical shutters as he turned to watch as a handful of small bots appeared out of the shadows. Mechanimal fliers and a cougaraider. A couple of ankle joint chewers pretending at being toughs, as well. They set up a ring of observation around the bar that Smokescreen had no doubt would keep the riffraff away. Or, considering they were the riffraff, whatever anyone that interrupted—accidentally or purposefully—would be called. The targeted glint of their ruby red optics certainly had Smokescreen reconsidering how much getting back into Streetwise's good graces really mattered to him.

"Uh…."

"Forget them," the blue seeker said. "You're here to speak with me. My associates are only here to ensure privacy."

The black seeker snickered, reaching around Smokescreen to grab up his half-empty glass of ener-sludge. Smokescreen turned just in time to watch her make a nauseated face at the way the remaining chunks slithered around inside the glass. "Please tell me you didn't actually drink any of this?"

Before Smokescreen could reply, the blue seeker stretched past him and tugged the glass from her hand, setting it back where Smokescreen had put it. "We're not here to flirt, Skywarp," she admonished, slim wings flicking in a manner Smokescreen could only call prim.

"Well," Smokescreen said, breaking in, his tone a deep swing of interest, "that's one name. How about yours?" He offered the blue seeker the least offensive smile in his arsenal, doorwings held at their flirtiest angle. Behind him, the now named Skywarp snickered. Had he planned that? Oh, he had. Smokescreen was always ahead of the game when it came to flirting.

The blue seeker sighed and rolled her optics. "Great," she muttered, "there's two of you." She refocused, her attention back on him and her shoulders set for nothing but business. "I'm Thundercracker, head of Decepticon public relations. I also occasionally dabble in resources that require a higher rank, which would be why I'm here."

Smokescreen glanced down the bar, noting the way the hulking block of a bartender made a fantastic show of Not Listening, then looked back to the Decepticon headhunter. "Understood." He tapped the tip of a finger along the rim of his glass. "I'm a valuable resource and I'm very aware of it. Tell me why I should throw my lot in with you and yours, Thundercracker."

"Because," Thundercracker started, absolutely self-assured, "you're never going to get anything better than what Lord Megatron is offering."

"The 'Cons are on the rise, Smokey," Skywarp added with a hum, leaning closer and lifting a hand to slide a teasing fingertip upward along the slope of his chevron. She gave the point a little flick, sending a shiver zinging up his spinal stack in response. Her red-amber optics crinkled at the corners as she added, "Don't you wanna be top, hm?"

"Enough, Warp," Thundercracker said with a groan.

Not taking his optics off Skywarp, Smokescreen held up a hand. "It's all right, Thundercracker. She's got something there," he grinned, the flash of dentae mirrored by Skywarp. He was going to see her berth in the near future, he was certain. Then he turned back to Thundercracker. "So what's the details on that offer, beautiful?"

He found himself with a lap full of black and violet seeker, his face caught between her hands before Thundercracker could do anything more than begin to frown at him. "Nope, you don't call TC that," she reprimanded, giving his head a little shake. "Nobody ever calls TC anything like that. She particularly doesn't like it when people like you do it. Got me?"

"Uh, yeah, gotcha," Smokescreen agreed, the glint in her optics making him think better of a more cheeky response.

"Good. Now, TC?" Skywarp said, her helm turning to look at her fellow seeker. "Where's the 'pad?"

Thundercracker didn't appear to have lost her annoyance at Smokescreen's misstep, but she did reach into the space under her canopy to pull out a datapad. If Smokescreen's optics could have spiraled open any wider, he was pretty sure they'd have fallen out of his helm. That was quite the place to carry something, after all. Skywarp took the datapad and held it out to him. When he didn't take it fast enough, she shoved it in his face.

"Take it already, would ya?" she demanded. "Let me know if I need to pop a slug between your optics or if you accept Lord Megatron's terms quick, huh? I don't have all orn."

A round of sniggering rose up around the bar from the small bots—casseticons, all of them, if Smokescreen was reading their frames right. He gave them all a small frown then carefully took the datapad from Skywarp. "Pop a slug in me? You some kind of killer?"

"I'm the best kind of killer," Skywarp cooed, shoving the tips of two fingers on the base of Smokescreen's dark helm lamp at the center of his crest. She made a little sound to mimic a projectile weapon firing. There was a weird sound, like the collapsing of air upon itself and the weight disappeared from his lap. Then, the sound reversed from behind him, a wobbling void opening, and the weight of Skywarp pressed against his back. Grabby hands swept over his doorwings before sliding forward over his shoulders. She murmured against his audial in sultry tones as Smokescreen assimilated the knowledge Skywarp was a teleporter—it hadn't been brought up in any of the reports he'd read or known by any of the other gangs. "You wanna frag Megatron's top assassin," she purred, "you better answer right."

With Skywarp a warm presence draped over his back and Thundercracker giving him a questioning look from his left, Smokescreen set the datapad on the counter. A flick of his finger over the power button brought the screen online. Leaning forward a little, Smokescreen skimmed his optics over the contents.

And stared.

Then he went over it all again, his jaw going slack as he read it a little more closely. Beside him, the set of Thundercracker's wings had gone smug. Behind him, Skywarp laughed into the back of his neck, her wings wafting a soft breeze over him as she said, "So, you got the boss' offer now. You got an answer?"

"Awful quick turnaround time. This sort of thing usually gets at least a little bit of time for a guy to think about," Smokescreen replied, optics never leaving the words and large numbers on the datapad. If he were less dedicated to proving himself to Streetwise again, he might be tempted to take the offer for real. He leaned into it as Skywarp's fingers scratched lightly along the side of his helm, warm breath puffing gently from her vents against his plating.

The rolling of Thundercracker's optics was nearly audible as Skywarp nuzzled into the side of his neck. Skywarp lifted her helm to press his helm tight against her mouth, sharp dentae scraping lightly at his finish. "Boss likes to work fast. Can you keep up or is it bang time?"

This was it, Smokescreen realized. All he needed to say was yes and he was in. Exactly what Streetwise needed him to do. Of course, if he said no, he was deactivated. His choice really wasn't much of one, no matter which way he approached it. He tapped the power button a second time, watching the screen go dark before he answered. "I'm in."

"Good," Thundercracker said, standing from the stool she'd been sitting on. She gestured toward the grungy glass with ener-sludge on the filthy countertop. "Pay for your drink, such as it is, and we'll take you home."

Biting back the comment that wanted to slip out about being taken home by a couple of gorgeous seekers would have sliced open his glossa if his dentae were any sharper. "No worries," he assured Thundercracker, giving the bartender a quick glance. "Already paid."

He nearly flopped back off his stool as Skywarp caught his elbow and tugged. She yanked him along, pulling him toward the entrance. "Get your pedes under yourself," she chastised, not bothering to give him a moment to do so. "C'mon, kids, let's get back to introduce our new Brother to the Boss!"

"We're not kids!" one of the small mechs grouched loud and clear as the other headed out the door with one of the bird bots in tow—presumably checking the way was clear of any nuisances. Other than themselves, Smokescreen corrected himself. A quiet warning growl sounded as a warm frame slinked around Smokescreen's pedes, as if his thought had been heard. The cougaraider. A long tail curled around the back of one of his knees, tugging before letting loose. Smokescreen frowned as the sleek black frame slipped outside, vanishing into the sparse shadows cast by a sun still not anywhere near the nighttime horizon.

Then, all his sensors were knocked offline, sending him deaf, blind, and finally unconscious.

Something was pulled off the back of his helm, bringing about an instant reboot into awareness. Smokescreen flailed into a sitting position, grasping at the now empty spot on the back of his helm. His doorwings fluttered and whacked against someone that yelped and grabbed at them, attempting to hold them still.

"Hey!" yelped a familiar voice. "Hey! Stop it, already! Slag, I told Screamer and Soundwave it was a bad idea, TC. Why'd you make me do it, anyway?"

"Because it wasn't just Starscream and Soundwave," said another voice—Thundercracker, Smokescreen recalled as his brain module kicked in with his last memories. "Lord Megatron doesn't want the new guy knowing the location of headquarters until he's given the green light."

Smokescreen frowned, pulling himself out of Skywarp's clutching hands. "You couldn't have just blocked everything without knocking me out?" he complained. "They make things that do that, you know."

"Enough whining. Be grateful you passed the scans on the way in," Thundercracker told him, standing back and giving him an unimpressed look. "If you'd lied about anything, you'd never have woken up."

Stumbling to his pedes took a klik longer than he'd hoped, but Smokescreen was up and steady soon enough. He turned on Thundercracker, jerking a finger pointed in her direction. "You could have warned me. Or, I don't know, asked? Maybe I would have said yeah, go ahead, knock me out so I don't know where your home is," he said, repeating the word Thundercracker had used for it back at the grungy little bar. He forced out a harsh vent, dropped his hand, and flicked his doorwings. "Anyway, whatever. I'm here to see Megatron, aren't I? Let's do it."

After a quick blink in his direction, Skywarp crowed out in boisterous laughter, wings fluttering. Thundercracker sighed and pinched at the bridge of her nose. "It's not that funny, Warp."

Skywarp righted herself, weight shifted to one hip, wings slung low and coy. Her grin was slick and did more to re-earn his favor than any apology might have managed. The points of black paint around her optics accented her coquettishness. "Yes, it is, TC," she said. "You're just boring."

Smokescreen watched the exchange a moment longer, then glanced around the room they were holding him in while Thundercracker spat out her annoyance. The seekers didn't need his attention—if they hadn't taken him out yet, he was safe enough until he was introduced to their boss. The room was mostly unadorned, the walls a middling purple and hung with a couple of old style pennants that bore the Decepticon emblem like some kind of standard. A few simple benches were pushed against the walls, offering seating to anyone that might be kept waiting before a meeting with the gang's boss and his commanding officers.

Noting the fancier set of doors on one side of the room—very different from the plain single panel on the other—Smokescreen headed toward them to get a closer look. As he reached his hand to give one of the double doors a touch, drawn by the curling swirls of graven filigree, a dark hand closed around his wrist. "Don't touch," Thundercracker told him, gripping his wrist a little tighter as she pulled Smokescreen's hand farther away. "Wait until you're invited to enter."

"Yeah," Skywarp added, coming up on his other side, leaning against him. "You're new so you've got a lot to learn. That means—"

"Don't do anything until I'm told to, right?" Smokescreen asked her, one corner of his mouth lifting in a quick smirk.

"Good boy," she returned, grinning as she tapped a finger against his lips.

Behaving himself, Smokescreen turned a look toward Thundercracker, smiling innocently, and wiggled the fingers of the hand she still had captured in her direction. "So… how long until I'm invited?"

Thundercracker opened her mouth to speak, but whatever she'd been about to say was interrupted when the set of fancy double doors split apart and swung into the Decepticon's Iacon assembly room. She harrumphed and released his wrist, waving him toward the revealed space. "Apparently they're ready for you now."

"I guess so," Smokescreen murmured, taking the gesture as his cue to make his presence known to those inside. Looking at the open doorway, he found he couldn't quite make out what precisely lay on the other side. He knew of devices used to obscure places from outside observation like that. In fact, he had intimate knowledge of all of them, having used them before during previous jobs. Looking out from inside the veil would be entirely unaffected.

"Get your aft in there! The Boss doesn't like waiting, newbie." A pair of small hands landed against his lower back and shoved.

Smokescreen, caught off guard, fell forward with the push and spun on his heels to glare back through the double doors the moment he was on the other side of them. As expected, the veil of secrecy working over the large room he was now in allowed for perfectly clear viewing outward from the inside. He glared at the small blue casseticon, throwing a narrow look at him and the red twin that laughed over his shoulder. Making a mental note and flagging it high-priority, Smokescreen told himself to keep an eye on those two—they were obvious trouble.

"He certainly doesn't look like a particularly good spy to me," came an obnoxiously grating voice from behind him. Smokescreen's audials picked up the subtle sound of a pair of seeker wings flicking disdainfully at the air.

Wheeling around on his pedes again, Smokescreen blinked at the scene on the far end of the large room and quickly slapped on his most amiable smile. He approached the raised dais—a strangely old world conceit—and the three mechs arranged there. From his perspective, to the left stood the maker of the deriding comment: Starscream.

While most Decepticons kept a low profile in the public sphere, the flashy seeker adorned himself in blinding white and accented it with a blue found only in the skies of a few organic planets as well as a red that reflected the hue of rare ruby crystals. The seeker reveled in drawing attention to himself, whether it be good or bad, going so far beyond a flashy paint job to have made a name for himself among the upper echelons of Iaconian society.

That meant the boxy blue figure to the right, the one staring him down with an utter lack of emotion, could be none other than Soundwave. This was the mech all the reports from Streetwise and his own research dubbed the Decepticon head of covert operations and communications. Definitely not someone on Smokescreen's list of people to get on the wrong side of.

And in the center—

"Lord Megatron, it's a pleasure to meet you," Smokescreen greeted, pausing a couple of paces away from the foot of the dais and offering a small bow, doorwings alert and confident. He was an information broker, a confidence mech when he had to be. By profession, he only showed submission when the job called for it. So far? This one didn't.

The broad shouldered frame lounging in a tall, dark purple, throne-like chair was saved from being deactivation gray only by the deep burnishing that turned it silver. It was the frame of a laborer, a miner, heavy and brutish. As the silence dragged on, Smokescreen met the intense red gaze of the Decepticon leader.

It felt like a test. One he was failing miserably as his optics shifted to take in the purple emblem emblazoned across the mech's chest before moving to the massive black fusion cannon mounted on his right forearm. Making it seem merely part of his taking in his surroundings, Smokescreen swung the shifting of his optics into a slow circle on his pedes. Numerous pennants and flags were draped along the walls, interspersed with sconces burning with cool blue light. More sets of double doors were set into the longer walls of the large room, likely for opening up the chamber when in use for events requiring space for more than four bots. The throne seemed to be the only piece of furniture.

"Nice place," he chirped, his mouth working on its own. "Throw many parties?"

A low and gravelly chuckle brought his attention back to the gray framed mech. Only a quick flutter of his doorwings kept him from stumbling from the speed of his turn. Megatron's helm dipped forward in a small nod, one hand curling into a tight fist and releasing, the other doing the same a moment later. The curve that bent Megatron's mouth upward at the corners was barely there to be seen, but Smokescreen's life had depended on observing such minute details more than once throughout his career. The weight on his spark lifted. Not entirely, but enough he no longer expected the fusion cannon to be used on him immediately. Tilting his helm and letting his own smile become a slightly cocky smirk, Smokescreen asked, "So, have I passed the test?"

"Mmm, perhaps," that rumble of voice said, spilling from the silvery miner's vocalizer like a load of ore from a full cart. From under the shadow cast by the brow ridge of his helmet, Megatron's burning gaze shifted toward the blue mech. "Soundwave, report."

Smokescreen's spark stuttered in his chest. His own optics shifted to the blue mech, focusing on that blank mask and red crystalline visor that hid his face from view. He stood still but for a nervous flick of his doorwings as the tingle of a purposeful scan traced over his frame from the points of his crest to the tips of his pedes. There was little doubt he'd already been put through the full course of scans while unconscious, something about this particular scan touching a bit lighter than he'd expected—a scan to tease him? There was a slight reverb to Soundwave's voice when he finally spoke.

"Recruit Smokescreen has been deemed acceptable," Soundwave said, lacking nearly all emotion in an echo of Smokescreen's initial read on the mech. "Probationary period recommended as usual for all new members of the Decepticons."

"Excellent," Megatron replied, shifting only the smallest bit, almost as if he were uncomfortable, lacking the sort of physical strength he was renowned for. Smokescreen gave him a slightly more searching look. Something seemed very not right. That was when he noticed the fifth bot in the room.

Near completely hidden behind the throne in the shadows cast by a set of heavy tapestries, disguising what was likely an office on the other side of the dais, was a mech that bore the marks of a medic on his dark-colored shoulder pauldrons. Smokescreen added another mental note to his growing file to look into what records he could access about Megatron. He doubted he'd find much of anything, but it needed looking into, obviously. The heavy voice of the Decepticon leader pulled him out of his thoughts. "Soundwave, have him escorted to the accommodations prepared for him."

"Yes, Megatron," Soundwave intoned, putting two fingers the side of his helm in the traditional manner indicating use of internal comms.

Moments later, Smokescreen had Skywarp beside him. She took the lead and dragged him out of the assembly hall with an amused flutter of her wings. "Guess I don't get to put that slug in you yet!"

Behind them, hidden by the electronic veil again, Starscream's voice rose in an audial piercing shriek. "And I once again see exactly how little my opinion on anything matters! Have you forgotten the rank I hold in this venture? I'm your blasted second in com—"

Smokescreen's internals and brain module scrambled as he discovered exactly what it felt like to teleport.

Skywarp didn't stay long, just enough to show him around the private suite. Considering how curious she was, Smokescreen was pretty certain she'd never been there before, either. Unfortunately, she vopped away in a warp afterward, giving only the vaguest promise she'd be back later that night. He sighed and took the time to give the habitation suite a closer look of his own.

The space given to him was large and functional, though perhaps decorated a bit more enthusiastically than Smokescreen normally appreciated. Also, without doubt, each and every room of the habsuite dripped with surveillance equipment. If he needed to contact Streetwise, he wouldn't be doing it from here. Still, he hadn't expected to be given any sort of "private" residence. It was a nice perk if he didn't count the microphones and cameras.

With nothing more to do that evening as the few stars that could be seen at that depth blinked into view, Smokescreen grabbed a glass of engex—high quality stuff this time—from the fully stocked wet bar in his front room before flopping to sit on his couch. He raised his glass, saluting the camera he knew was there. "Here's to new beginnings. Let's try not to kill each other too quickly, all right?"

Chapter Text

Then:

Leaned across the desk again, unable to sit still for long when he wanted something, the brat froze when Ratchet stepped out of the small side room that contained a private evacuation chamber. The sound of an emptying chute and a last few drips from the sanitizing station followed the medic out. Streetwise tilted his helm and smirked as Ratchet strode closer to the desk.

"Well, if it isn't the mech of the orn," Ratchet chastised in that gruff rumble of his. He made an exaggerated point of checking the chrono on his wrist holo-display. "How many orns late?"

That got an outright flap of indignant doorwings and a scowl as Smokescreen stood to face Ratchet. "I'll have you know that is entirely normal for someone doing my job. Just ask Streetwise. He's worked with me and others of my profession more than enough to back me up on it." The mech swung around, flinging a hand Streetwise's direction, a beseeching look on his face. "C'mon, babe, tell the mech."

"I don't need to tell him anything, especially something that he isn't here for," Streetwise replied, leaning back in his seat and hooking one ankle over the opposite knee. Waiting for comprehension to dawn on Smokescreen's face never stopped being a joy for Streetwise. It was never a long wait, either—one thing in Smokescreen's favor.

The entire set of Smokescreen's frame drooped with annoyed compliance, his doorwings falling the lowest Streetwise could recall ever seeing. His face spoke even more deeply of his frowning disappointment. "I don't need a medic to look me over," he griped. "I'm perfectly fine. Not a gear out of place and not a wire kinked or stripped—"

"I'll be the judge of that," Ratchet snapped at him, breaking him off before he could finish the excuse.

Keeping the smile off his face in that moment was one of the hardest things Streetwise had found himself tasked with in recent memory. He sat back a little more comfortably into his chair and watched the scene unfold. While he didn't envy Smokescreen's place at the center of the medic's attention, he didn't have any problem enjoying the squirming as an observer, either.

"It's necessary, Smokescreen," he said, drawing a darting look of sharp blue optics his way—two pairs, actually. One was definitely more amused than the other. "We need a current baseline to compare at any future meetings while the job is in progress. Standard procedure, remember?"

Smokescreen flicked his doorwings and jerked a hand toward Ratchet. "So you're getting him to do it? There's plenty of medics that are more than capable of—"

"There are," Streetwise said, happily taking his turn to interrupt, "but this is the one I trust on this particular job." He purposefully tilted his helm in question, folding his hands together in his lap. "Is there something wrong with Ratchet? Some reason I shouldn't trust him?"

The answering silence was all the answer he needed.

"Personal grievance isn't going to be enough, I'm afraid," Streetwise informed him. "Should I leave the room while the scans are taken? I'd hate to intrude on something so private." He allowed the smirk that continued to fight him as Ratchet snorted, the medic grabbing the bag tucked just inside a small storage closet on the other side of the office. Obviously, Ratchet had no worries about a lack of privacy.

"Wait, whoa! Hold on a nano-klik here. What if I don't trust him?" Smokescreen piped up to ask before Ratchet could lay a hand on him. "What if it's more than a personal grievance?"

Streetwise eyed him, watching as Smokescreen worked the most serious expression in his playbook. For someone that had known him as long and as closely as Streetwise, it wasn't particularly impressive. "I thought I told you to cut the scrap," he said, making it much more a statement than any sort of question. "It doesn't matter if you don't trust him. In this situation, I'm the one that needs to trust him and, like I already said, I do."

He hadn't meant that as a distraction, but Ratchet certainly took it as such, plugging in the first of his several devices with surprising alacrity. He was already scrolling through whatever information it gathered before Smokescreen managed more than an affronted yelp. "Hey! Not cool!"

"I'm sorry," Ratchet shot back at him without looking away from the screen in his hand. The tiny smirk on his face crinkled his optics at the corner—a sure sign he was much more amused than he showed. "Should I have warmed it up first?"

Smokescreen glared at him. A glare that turned Streetwise's way when it became obvious he was just as amused as Ratchet.

"Oh, frag off," Smokescreen tossed at him. Then he growled at Ratchet as the medic plucked the jack from his port only to jab another jack into another port hidden at the back of his neck. He swatted at Ratchet's hands, swiftly having his own swatted right back. "I thought medics were supposed to be—"

Ratchet's hand landed across Smokescreen's mouth, stopping the rest of whatever sought to come out of it. With the other hand, he continued scrolling through the information his device was reading. Streetwise nearly put his pedes up on the table—something he never did—for the depth of his revelry as Ratchet said, "Finish that statement and I'll weld your lips to your aft."

Smokescreen's optics flashed with another round of indignance, but he didn't say anything more when Ratchet moved his hand away.

Tapping a few buttons on his scanner, Ratchet glanced at Streetwise. "Are you sure you need him? You've got someone already there and more than capable of doing what needs done, much to my great displeasure."

"They're too close, Ratchet, and you know it," Streetwise said, holding Smokescreen's curious gaze. He really didn't want to talk too much about the bot turned informant for Security Operations, not in front of Smokescreen. "If any of this goes sideways, we can't afford to lose our pede in the organization. I know how much you don't like it, but—"

"Are you saying he gets to know who the informant is, but I don't?" Smokescreen asked, obviously unable to hold his glossa any longer. "How is that fair?"

"It's not," Streetwise told him, clicking his visor back to give him a narrow-opticked look. "Get over it. I'm not going to compromise them or their position. It's safer for both of you." He ignored the sputtering that followed, shifting his attention to Ratchet, the medic unplugging a third scanner from Smokescreen's violated ports. "How's he look?"

"He's clean," Ratchet reported, already packing away his devices. "Got a good baseline, too."

Now:

He really shouldn't have been surprised when, with the arrival of morning, the call came to report to Soundwave's office. It might have been his probationary period, but the datapad had specified a need to very swiftly take care of certain situations. They needed his expertise and weren't going to wait on using it.

Like most of the building, Soundwave's office was done in shades of purple. Smokescreen wondered briefly if he'd ever associate the color with anything other than the gang after the job was done. To one side of Soundwave's desk, the black cougaraider casseticon lounged on a thick cushion. The sapient mechanimal gave the appearance of ignoring him, but Smokescreen knew better than to believe that. The flicking of the end of the beast's tail told him Ravage—as he'd been introduced—was well-aware of everything going on around him.

A datapad shoved into Smokescreen's hands moments after the office door closed behind him held a number of files regarding a wide selection of bots. It turned out, not unexpectedly, the business of keeping tabs on not only enemies and outside associates but the numerous members of the Decepticons themselves lay in the hands of the boxy blue mech. Some were local Iaconian business owners. A larger section held lower ranking Decepticons—any criminal organization that wanted to continue to exist kept tabs on their own. Scrolling through, he did recognize a few more notable names on the list, though. Particularly the politicians.

The only directions he'd been given after looking over the list was a dispassionate, "Intimidation is needed." Smokescreen shrugged and nodded, adding an agreeable dip of his doorwings. It wouldn't be the first time he'd been sent after blackmail material by an employer.

That wasn't all of it, though.

"Come," Soundwave said, waving him to follow toward a computer terminal that Smokescreen had no doubt would be beyond any simple hack. "The case of most importance will not be found on the datapad."

Standing to Soundwave's right, Smokescreen watched as the entirely too competent mech called up the sought after profile with no more than a few swift flicks of his fingers. The profile brought up, oddly enough, bore the image of a mech he already knew, if only by name and reputation, as they ran in the same circles. Outside the influence of the Decepticons, even. He frowned, considering just how much the mech might know about him, but ultimately shrugged the niggle of concern away. If Swindle knew anything about Smokescreen's connection to Streetwise and thus Sec Ops, it would be easy enough to bend the truth. Or use any of the things he already knew about Swindle.

"All right," Smokescreen started, stepping closer… then stepping back when Soundwave turned a slow and displeased look at him over one wide shoulder. "Uh, sorry about that," he apologized with a quick smile. "So, what's the deal with Swindle?"

The displeasure suddenly flipped a switch to pleased, Soundwave returning his attention to the screen of his work station. "It is good you already know of him," Soundwave intoned, holding any feelings he might have very close to his spark, the words only hinting at whatever hid behind that mask and visor. "Swindle is one of ours, but there is reason to believe his loyalty is divided."

"You want me to find out and… then what?" Smokescreen didn't want to assume anything. He hadn't been brought on as an assassin and he wasn't keen on turning himself into one, either.

Soundwave dropped his hand and caught both behind his back as he turned to face Smokescreen. "Your objective will be to ascertain if those dividing his loyalty may be amenable to joining forces."

That lifted a weight off Smokescreen's spark. His grin returned and he offered one of his crooked nods. "Got it. You're looking to make a recruitment offer to whoever the rest of his crew is."

"Precisely."

Looking at the screen again, taking in the wide and sleazy grin of the mech in the image, optics hidden behind a large, violet split-visor, Smokescreen asked, "Got anything more for me or am I free to get started on planning all of this out?"

"You are free for now," Soundwave told him. "Work has started on another situation that may require your services, but they are not needed yet." He paused, glanced back toward the casseticon. "Ravage says to remind you of your branding ceremony."

"Oh, yeah, that." Smokescreen frowned a little. If he was intended to infiltrate the spaces Soundwave wanted him in, a shiny new Decepticon symbol on his frame was a bad idea. "How, uh, how's that going to work with the things you want me to do? I can't exactly get myself into some of the places I'll need to go if I've got that on me."

"Do not be concerned. This has been taken into account," came the response as Soundwave closed Swindle's profile. "Do you require a copy of Swindle's information?"

"Nah," Smokescreen said, shaking his helm. "Swin's a conmech just as much as I am. If I'm going to work him over the way you want? It's gotta be natural. If he gets any sort of suspicion I know something I shouldn't? He's gone and you'll be lucky to ever find him again."

Soundwave was thoughtful for a moment before he gave a curt nod. "Understood. Expected, but not the desired outcome, of course."

"Of course." Shoving the datapad into the frame pocket on his right thigh, Smokescreen bid the mech good orn. "I'll get busy with these other guys first, then make plans to run into Swindle in one of those purposeful accidents. Do I have a check in time or should I just expect to be commed at any given time, day or night?"

"The latter."

It would hardly be the first time in his life such was the case, so Smokescreen shrugged it off as not an issue. And if ever there was a way to say "dismissed" without actually saying it, Smokescreen knew he'd just heard it. He offered a lazy flick of his doorwings as some sort of salute and another of his practiced grins. "Yes, sir."

Once outside the office, it occurred to him to wonder if Streetwise's informant might be on the datapad. He patted his thigh and smirked. Even if they weren't on it, he was certainly in a position to look into it without raising any optical ridges. Really, it wouldn't hurt anything if he knew whoever it was, right?

By the end of the deca-cycle, Smokescreen made excellent headway through his list. Rearranged from the order Soundwave presented them, the names on his list went from persons of most importance to least and now sat grouped into a web of known connections. Over the course of his career, Smokescreen learned those that could be connected were far more likely to have something nasty in common that could be used against all of them. It cut down on his workload immensely and made him look all the better in the optics of an employer-slash-client.

Unfortunately, to his annoyance, not one of them fit the specs for being a deep cover informant. He'd have to widen his search. Something like that being kept from him wasn't going to stand, whatever Streetwise thought safest. What if he needed the bot or the bot needed him?

"Hey, hey, Smokey, my mech!" Swindle called out as he pushed open the door to Smokescreen's habsuite without so much as a single knock. Smokescreen didn't bother asking how he'd bypassed the lock. He'd run into the smaller mech not more than an orn after speaking with Soundwave—entirely on actual accident, even. The muddy yellow of his paint somehow managed not to clash with the mostly hidden purple of the hab's walls. With the amount of gaudy decor covering it in all shades of the spectrum visible to the average bot, Smokescreen knew most anyone would fit into the palette. "How's the work going?"

Smokescreen arched an orbital ridge as Swindle swaggered in and took a seat on the other side of the dining table. Reimagined as a desk under Smokescreen's watch, datapads and a large sheet of flimsy on which he'd scrawled out the list to make for easier browsing filled most of the space. He made a quick point of switching all the datapads off before Swindle got even a bad look at them. Sure, Swindle likely already knew everything on them, but it looked better for the cameras.

"Better than I thought it would," he replied, a smooth smile sliding across his mouth as he stacked up the datapads and folded the large flimsy to make it all slightly less inviting to those curious optics. The brief grimace on Swindle's face earned an amused crinkle at the bridge of Smokescreen's nose. "What brings you to my humble abode today?"

Both of Swindle's hands landed on the table, the smaller mech leaning forward as a roguish glint flashed across his split-visor from the globe light fixture that hung from the ceiling above. His cheeks were plump with the grin that stretched over his wide mouth. "I have come to the conclusion that it's time for your lonely aft to make a visit to one of my favorite places."

Checking his chronometer, Smokescreen blinked and peeked outside. "When the frag did it get so late?"

"While you were playing old mech that doesn't know how to have fun, that's when," Swindle answered. He reached across the table, swatting at the stylus that still rested in Smokescreen's hand. "Put the rest of the scrap away and let's go get so overcharged we don't remember what we do tonight come tomorrow morning."

Flipping the stylus through his fingers, twirling it like a baton, Smokescreen considered the offer. It had been a long time since he'd last had a good overcharge like that. He was more than ahead of the game on the work Soundwave wanted done, which meant he was plenty deep enough into it to appease Streetwise, too, when he made his next drop.

"Let's go, Smokey," Swindle wheedled, dropping to his elbows and plucking the stylus from Smokescreen's fingers. He tossed it aside without any sort of attempt to send it somewhere Smokescreen might be able to find it later, much to Smokescreen's annoyance—he really liked that stylus. "Get off your aft before it goes flat and let's get outta here." Swindle paused and offered him the sort of look he played on his buyers. "Some redline-hot girls are waiting for us, if that helps get you in gear."

Smokescreen snorted. "Waiting for us? Or more like you found out where they are tonight and want to pretend we just randomly walked into the same bar they're at?"

"Close enough," Swindle replied, waving the accusation off as if it meant nothing to him. He stood and wiped away nonexistent dust from his plating. "A gorgeous set of wings is merely extra rust crumbles on the oil cake, my friend. I got a meeting set up at the place. Come watch a professional make a staggeringly amazing deal with new buyers. You might learn something."

With a roll of his optics, Smokescreen shoved to his pedes. He wagged a finger at Swindle's growing smile, the conmech's expression so freshly oiled the slick practically oozed from him. Before he actually said anything, though, Smokescreen sighed and shook his helm. As much as he thought even more thoroughly impressing Soundwave would be for his position within the Decepticons, rolling out to the bars on any given night with Swindle ultimately worked better for his real job. "Yeah, sure," he said, tossing his hands in a flippant lack of care. "Take me to the hot ladies."

The bar was another dive, though not the one he'd first met Thundercracker and Skywarp at—he wondered if he'd ever hit up a nicer place while doing this job, considering the reputation of the Decepticons. Swindle's declaration of beautiful girls with wings being there and available panned out, at least, much to Smokescreen's grinning delight. Introductions to a different pair of bots were the first order of business, however. Under the gritty lighting and through the whorls of heady smoke from less than legal substances, Swindle led him to a table at the back of the room occupied by a rotor frame and a tank.

"Took you long enough," the tank grumbled around a fancier drink than Smokescreen would have thought a place like the one they were in would offer. The tank played with the tiny and delicate foil umbrella decorating the rim before chugging a portion of the pastel lavender engex in the wide-fluted glass. He worked his glossa around his mouth and tossed a brief look Smokescreen's way from behind a heavy red visor. "Who's the blue and red loser?"

Swindle hand landed on Smokescreen, slapping against his back between his doorwings. "This is my newest pal, a work colleague in the same trade. Well, almost." A sly grin was tossed Smokescreen's way. "He deals in information, rather than goods."

"Goods?" the rotor frame asked, annoyance sounding like his default setting. His rotor blades clattered behind him. "Don't you mean wea—"

Swindle's other hand whapped the rotor frame upside the helm as slapping it over his mouth was made impossible by the blast mask that slammed shut over sharp-edged features. Obviously, it was a common occurrence. "Shut your trap, Tex," Swindle reprimanded the mech. "You know better in public. Want word to make it back to Ons you're still being stupid?"

Arching an orbital ridge, Smokescreen didn't comment on the reference to someone other than Megatron. He'd known Soundwave was right about Swindle having a non-Decepticon crew, but hadn't thought to be so easily introduced to their actual existence. "Ons" had to be the leader, if "Tex" was getting threatened with him.

The cautionary smile Swindle turned his way, barely visible optics narrowed in a way that spoke of danger. "You didn't hear that, right, Smokey?"

"Absolutely did not," Smokescreen agreed, not at all intimidated by the smaller mech. He nodded toward the table. "Introduce me to your friends?"

Swindle eyed him a little longer, then replied, "Sure. Smokescreen, the tank with the funny drink is Brawl. The smartmouthed rotor is Vortex. They're… business partners, I guess you could say. I sell what they procure."

There was no need for either of them to mention none of it went through the Decepticons. A stronger start than Smokescreen could have hoped for in understanding the crew's usefulness in Soundwave's estimation. The Decepticons would absorb the business easily once Swindle and his team agreed to join up. "Nice to meet you, guys," Smokescreen greeted the definitely still guarded pair. He put on another one of his smiles, this one tuned just as sleazy as Swindle's finest work smile. "Like Swindle said, name's Smokescreen. I sure hope we can be friends, too."

The unimpressed snort Vortex released before his blast mask slid back and his mouth wrapped around the rim of a bottle for a long swallow said all Smokescreen needed to know about that particular mech—nothing was ever going to happen there. Brawl, however, reached out a hand, palm outward. Smokescreen pressed his own against it. The touch wasn't truly friendly, but it meant he wasn't being entirely written off.

"Great," Swindle said with a clap of his hands, "we're all buddies now." He caught Smokescreen's elbow—much better than the doorwing, Smokescreen had to admit—and started toward the marginally better lit counter. Swindle glanced around as they walked, releasing a staggeringly annoyed hiss through his vents eventually. "Looks like my client's a no-show. Screw them, then. More time for us to get fendered and show some wings a good time, don't you think?"

"Couldn't imagine a better way to spend the night, actually," Smokescreen answered, already setting his doorwings at their flirtiest and curling his smile to match. While maybe not at the standards of Skywarp and Thundercracker, the couple of colorful seekers flocked at the counter were definitely worth his time.

One daylight pub crawl turned into a whirlwind of several at all times of the orn that gave him plenty of things that would do serious damage to a guy like Swindle if any of it got into the wrong hands. Smokescreen couldn't say he hadn't let a few things of his own slip, as well, though. All true, but carefully chosen for the sake of saving his aft from being ratted out as a stooge for Sec Ops. He hadn't handed the Swindle info over to Soundwave yet, feeding the Decepticon Third information on all the other names filling his docket in the meantime. While it didn't stop the questions regarding Swindle and his outside crew from coming his way, it appeased the blocky blue host mech enough to give him more time. Cyberbirds of a feather and all that, Smokescreen felt an odd kinship with Swindle, making him reluctant to tie the mech and his buddies up tighter than they already were with an organization more than likely on the way out.

He received sharp glares from Starscream whenever he passed through headquarters to make his in-person reports, though Megatron's Second never actually spoke to him. Maybe he muttered disparaging comments behind Smokescreen's back, but that didn't count. The feeling was definitely mutual, honestly. Smokescreen always greeted him with a polite smile and an impolite flick of his doorwings. He enjoyed the affronted sneer it put on the white seeker's face.

The one thing missing from his visits to the Iaconian Decepticon HQ was their leader himself. Rumors circulated among the troops regarding Megatron's health, but nothing that could be proven—much to Streetwise's vexation in the increasingly rare moments Smokescreen managed to meet with the mech face-to-face. Though Smokescreen had spied more than one medic scurrying around the shadowy purple halls and once thought he heard Megatron's voice rasp out something that he couldn't quite decipher—the rantings of a mech deep in the throes of sickness. Word did eventually pass down from the upper levels of the organization that all would be well, by pronouncement of Starscream. No word came from Soundwave's camp.

Unfortunately, as keen as that information made Streetwise, it hadn't resulted in him gracing Smokescreen with anything more than further orders to learn all he could. Not even a thank you, never mind a kiss or tumble in his berth. In fact, he'd commented on his concern that Smokescreen seemed to be taking his position in the Decepticon ranks rather seriously, much to Smokescreen's consternation. That's what he'd been asked to do, no matter how concerned it might make Streetwise.

In doing his best to keep all the sides of his tenuous position happy, his nights became a hedonistic showcase of too much engex and more time with a pretty pair of wings gracing his lap—panels closed and popped—than he knew how to keep track of. Occasionally, he found himself worried he might be overdoing it.

Somewhere along the way in their shared drunken adventures of overcharge, overloads, and more bar fights than he could count, Smokescreen and Swindle were joined on a regular basis by Skywarp—the gorgeous seeker attaching herself to Smokescreen like her life depended on it and becoming his only pair of wings. Usually, anyway. Sometimes she invited a friend. He was pretty sure there was an unrevealed dirty motive behind it, but it wasn't the first time he'd shared his berth with a dangerous bot. She usually dragged Thundercracker along to the bars, too, subjecting the shrewd and levelheaded seeker to the wiles of Swindle's heavy-handed flirtations. When Thundercracker spoke of her distaste for another night at a filthy dive bar, Swindle showed just how desperate he was to land the blue bird.

"You got it, sweetspark," Swindle said, his hand sliding across the small of the taller seeker's back. Smokescreen wondered if he had any notice of the tiniest frown that passed across Thundercracker's mouth. "I know just the place for a dame classy as yourself."

Skywarp buried a cackling laugh against Smokescreen's shoulder, her dark wings fluttering as she snickered. Her hand rested on his chest, sharp fingers tapping against his armor as she pulled an amused face at the pair. "Damn, you're smooth, Swin," she said, tone joking and cruel. "I'm seeing TC in your berth…hmm, never."

Seeing the darkening in Swindle's optics even behind the visor, Smokescreen quickly stepped in to defuse the situation. "Hey, no fighting, you two. I'm looking to have a good night tonight. Just like I'm sure Thundercracker is, right?"

The look Thundercracker turned on him made him glad Skywarp was so taken with him—he liked all his parts right where they were. "I'd appreciate going somewhere I didn't have to bathe after leaving," Thundercracker said in her low and smoky voice. The dip and flick of her wings spoke of just how very much she meant those words. Her gaze slipped toward Swindle. "Where do you intend to take us, if not one of your grimy holes?"

"Whoa, my holes aren't grimey," Swindle remarked. "You'd know that if you weren't so stingy."

"Stingy?!" Thundercracker shot back at him, her wings shooting up into a disgusted display.

Smokescreen slapped a hand over his face while Skywarp gave into another round of cackling. He gripped her around her tiny middle, dragging her close to his side like some kind of security blanket, and said, "Can we at least get out of my hab before you two start throwing things at each other?"

"Yeah, yeah," Swindle said in annoyed agreement to the request. "I was thinking it's time to hit the casino. Play a few games of chance, win a few shanix? They offer employee discounts on the drinks, too, you know."

"What are we waiting for?" Skywarp asked, perking up. She gave Smokescreen a challenging grin, reaching to drag a finger along the edge of his doorwing. "You always brag about how good you play. Time for you to prove it."

Swindle hadn't been lying when he said the place was classy. He'd heard the Golden Chassis was fancy, but hadn't ever set foot in the place to discover the truth of it. Like all things under Decepticon control, though, it was only nominally legal. More dirty deals were rumored to go down in the back rooms of the place than any of the seedy dives that normally saw their patronage. The strategically placed lights and the upper crust style decor that definitely cost more than anything he'd ever seen before made Smokescreen wary of touching anything for fear of breaking it or finding himself catching out a shady deal in the works and they hadn't even made it inside yet.

After being cleared by security—a couple of big brutes that looked like they each had a kill count bigger than the population of a few small towns he could name—Smokescreen realized they were being followed. A quick look as they headed to the lounge area for a table caught him a glance of a bulked up speedster watching them from a short distance. Painted in shades of black, a bit of white, and some gold accents, he would have blended in for his unassuming hues were it not for the optic-catching lines they attempted to hide, from thick thighs and a broad chest to delicately pointed audial flares. Even more interesting, the mech didn't try to disguise the way he watched from behind an obscuring visor, despite having been caught at it.

Taking a seat when Skywarp tugged at his hand, Smokescreen glanced her way and jerked a thumb toward the mech. "Who's pointy helm over there?"

Skywarp leaned around him, then slumped back in her seat with a roll of her optics. "That's Deadlock. He's just some weirdo that Megatron likes for whatever reason. Hired him on as security after he got cleaned up. Acts like he owns the place or something now. Stalks the halls like some creepy kind of cougaraider. …don't tell Ravage I said that." She waved a hand at Smokescreen. "Ugh. You made me talk about him. Be a good boy now and get me a drink."

Giving the security mech one last look, Smokescreen turned to the table and dragged his gaze over the other pair sitting with them. "Am I getting something for everyone?"

"If you don't mind," Thundercracker replied with a serene smile, looking much more pleased with her surroundings. She flicked her wings hard as Swindle's hand wandered, swatting the curious digits away. Swindle hissed and shook his hand, grunting a quick "yeah" while he glared at Thundercracker's nearest wing.

Taking that as his cue, Smokescreen got back to his pedes and headed toward the bar. He glanced behind him every now and then—a combination of making sure Swindle and Thundercracker didn't do more than fuss at each other while Skywarp laughed… and checking on Security Creep.

Deadlock didn't move from where he'd stationed himself against the wall, a strong pair of arms crossed over his impressive-for-a-speedster chest. It was a shame he was so creepy, Smokescreen thought. A mech that easy on the optics would certainly make a nice notch on the berthpost. If Smokescreen's berth were fancy enough to have posts, anyway. And if he could trust a guy with a name like Deadlock not to shiv him in the back at the first opportune moment. Skywarp did mention the mech getting cleaned up, which meant he stood a good chance of having a record of doing things just like that.

As Smokescreen pondered the idea of asking Streetwise for a background check on him, a commotion sounded outside the doors. The soundproofing on the building was too good for any of the details to make their way entirely to Smokescreen's audials, unfortunately. Deadlock didn't seem worried, whatever it was, still keeping his attention focused on Smokescreen. Even with that visor, it was obvious. Ignoring the watchful optics, he nodded toward his table when the bartender noticed him. "Surprise us."

The bartender, a sleek racer model in black and white, glanced at the table, straightened as they noticed the occupants and their Decepticon emblems. It made his own itch again where it had been soldered to the interior of his chest plating. "Yes, sir," the bartender said in a quick chirp. "I'll have someone bring everything right over. No need to wait."

"Fantastic," Smokescreen replied with a grin. He sauntered back to the table, sitting down beside Skywarp again with a proud flutter of his doorwings. As she scooted closer and leaned into him, he said, "I could get used to that kind of treatment."

Slinging her legs across Smokescreen's lap without actually climbing onto him, Skywarp traced a fingertip along the shape of his jaw. "Don't worry, you will. Then you'll get full of yourself and start demanding better treatment. All the top bots do."

Smokescreen blinked and turned a curious look on her. "Top bots? Me?"

She tweaked one point of his crest. "Well, yeah. You've got an important job. Soundwave seems to like you. Screamer spends all sorts of time complaining about you…. All very good signs you're a top bot. Or will be soon enough."

Something about the way she said that sounded odd, but he couldn't begin to figure out why. He laid a hand on her shin, playing with her heel thruster with the other. Outside, whatever ruckus had started up was over. In front of him, a server in pale pink with a hip shimmy that made him wonder if her joints were too loose on purpose placed a selection of fancy mixed engex down with a brief word of what each drink was. Smokescreen wasted no time reaching for the one that most caught his interest.

"Mind if we join you?" The voice that asked was soft, but with a crackle behind it that spoke of something Not Normal. "I didn't expect to see anyone here I knew well enough to ask tonight."

Mid-sip of his fancy engex, the site that greeted Smokescreen's optics when he looked was a golden seeker, expression diffident and regal. Barely visible etchings of a religious order Smokescreen didn't recognize well enough to name traced along the slope of the seeker's wings and around the edges of her canopy. Her hands curled softly around the arm of another flyer, some sort of magenta color and black—not quite a seeker, but close—and wearing a grin that spoke of a decidedly less dignified personality. It was Thundercracker that answered her. "Please do, Sunstorm," she said, gesturing to the pair of empty chairs still open between Skywarp and Swindle. "Lovely to see you again, Misfire. You've met Swindle, but I imagine not Smokescreen?"

"Hey, sweet! I heard about you, but didn't expect to meet so soon," the dark purpley magenta flyer—Misfire?—greeted, grabbing Smokescreen's almost reluctant hand and moving it to meet his own palm to palm. "Always glad to meet a friend of TC and Warp."

Before the introductions could go anywhere else, the air filled with a raucous beat that had Skywarp literally crawling over him and catching hold of his hand. She pulled him to his pedes and away from the table. "Talk later! Dance now!"

Smokescreen offered his new companions an apologetic smile and a shrug. The golden seeker merely smirked and waved him after Skywarp. He'd only managed to catch her under the flashing lights of the dancefloor and swept her into a swooping spin when the disruption that changed everything happened.

From the wide arch that opened between the casino floor and the lounge, a pair of small, familiar mechs rushed in—one red, one blue—pausing only long enough to lock optics with him before rushing toward the table and… Sunstorm? Blocking the arch, the two massive security mechs watched the scene with unsure expressions. No doubt, they knew the hurried pace of the casseticons could only mean something bad.

Taking Skywarp's hand in his, Smokescreen dashed both of them back through the crowd and around other tables. He caught sight of Deadlock making his way toward the table, as well, moving like a luponoid on the hunt. They arrived moments after the two had started talking, words slipping around each other like a well-practiced machine.

"He's dead—" "—they tried everything—" "—nothing worked!" "Soundwave said—" "—to come get everyone!"

"Whoa, there, Rumble, Frenzy," Misfire broke in, his frown a full face scrunch of confusion. "Who's dead?"

As one, they answered, solemn and slumped in despondence. "Lord Megatron."

Despite the music continuing, it certainly felt to Smokescreen as if the world around him had gone deathly silent. Skywarp pressed against him, her fingertips, sharp and deadly, gently scraping at his paint. Thundercracker allowed Swindle's hand to rest on her shoulder, her wings dipped just enough to notice. The humor fell from Misfire's expression and Sunstorm hid whatever she felt behind the facade of any well-trained member of the clergy. And Deadlock? Well, Deadlock looked like his spark had just been ripped out.

Sunstorm's red optics shifted over the whole group. "Perhaps we should return home."

Getting the feeling he wasn't leaving the clutches of Decepticon surveillance any time soon, Smokescreen realized he was probably going to miss breaking the news to Streetwise. He'd have to hope someone else took as great a pleasure as he would dropping that bomb.

Chapter Text

Then:

"So that's a clean bill of health from the doc," Smokescreen said, edging away from Ratchet and the bag of medical devices he stowed the last bit of his equipment in. While he'd never comment on it aloud, Streetwise snapped more than one image of the moment—it was always nice to see Smokescreen even slightly less than fully confident. "What else do I—or you—," he gestured at Streetwise, "—need to know? Or can I just jump right into this thing?"

Streetwise sighed, glancing at Ratchet. The medic knew things that even Streetwise didn't have access to due to his connection to their informant, though he asked Ratchet to not keep them hidden time and again. He needed to know everything if he was going to get Smokescreen and their informant out of things alive when those things ultimately went sour like they had a tendency to do. The best he got was a promise to tell him if it was important. Were it anyone other than Ratchet….

"I know this is antithetical to all you are, Smokescreen," Streetwise started, shaking off urge to have words with the medic again, "but I need you to tell me, promise me, that if something happens—something big—that you won't latch on and use it to your advantage without getting my go ahead first."

The look Smokescreen favored him with was full of contemplation and calculations Streetwise undoubtedly understood better than Smokescreen would like to know. He watched those purposely provocative doorwings dip and weave through a small dance that he'd seen before—the dance that meant Smokescreen wanted to know just how far he could push before Streetwise broke and did something less than professional. Streetwise arched an orbital ridge, his mouth settling into a thin frown as he waited for the question that would prove him right. It came only a few nano-kliks later, accompanied by a deeply curious twist to Smokescreen's face. "How big are we talking?"

Closing up his bag, Ratchet snorted, but refrained from making a real comment. Streetwise sent him a narrow-opticked look, a warning to not set Smokescreen off on some absurd lecture about how he needed to know exactly what he was allowed to get away with. It wouldn't be the first time Streetwise had been forced to either sit through it or have a self-proclaimed adult mech pouting at him like a new forge fresh from the Well. Having mentored before, Streetwise felt entirely confident in thinking he preferred an actual new forge when he did that.

Before Streetwise could open his mouth to answer, though, he was beaten to the punch by Ratchet deciding he actually had something to say. His bag was slung over a shoulder as he turned to give Smokescreen yet another of his scathing glares. He crossed his arms and said, "If you do anything that results in even the slightest scratch showing up on the wrong person, every other threat I have ever directed at you will sound like it came from a new forge. Am I understood?"

The smart look dropped away from Smokescreen's face, his doorwings and shoulders sinking just enough to be noticeable as he stood taller. His optics, so bright and blue, shifted Streetwise's way. Obviously, Ratchet held more sway over Smokescreen keeping himself under control, much to Streetwise's professional disgust. "Understood."

Streetwise silently reminded himself there was a reason he and Smokescreen were no longer a thing, mostly due to Smokescreen's unruly behavior. Professional and personal, Smokescreen may have been good at what he did, but the mess he made along the way had a tendency to be left for someone else to clean up. Far too often, that someone else was him. It made for an untenable situation in the long run and meant Streetwise ultimately taking the step that ended them. Apparently, judging from all the continued flirting and pesty teasing, Smokescreen hadn't left their former state of their relationship behind.

"Are we done with this part of the argument?" Streetwise asked, looking from Ratchet to Smokescreen. He tapped idle yet annoyed fingers against the tabletop, his chair creaking as he shifted it in a direction it didn't like. "We've still got a lot to cover."

At Streetwise's return to the conversation, Smokescreen resorted to his new forge antics, groaning and rolling his optics, doorwings flicking disinterestedly behind him. "Come on, Streets, babe," he moaned as if beleaguered by the heavy weight of a chore he didn't want to do. "I've done this kind of scrap before, you know that. It's why I'm here in the first place. Can't you just give me the datapad or data slug or whatever you've got it on and I'll get out—"

"No," Streetwise said, cutting him off. He pondered walking around the table to stand face to face with the mech he'd once thought would be more than an occasional berthpartner, but quickly discarded the move as a bad one. He didn't want to prompt anything stronger than the bad flirting Smokescreen insisted on. "I want to know without doubt that you're informed of everything, not hope you've taken the time to at least glance at the information we've gathered for you. And let's not even talk about how bad letting you walk off with the data slug would be."

The pout Smokescreen leveled at him didn't work.

Now:

Smokescreen didn't have much choice in the matter. He was caught up in the grasping hands and escape-blocking wings of multiple seekers, escorted from the lounge without a chance to even throw out a single word of protest. The guests of the casino mostly didn't give them even the slightest notice, far too engaged with gambling away their shanix to pay attention to anything outside their machine or table. He couldn't blame them—it was exactly what the casino was set up to engender in them. It made it easier for security to get a little rougher than necessary when dealing with trouble.

The manufactured, neon mood of the establishment played its part with great success, keeping Smokescreen and his group of fellow Decepticons unwatched as they dragged him out the front door. The massive security mechs barely glanced at them as they passed by again, though they did seem much more cautious of who they were allowing entry. They were stuck with their duty shifts until the next shift came in and Smokescreen wondered how much of their remaining time would be spent curious about the upheaval of epic proportions rocking the organization. If the words of Rumble and Frenzy were true, anyway. And there wasn't any reason to doubt them. Not yet.

As big of pests as they were, Soundwave's twin terrors were surprisingly truthful outside of their self-chosen pranking and the occasional misinformation campaigns as assigned by their host.

The two casseticons fearlessly pushed and shoved at the seekers, ignoring the annoyed sneers Skywarp sent at them, the way Thundercracker's wings flicked to keep them from getting close enough to touch. In fact, among the flyers, only Misfire appeared unbothered by the apparent need of Rumble and Frenzy to touch. Even Sunstorm, despite her much more serene nature, held herself away from the casseticons. The only ones meeting the small bots for each push back and forth and their unending words were Swindle and Smokescreen himself.

At least the weird guy, Deadlock, wasn't still with them. They seemed to have lost him in the crowd. Smokescreen hoped he stuck at the Chassis until his shift was over, like the big guys. Then, as they made their way down the sidewalk, the faint sound of a small rock skittering across the pavement behind them caught his audial.

He tossed a look over his shoulder, barely able to make out the shadow trailing about a block back. The cool light cast by the streetlamps bounced off the minimal amount of white armor the mech wore. A few hints of dimmed biolights and the glow of optics muted behind a dark visor didn't make the bot any easier to see in nighttime shadows—even the streets around such a brightly lit area couldn't get rid of all the dark and sleaze hiding in the corners. It didn't surprise Smokescreen that a mech like Deadlock knew how to use that dark and sleaze, either. Were it not for that faint sound of a random loose rock being kicked across the street, Smokescreen knew Deadlock would have gone undetected.

"Hey, Swin, that Deadlock creep is following us," Smokescreen murmured to Swindle. "Think he'll be trouble?"

It was Sunstorm that answered, a definite sense of knowing in her tone. "Deadlock will be no trouble to us," she said, waving the thought away with a flutter of a delicate white hand and those golden yellow wings. "His loyalty is to the Cause, as it should be. Everyone will be making their way home soon enough as word spreads, anyway."

"That and, like Warp hinted earlier, he's got some weird thing going on with—or, well, had, I guess—with Lord Megatron," Swindle added with a shrug. "Don't know if anyone else ever figured that out, though. I mean, he's nice enough to look at, I suppose, but with Megatron?"

Smokescreen gave the security mech another look over his shoulder, hoping Deadlock didn't catch the move through the shadow cast by a high lifted doorwing.

His distraction with the mech that had been glaring at him from the moment he entered the Chassis left him open to being shoved into the open door of a transport just big enough to fit all of them. He was allowed no complaint as Rumble took the controls, Frenzy slipping into the seat beside his twin.

"Better sit your afts down and strap in," Rumble said, gunning the engine with a press of his palm against the control screen. "I don't drive so well."

He and Frenzy dissolved into the kind of cackling laughter meant to cover their unease with the situation. Smokescreen didn't bother worrying about the claim, following the lead of the rest of the party and not even bothering to do as Rumble suggested. They knew the casseticons better than he did. Still, he did settle himself a little more securely on the bench seat beside Skywarp, the seeker turning a brief, knowing smirk his way. Oddly, he realized Skywarp's smirk didn't entirely fade away, nor did the strangely unbothered air around Thundercracker. Smokescreen stayed quiet, filing those notes away for later study.

Glancing at the rearview screen on the dash, he watched as they pulled into the busy nighttime traffic. Deadlock stepped out of the dark, staring after them for a few nano-kliks before dropping into his heavy-built speedster alt and racing after them.

The transport took them into the parking garage of the building Smokescreen finally knew as the Decepticon Iaconian base of operations. A disreputable looking thing in a rundown warehouse section of the city, he usually entered the building through the front door nowadays. The path they followed as they dragged him through the halls this time was the one used when first escorting him to meet Megatron, though, by way of dragging his unconscious frame along the floor. Or so he assumed.

This time, however, an unexpected return to the Well meant only a corpse waited to greet them. Smokescreen didn't know how unexpected the deactivation was, given the Decepticon leader's final kilocycles under near constant watch by the underworld's top medics. No real explanation of Megatron's illness ever made its way through the ranks in Smokescreen's time among them, only gossip. He wondered how natural the deactivation truly was. Megatron's reported age was disturbingly young for the ailments afflicting him. Smokescreen had checked into it and Ratchet had confirmed his suspicions.

He let Skywarp lead him through the halls behind Thundercracker. Swindle double timed his step to keep up with the stately blue seeker's long strides and the others fell in step behind them. Smokescreen noted the somber mood fallen over the interior of the building. The decor had changed much beyond a few pennants of deactivation gray hung along the walls and a few bowls of freshly glittering blue spark flowers set on small side tables directly below them—an old, traditional show of mourning, subtle and sobering.

They came to the main doors of the audience hall, on the far side of a familiar, small room. As expected, it was the same entrance Skywarp and Thundercracker brought him to on his very first visit to the Iaconian headquarters. All of them paused outside those inner doors of the vestibule, not one of them ready to reach out and push them open. Smokescreen slipped his arm around Skywarp's narrow waist when she leaned into him, fingers stroking a nervous touch across his chest, right above where his spark sat. He caught her hand, felt her wings flutter in response.

"So," he started, optics locked on the doors again. "Who gets the honor of letting us in?"

"Rumble and Frenzy," Misfire said from somewhere behind him. Smokescreen dipped a doorwing out of the way and looked back at the purply-pink flyer. Misfire shrugged in his direction, a dopey grin sliding across his mouth, but dropping away quickly. "They were the ones that came to get us, is all. Seems to me, that makes them the ones."

"You heard him," Skywarp said, scraping sharp claws across Smokescreen's chest under his grasp. He grimaced and muffled a grunt. With a roll of her optics, she said, "Sorry." Then her attention was back on the casseticons. "You heard me and Misfire! Get those doors open, runts."

Rumble grit his dentae and scowled at her, but Smokescreen shook his helm. "Let's not start anything, all right? I would think we've got more important things to focus on right now." He nodded toward the doors. "Just open them, please?"

Apparently, that was a word they didn't hear often as it perked both small mechs up and sent them scrambling toward the set of double doors as if beset by magic. They each took a door, swinging them open with a quiet care that seemed unnatural to them. Stepping past the small bots, Smokescreen couldn't find words to describe the mood of the revealed audience hall, not surprised to find the veil inactive. If he'd thought the hallways with their tasteful display of mourning decorations somber, they were nothing in comparison to what filled the large chamber.

On the dais, instead of the throne-like chair on which Megatron sat during that first meeting was gone. This time he lay in state on a simple slab berth, not even cushioned. His silvery armor was gone dull in the lifeless gray that took them all when their time came. It wasn't the first time Smokescreen had seen a deactivated frame and he doubted it would be the last—a bot didn't do the sort of work he did without running into death.

Skywarp's grip on him loosened, but she didn't pull away. "It's done," she murmured, almost as if to herself. "He really is dead."

Curious, Smokescreen headed toward the dais, Skywarp letting herself be tugged along. He took in the set up around the dais and throughout the rest of the audience hall as he guided her. Large displays of the glittering blue spark flowers encircled the slab and lined a path meant to guide visitors into the room and around the grayed frame. The walls bore more pennants and even tapestries of that awful gray in abundance and larger size.

Behind the dais, the heavy black fusion cannon that had graced Megatron's right arm was instead neatly mounted on the wall with hidden hardware—a place of honor. Portraits of the fallen Decepticon leader in a myriad of awe-inspiring meetings with notables from the width and breadth of Cybertron or at important events hung sung a visual praise of the mech behind Cybertron's most devastatingly awful criminal organization.

Before he could actually step up onto the dais, Skywarp released her hold on him finally, a weird little flick of her wings combining with the uncertain look on her face. She wasn't interested in getting closer to her deceased leader's grayed frame. Odd, he noted, considering her chosen career.

He hesitated, making a note not to touch the unmoving frame in case it bore some sort of contagion. Was that what bothered Skywarp? Hopefully, no one was paying close enough attention to note he snapped a few images through his optical camera to add to his next drop for Streetwise—if he couldn't tell him face to face, he could at least provide absolute proof. Maybe it might even get the mech speaking to him outside of work situations again. He flicked his doorwings and sighed—one could hope. He'd grab better snaps once he climbed up beside the slab berth.

Thoughts of daring a scan that might be of use to Streetwise's medical team hit him—deaths had been faked before, after all. Before he could do more than consider, another set of doors opened.

To the left, swinging with much less care than those opened by the casseticon twins. They slammed far too loudly against the walls to either side, echo dampened only by the sheer amount of spark flowers and the thick, gray panels of finely woven sheepacron steel wool cloth that made up the pennants and tapestries.

Through the open doors, a flamboyantly gesturing Starscream entered, speaking at an unmuted volume to the very uninterested Soundwave that entered beside him. At least, that's what Smokescreen thought an uninterested Soundwave looked like.

Beside him, Skywarp made an odd thrum through her vents, like a low laugh as Starscream offered their little group the barest of glances before sauntering—there was no other word for it—toward the dais and the gray frame occupying the slab berth. He took the place Smokescreen had been headed to, helm tilted back to peer at the fusion cannon, his wings flicking with intentions Smokescreen couldn't read. Starscream made little effort to hide his disdain for Megatron while the mech was alive, though. The thought he might restrain himself in the wake of Megatron's death was decidedly laughable.

"Oh, dear Megatron," Starscream purred, dragging the sharp claws tipping his fingers along the length of one unmoving arm, "how we will miss you and your… magnificent leadership." His claws scratched swirls across the dull surface of Megatron's plating. The small, insincere smile that curved his mouth stretched into something much more predatory—the most natural look Smokescreen had ever seen on the seeker's sly face.

Soundwave presented a front of a very different sort. Around his ankles, the dark armored cougaraider casseticon curled and slipped between his slow, measured steps. He gave not even a hint the felinoid threatened to trip him. As he came up the dais, stopping when he stood at Megatron's helm, the pressure of the glare hidden by his visor was palpable and aimed entirely at Starscream.

With a quick bounce off the edge of the slab berth, Ravage bounded up from the floor to curl around Soundwave's wide shoulders, the cougaraider's vivid red optics nothing more than slits of searing suspicion also aimed at the smug seeker.

"Control your beast, Soundwave," Starscream said, mouth pulled into a tight sneer.

Ravage's tail lashed back and forth in response, settling only once Soundwave reached up and stroked blue fingers along the curve of the cougaraider's jaw. A faint rumble came from the dark casseticon mechanimal as Soundwave ended the touch with a small scritch under the squared point of Ravage's chin. "Control yourself, Starscream," Soundwave replied in that low emotion way of his, the one that would have left Smokescreen unsure of where he stood with the mech were he not so steeped in self-confidence. "Lord Megatron deserves more respect than you give."

The fluttering of seeker wings around Smokescreen set up a steady little breeze, setting the bowls and bouquets of spark flowers dancing, pennants and tapestries making small ripples with the shifting of the air. Smokescreen's experience told him this was a reaction to the rising tension in the room. At the side that wasn't suddenly occupied by a clinging Skywarp again, Swindle stepped up to watch the unfolding scene.

A faint flicker of his optics from behind his violet split-visor indicated his internal comms were in use, probably updating Onslaught, the leader of his outsider cohort, on the new lay of the land. He flinched and cursed, slapping at his temple where the hardware sat inside his helm. His knees collapsed and a thin whine escaped his vocalizer moments later.

"Further treason will not be tolerated," Soundwave intoned from the dais. He continued to stand at the head of the slab, gazing calmly down on Megatron's corpse.

Shaking his helm, kneeling on the slick floor tiles and the flicker gone, Swindle grunted compliance. "Yeah yeah yeah, I got it."

Smokescreen backed away from the dais, pulling Skywarp with him as Starscream swung around on Soundwave. "Forget that fool. We'll take care of him later. We've more important things to discuss, after all."

"Lord Megatron—"

"Yes, Lord Megatron's demise is exactly what I'm talking about. Megatron's death means only one thing, Soundwave," he crooned, taloned finger reaching out to catch under Soundwave's chin. His wings stood high and stretched wide, making him more imposing simply through exaggeration of size. "It means I, Megatron's Second in Command, am now leader. The Decepticons belong to me."

He was right, Smokescreen supposed. If the organization was to survive, someone needed to step up and take the throne. Judging from the quick flare of red from behind his visor, Soundwave didn't agree with Starscream's other conclusion—honestly, Smokescreen didn't think he much agreed, either. The gentle, almost idle stroking of Soundwave's hand along Ravage's helm between those mobile, pointed audial shells while the cougaraider curled closer around his neck, made it obvious Starscream was about to hear it, as well.

"Under your hand," Soundwave began, slow and intent, "the Decepticons would see only failure and death."

With a harsh release of air through his vents, Starscream lived up to his reputation, his sneer twisting across his entire face. "Get out of my way, Soundwave," he ordered, shoving the boxy host mech back to pass between him and the head of the slab berth that held Megatron. A rude display of superiority instead of politely walking around him—or going the other entirely unimpeded direction—in true Starscream fashion.

Rather than risk dislodging Ravage, Soundwave let the seeker pass. Starscream closed in on the fusion cannon, hands rising to lift it from the mounts that held it. Before he could do more than reach for it, though, Soundwave's strong hand wrapped around one slim wrist and held firm, only a breath from Starscream's goal. It was enough to distract him from grabbing it with the other hand, sending him instead into a snarling spin in Soundwave's direction. Proving the truth of his name, Starscream became shrill as he demanded, "What is the meaning of this?!"

"I will not allow you command of the Decepticons," Soundwave said with more force than Smokescreen had ever heard from the mech. "I will take the place left empty by Megatron's demise. And," he continued, dragging Starscream's hand close and pulling the seeker away from the fusion cannon, "I will find the truth of how it happened."

Starscream snorted and laughed in disbelief, clawing at Soundwave's hand to free himself. His wings were aflutter and his optics bright with derision. "Are you implying something?"

Behind Smokescreen, a quiet "ooooooh" rose up from Misfire, though he was quickly shushed by Sunstorm.

From Soundwave's shoulder, Ravage growled, claws extending to scratch light at Soundwave's dark blue plating in a flaunting show of power for Starscream. Soundwave didn't even react to the scratches. In fact, he returned to stroking Ravage's helm, fingertips sliding along the slope of those pointed audial shells, folded back as they were as the cougaraider continued to glare at the seeker engaging in a standoff with his host mech. Soundwave broke it by releasing an intense wave of infrasonic frequencies that disturbed everyone, all of them shuddering in reaction. The noted exception was Thundercracker, who merely arched a curious orbital ridge. Having the attention of the room, Soundwave asked, "An answer is necessary?"

The renewed staredown that followed only worked to ramp up the tension in the room again. Anyone with a working brain module could see where it was all going, it just needed the words to be said.

It was Sunstorm that broke the quivering silence. She stepped forward, holding back Misfire with one hand as he moved to follow her. Her golden yellow wings stood tall and regal in a display that matched her position among the Decepticons. Both Starscream and Soundwave backed down from the heightened intensity between them, giving space to the spiritual leader as had been demanded of them by the dead mech laid out on the slab berth. It was visibly against Starscream's will, though, as he angrily forced himself to do as bidden.

"There is only one way to resolve this," Sunstorm announced, folding her pristine white hands in front of her canopy as she placidly ignored Starscream's behavior. "First, though, the Decepticons will adhere to the traditional period of mourning. There will be no interorganizational infighting or political maneuvering until after this time has passed, something which only I may proclaim. Afterward, I will promptly declare trial by combat among those who would seek to replace our fallen leader. Winner takes all, of course. The form of combat shall be decided upon by the agreement of those involved."

The room shifted into another form of quiet as scheming glares and thoughtful looks shifted between Soundwave, Starscream, and Sunstorm while the rest of them watched. Smokescreen observed perhaps the most closely, his brain module latching onto Sunstorm's words and spinning them around in his helm.

Starscream then opened his mouth to spew out whatever normal toxic sludge he intended, but was halted by Sunstorm's raised hand. "There's no need to declare yourself yet, Starscream," Sunstorm said, her voice smooth and warm with radioactive warmth, the return of the crackle Smokescreen had noticed before encouraging further silence. "Take your time and gather your forces, as I would suggest to all those interested."

His face a deeply creased expression of annoyance, Starscream asked, "And how long, precisely, is this period of mourning supposed to last, if you don't mind my asking?"

Sunstorm let a moment pass in silence before turning a look across the whole of the audience hall. "From this moment, three deca-cycles will pass in communal mourning for our fallen lord. We will also continue to hold our place in our home and all of our territories," she said with a hard glare leveled on Starscream and Soundwave. "We must not lose ground in our time of grief. Am I understood?"

As he waited for Starscream or Soundwave to reply to the proclamation, something very… stupid occurred to Smokescreen. Streetwise certainly wasn't going to like it, but Streetwise wasn't there to stop him. He was interrupted in his thoughts, though, when Starscream blustered to action, wings twitching with a barely controlled fury.

Starscream stalked down from the dais and toward Sunstorm, though he stopped well before getting too close. Smokescreen wasn't sure if that was simply remembering of good etiquette on Starscream's part or the brief swell of very real radioactivity from Sunstorm that caused it—he leaned toward the latter, honestly. Shoulders set back and his chin lifted with an air of dominance, Starscream puffed up his chest as he told her, "Three deca-cycles. Not a nano-klik longer. At that moment, I take what is rightfully mine."

Declaration of intent made despite Sunstorm's ruling otherwise, he swept past her, making a point of shoving hard shoulders into Smokescreen and Misfire as he exited the room through the doors Smokescreen and his group had used.

"Out of the way, Deadlock, you useless skiv," Starscream's voice projected back to them in an annoyed screech. The heavy sound of a bot pushed against the wall was followed by a grunt and a nasty string of Dead End curses. Smokescreen had almost forgotten the mech followed them from the casino. No, strike that. He had forgotten. Then the door on the far side of the anteroom slammed behind the departing high ranked seeker.

Smokescreen stared after the now gone Starscream, doorwings raised high and optics cycled wide—that had definitely been uncalled for, Deadlock's creepiness aside. Moments later, a rattled Deadlock peeked around the edge of the open doors, visor folded away. A pair of golden optics locked on the slab berth and Megatron's frame, the loss in his expression plucking at something deep in Smokescreen's spark. Even Swindle seemed disgusted at the way Starscream had treated the creepy security mech.

Oh yeah, Smokescreen was totally going through with his stupid idea, no question about it. Starscream was going down before the job was done, no matter what else happened. He shifted his gaze to Soundwave as Sunstorm spoke again.

"In light of that, do you have anything to say, Soundwave?"

"No," the mech replied, always a bot of few words in Smokescreen's admittedly short experience. His hand stroked along Ravage's sleek form as the cougaraider slipped from around Soundwave's shoulders back to the floor. "Three deca-cycles is not long and will be observed as commanded. Starscream will not destroy us."

Soundwave gazed down on Megatron's grayed frame for a few moments longer before taking his leave of the audience hall. With him gone, Smokescreen eased away from Skywarp, her sharp claws making a tiny scree! as they dragged across his chest plating. The scratches went without remark—she'd done him worse in much more fun situations, after all.

Stepping up onto the dais finally, Smokescreen dared to set his hands on the edge of the slab berth. So close, with all the others behind him, he used the moment to snap a few more images. As he again pondered the worth of risking that quick scan, he noted the roughness forming at the edges of Megatron's armor, the fine webwork of microcracks that bloomed across his dark and lifeless optical lenses. There was not even the fainted wobble of the vibrations and static that came from a living bot when he slipped his fingers close enough to brush against the decaying armor.

He sighed. There was no doubt and no need for a scan. Megatron was very, very dead. Lifting his helm, Smokescreen eyed the fusion cannon. It was time to start being stupid.

"Sunstorm?" he began, not taking his optics off the massive weapon—it would likely leave him listing to one side if he tried to wear it as Megatron had. "What sort of qualifications does a bot need to throw their name into the challenge ring?"

He wasn't surprised by any of the multiple startled noises that came from the others. In fact, he was rather amused. If he played things right, what he had in mind would all happen in the bounds of his playground rather than whatever Starscream and Soundwave had planned. He was the conmech, after all.

"Three deca-cycles, Smokescreen," Sunstorm answered with a faint huff of her own good humor. "Then the field of battle is open for any and all who would compete. Even one so new to our ranks as yourself."

A hand slapped at his back as Swindle came up beside him, a wide grin splitting his expressive face. "I really like the way you think, Smokey. Need a campaign manager?"

The smile that slid across Smokescreen's mouth matched Swindle's, he was sure. "I think I might," he replied, feeling slick and totally on his game. "Three deca-cycles, Swin. Should be plenty of time to get my campaign off the ground."

And plenty of time to figure out how he was going to break the news of his plan to Streetwise.

Chapter Text

Then:

"That's absolute scrap, Streetwise," Smokescreen complained with an exaggerated huff, brushing off the hand Ratchet laid on his shoulder. "You can't expect to work under those sorts of rules."

"You've worked under them before," Streetwise replied, leaning back in his chair again, entirely unmoved by Smokescreen's continued unruly new forge behavior. "I don't see why it's a problem this time. Care to explain in a way that doesn't make you sound like you're trying to get out of doing your chores?"

Smokescreen scowled then pulled a face that spoke of not giving in, but like he was readying himself to attempt getting his way. Again. He watched those expressive doorwings flick up and down, dancing with the thoughts that rolled through Smokescreen's brain module. It wasn't something that happened when he was out in the wild working a job, but the conmech couldn't seem to keep up that level of control around Streetwise. He'd have been flattered if it didn't leave him reminding himself he'd cut Smokescreen out of his personal life ages ago.

"Are you trying to tell me that I can't trust you to do this job?" Streetwise asked. He folded back his visor, looking at the mech with his bared optics. It was a dirty tactic, but Smokescreen wouldn't hold it against him. Not in the long run, anyway. The sort of things he'd done to get Streetwise to put away the visor in the past more than balanced out Streetwise using it in his own favor.

"That's not fair," Smokescreen said, his tone only barely avoiding what Streetwise would call a whine. Those doorwings fluttered and his face scrunched in that way that always meant he was annoyed with himself. Streetwise allowed another small smirk to tug at the corner of his mouth.

A barely stifled chuckle escaped Ratchet from where the medic still stood near the corner of the table, shifting the strap of his bag over his shoulder.

Smokescreen swung around on Ratchet, but stopped—doorwings held high and tight—before he said anything. His entire frame slumped as the tension suddenly dropped from him, a heavy groaning sigh slipping from his vocalizer. "Fiiine…," he said, rolling his shoulders, dragging out the word like he didn't actually want to mean it. He moved closer to the table, leaning forward and catching his hands on the flat surface again.

"Yes?" Streetwise arched an orbital ridge, watching as the wheels continued turning in Smokescreen's brain module. "You have something more to say?"

Those doorwings flicked one then the other as Smokescreen leaned even deeper over the table with slow deliberation, resting his forearms near Streetwise, belly stretched across the flat surface. His optical shutters lowered over those blue lenses, sensual and slick like an oil spill. He reached out, fingertips tapping and stroking gently along Streetwise's forearm. "Oh, babe, I've got a lot to say, if you've got time to listen."

"Only if it's got something to do with the job you're here to learn about," Streetwise said, smiling at the way Smokescreen tried his best to hold onto his seductive stance and expression. He did nothing to disguise how he watched Smokescreen's doorwings dip then rise, dip then rise, and finally dip as he lifted up and let his weight rest on his hands again.

"Okay, yeah, whatever." With a defeated sigh and another roll of his optics, Smokescreen looked around the room. "We got any more chairs? Why does this place not have any more chairs?"

"I think I saw one of those cheap folding things in the closet," Ratchet announced, shifting his weight onto one pede, radiating pure amusement at Smokescreen's predicament as if he hadn't just been browbeating him into submission only kliks ago. "Need help getting it out or are you—"

"I'm fully capable, thank you," Smokescreen said, not even trying to hide his annoyance as he made immediate steps to open said closet.

Streetwise shared a look with Ratchet, audial spikes tilted back with further mirth to the best of their limited ability. He waited patiently as Smokescreen retrieved the folding stool from the closet. It was a flimsy thing of spindly tubes and a seat that Smokescreen would be lucky to not have give out beneath him, better suited to minibots rather than anyone full size. The stool creaked as Smokescreen sat on it, his doorwings hitching high as if trying to lessen his weight. Mouth quirking into a quick smirk, Streetwise tilted his helm and asked, "Comfortable?"

Smokescreen narrowed his optics, that sleek yellow chevron crest catching the pale light from overhead, the glint blinding Streetwise for a moment. A purposeful move, no doubt, because Smokescreen really was a new forge at times. "I'm very comfortable," Smokescreen replied, folding his hands in his lap. He also very carefully refrained from moving more than he had to, the stool creaking with every tiny shift of his frame. "Thank you for asking."

"Good," Streetwise said, all humor dropping from him as he returned to business. He popped open the frame pocket on his right thigh, reaching in to grab the data slug Smokescreen correctly assumed existed. "Since you're behaving finally." Streetwise set it on the table between them. "It doesn't leave this room. There's a reason the Decepticons are as powerful as they are and I won't risk them finding this on you."

The grin that stretched across Smokescreen's face was accompanied by his leaning forward to catch his elbows on the table, resting his chin in his hands. The creaks and groans pulled from the stool didn't seem to bother him this time. "You do still like me…," he drawled, engine purring a low rumble in his chest. His doorwings flicked flirtatiously. "Tell me you don't, babe, and I won't believe it."

Streetwise closed his optical shutters as he pinched at the bridge of his nose. He cycled air through his ventilation system, then scowled when the toe of a familiar pede stroked along the side of his lower leg, teasing into his wheel well and along the tread of his tire. Slapping his hand down on the table with a force that made the data slug bounce where it sat, Streetwise was displeased enough that he couldn't feel even remotely satisfied as Smokescreen jerked back from the table, his pede swiftly disappearing from Streetwise's leg. Under Smokescreen, the stool groaned ominously.

"Please take this seriously, Smokescreen," Streetwise said, his voice kept quiet and calm. He shoved the data slug toward the still stunned mech, Smokescreen's doorwings twitching like he'd been reprimanded by his mentor.

Blue fingers brushed against his as Smokescreen reached out to take the data slug. "I am, I swear."

"Prove it."

Now:

If there was anything Smokescreen knew how to do, it was how to talk himself up to others. Given three deca-cycles, he'd gone from a bottom of the barrel, no luck upstart in the race for the throne to a full-on contender. Of course, with respect to Sunstorm's declaration of the mourning period, his and Swindle's work stayed decidedly lowkey. Fortunately, it actually worked in their favor, keeping word of just how strong Smokescreen's position became. He might not have a number to beat Soundwave—no one was quite sure on what sort of numbers Soundwave had, in all honesty—but Smokescreen's last count certainly put him ahead of Starscream, at least.

Soundwave's reaction floated nebulously in the ether, but Starscream was absolutely going to blow a gasket or two—possibly more—when he realized how much of his power base in the Decepticon organization currently sat in Smokescreen's camp. Smokescreen himself was a little blown away at how quickly the rank and file Decepticons aligned with him. In secret, anyway. Time would tell how many actually stood up when the call came. He was more than a little eager for the coming storm, though. Smokescreen couldn't wait for the moment Starscream came at him. Daring to make a claim at the hole in the Decepticon leadership left by Megatron's deactivation, the hole that belonged to Starscream? It was going to be a hissy fit of epic proportions.

Sprawled on his couch, a couple half-empty glasses of bubbly green engex on the side table behind his head, Smokescreen grinned up at Skywarp. The black seeker straddled her slim thighs over his pelvic span and rested with her canopy pressed to his chest. Her chin in one hand, she tapped the sharp tips of the fingers on her other over his lips.

"What's that smile for?" she asked, dark wings fluttering softly above them. "You seem awfully happy about something. Don't you know we're supposed to be mourning?"

Moving one hand from Skywarp's tiny waist to stroke a gentle path upward along the edge of the nearest wing, Smokescreen followed the purple accent stripe on the way back down. The sleek appendage quivered under his touch, making his grin turn salacious. He kissed the fingertips still tapping and scratching over his lips. "Just thinking about how much Starscream is going to absolutely lose his mind when he sees what I've done. Don't know about Soundwave, he's harder to read, but Starscream? He is going to explode." He gave her wings a tiny flick from his fingers, enjoying the scowl and wiggle that got him. "And I think you've lost track of time—the mourning period ended a couple kliks ago, if we're being really strict about it."

Her red optics widened before she frowned, blinking away brief confusion as she checked her chronometer. "Huh," she started, snuggling her warm frame against his again. "What do you know? It is over. We should celebrate somehow, Mister Soon-to-be-Lord of the Decepticons."

"Damn, that sounds good." A small bluff as he wasn't actually particularly interested in the position, but Skywarp didn't need to know that. With the mourning period over, though, it was time to start implementing the next step in his strategy. Starscream was definitely going to accost him as soon as possible for his impertinence and there was little telling what Soundwave would do until he did it. Smokescreen needed to grab the upper hand immediately.

He gazed up at Skywarp and the intense come hither lighting across her face. Well, maybe not immediately, he amended.

Smokescreen caught Skywarp's hand, pulling it away from his mouth so he was free to drag her down close unimpeded. His mouth just barely brushing against hers, he murmured, "A celebration, hm? How about a quick frag before we hit up the Chassis?"

"Oh, yeah, that sounds perfect," she answered with a wicked grin of her own, frame already starting to vent rising heat. Then their mouths met with a hard clack of dentae, rough and utterly lacking any hint of sweetness. That wasn't something they did and if it didn't bother Skywarp enough to ask, Smokescreen certainly wasn't going to.

With the sun still bright in what they could see of the sky overhead, Smokescreen and his posse set up in the lounge of the Golden Chassis. Sitting at what they'd claimed as their corner booth of the course of the mourning period, Smokescreen slouched into the curve of the bench, arms draped along the edge of the backrest. Skywarp made a grand show of letting anyone that so much as looked their way that her spot was a slinky snuggle up against his side. Smirking at her, Smokescreen grazed his fingers along the nearest wing. It fluttered under his touch. Another seeker filled the space to Smokescreen's left. Smokescreen couldn't remember his name, but he was optic-searing green and had been invited by Skywarp to join them, despite being in the middle of his shift serving drinks to lounge patrons. He'd won the spot via proving himself a phenomenal kisser or so Skywarp claimed. Smokescreen kind of agreed with her, pausing to get himself another kiss—just to test it again—from the mech.

Ringed around the rest of the booth were the usual suspects: Swindle, Thundercracker, Misfire, Sunstorm, and a few others that had become regular hangers on. Drinks were well in hand, empty glasses littering the middle of the table as they were finished faster than their new assigned server could clear them. From the open arch that led out to the casino floor, Deadlock made no attempt at hiding how closely he watched them. Which was… not weird, but certainly left Smokescreen continuing to question what he'd done to earn such attention from the mech.

Smokescreen narrowed his optics in suspicion. He had leaned heavily toward Swindle being the informant Streetwise and Ratchet claimed. That suddenly didn't sit anywhere near as right as it once had. A chance to get a background check on Deadlock hadn't appeared yet, unfortunately. Deadlock's apparent history with Megatron, though, would have made it redline-level dangerous for him to turn. Still, Smokescreen was well-aware people had done stupider things, himself included.

As he watched, Deadlock straightened from the territorial slouch he'd been using to hold up the wall, focused on something outside the lounge. Smokescreen frowned. Then, freeing his arm from the green seeker, he grabbed his drink and sipped at the violently orange concoction as a shriekingly familiar voice rang out from the entrance of the Chassis.

"Hey," he said, offering a smug look Sunstorm's way, "I think Starscream heard the news."

Her soft hum of amusement, muffled into her glass, was barely audible over the rising volume of the approaching Decepticon Second. Moments later, Starscream strode into the lounge, pausing long enough to shove Deadlock out of his way before stalking across the room. Shoulders set tight, wings flicked back and even tighter, he was a bot on the warpath. The closer he got, the more his seething optics narrowed, the sharper his sneer became. Smokescreen waited for him to reach the edge of the corner booth before greeting him with a lift of his drink and a crooked smile.

"Welcome, Starscream," he said, tilting his helm and lazily dipping his doorwings. "How can I help you? Here all alone?"

The shiver in Starscream's wings told how very close he was to lashing out at Smokescreen. Sharp talons flashed at his fingertips, catching the moody lighting of the lounge. His audial-scraping voice only made Smokescreen smile wider as the seeker said in careful and distinct words, "How dare you."

It wasn't a question, despite the words. Swindle barely restrained a snicker, the flickering light behind his split-visor proof his whole crew watched. None of Smokescreen's seekers seemed much fussed by the Second's display.

"How. Dare! You." Starscream repeated with a force that sent a sizzle through his vocalizer and crackle through his optics. His hands slammed on the table, claws digging deep furrows as he closed his fingers into fists. Curls of steel rolled from each wound left in the flat surface.

Giving the damage an assessing glance, Smokescreen met Starscream's withering glower. "You seem angry," he said, Skywarp burying her drunken tittering against his shoulder. "Wanna talk about it? I hear that helps."

He wrapped a protective arm around Skywarp—not that she needed it, assassin that she was—when Starscream's glare shifted her way. Her wings fluttered. The ingracious snort the exchange pulled from Starscream landed in Smokescreen's fuel tank like a massive chunk of lead. He brushed away the sudden gut warning—that sort of instinct had a way of backfiring when not backed up by actual knowledge. Starscream's sneer turned into a smarmy grin as he pulled back, arms crossing over his canopy.

"As a matter of fact, I do want to talk about it," Starscream said with a purr and a hard flick of his wings. "Tell me, Smokescreen—" The rusty dark flavor of how he said Smokescreen's name gouged nearly as heavy as his claws had the table, "—what or who gave you the idea to throw yourself where you don't belong? What gives you the right to—"

"Hey, hey, Screamer!" interrupted a small blue bot swooping around one side of the seeker. "Better move over and make room for the Boss."

"Yeah, Screamer, move your shiny aft out of the way!" added his red counterpart.

Swindle shifted to get a look around Starscream. "Oh, yeah, you might wanna move, Starscream," he said, slipping back down so that his slightly smaller frame settled back on the bench just a smidge closer to Thundercracker. "The scraplets are right, you know. The Boss is coming."

"Oooooh!" Misfire made a face of shocked amusement, completely ignoring the gentle slap of Sunstorm's hand across his midsection.

His own orbital ridges rising high, Smokescreen looked for himself, as did everyone else at the table. Soundwave had indeed entered the lounge. And he was headed toward the booth at a sedate, but steady pace, Ravage prowling along beside him as the birdbots caught perches on the outstretched arms of a nearby chandelier. Behind the boxy blue mech, Smokescreen noted Deadlock slipping over to the bar, waving down a drink from the bot on the other side of the counter. He made a bad show of keeping his watching the confrontation hidden.

Smokescreen's attention turned back to the booth as Soundwave laid a hand on Starscream's shoulder and pushed him aside. He ignored the squawk Starscream released, sweeping an assessing gaze over the table's occupants. It lingered a little longer on Sunstorm and Misfire than the others before focusing solely on Smokescreen. He didn't say anything, using the silence to leave them all unnerved in that way Soundwave had mastered. Smokescreen looked at his glass, swirled the last bit of engex around the bottom, then shrugged and tossed it down his intake. He returned the empty glass to the table with a slightly louder than necessary clack. Slinging his arm around the green seeker again—he really needed to ask the guy's name—Smokescreen swiped his glossa along his lower lip and asked, "And what about you, Megatron's Third? How can I help you?"

Long moments passed with only the sound of quiet murmuring from the other patrons of the lounge as they discussed what they were seeing. Starscream, in his vast wisdom, jumped to throw in a comment of his own. "Yes, Soundwave, what can he possibly do for you?"

A datapad was set on the table, then nudged his way by Soundwave, the mech not bothering to break his silence. Smokescreen looked at it in askance before reaching across the table, only barely catching the device with the tips of his fingers. He eyed Soundwave closely, watching for any sign that might give away the datapad's contents. He got nothing, unsurprisingly, leaving him with the only way to find out—turn the thing on and look. A dangerous proposition, both their positions in the game taken into consideration.

The optics of everyone at the table seared into his plating as they watched him. A glance around the lounge showed Deadlock watching as well, unrepentant, his attempt at disguising his attention under Starscream and Soundwave's presence forgotten. The heavily armored speedster had turned away from the bar, nursing a crankwinder—a mix of engex that amounted to jet fuel and a lightweight oil. It was a drink favored by grounders either preparing for a high speed chase or wanting to be blitzed out of their brain modules as quickly as possible. Considering the current situation, Smokescreen pegged it as the former.

He quirked his grin back into place, crooked just a little higher to one side. Not quite a smirk, but close. Tilting the datapad so that no one other than himself could see the screen clearly, he flicked his thumb over the power button, revealing the contents. Two images, nothing more. There wasn't even a single word of text. For one of very few times in his life, Smokescreen wasn't quite sure how to react. How he needed to react. Depending on what Soundwave was after, it was looking to be a very bad day for either himself or for Starscream.

Turning the datapad off and setting it back down on the table, he got a bit more comfortable on the deeply cushioned bench. He made a show of stroking his fingers along Skywarp's and Green's wings, getting a snarling scowl from Starscream and a continued nothing from Soundwave. Rumble and Frenzy snickered and the birdbots cackled up above, but Soundwave remained impassive to the display.

Ravage bounded to the top of the bench, slinking around the three-quarter circle. The cougaraider stretched out across the broadness of the corner section that hosted a tall, nondescript plant on the platform behind Smokescreen's helm. A long, dark tail curved forward, curling around Smokescreen's neck—a warning if he'd ever gotten one.

A look from Soundwave and a simple, "Cassettes, enough," backed off Ravage's tail as well as the nasty grins Rumble and Frenzy shared. On the arms of the chandelier, Laserbeak and Buzzsaw settled down their distracting rattle of wings and tails.

Streetwise was so not going to be happy. Or, well, he was going to be even less happy than he already was. "Interesting pictures," Smokescreen said, nodding toward the datapad. "I'd ask where you got them, but I can hazard a guess."

While Starscream's optics narrowed to absolutely incensed slits of burning red, Soundwave held Smokescreen's gaze for long moments before he asked, "Are we in concordance?"

That was the entirety of his answer. Luckily, Smokescreen understood it.

Soundwave wanted an alliance. With him. At least a temporary one. Smokescreen grabbed the datapad again, hefted its weight in his hand, then passed it to the one mech he knew would understand the contents—probably already knew the information the images held. "Hold on to this for me, will you, Swin?"

The mech reached for it with a grin. "Sure thing, Smokey," he said, obviously intent on looking at the contents before putting it away—only to shove it into a frame pocket as fast as possible when Starscream's clawed hand suddenly shot out to snatch at it. "Nuh uh, Screamer," he chided. "That's for me, not you."

Movement in the rest of the lounge and a voice that Smokescreen didn't think knew how to be used without a growl caught his attention. Deadlock was on the move. Much to Smokescreen's surprise, he actually seemed to be doing his job as he escorted bots not wearing a Decepticon emblem out of the lounge. The crankwinder didn't seem to be hindering him any, either, if the lack of a stumble and slur said anything.

"Astounding!" Starscream called out to the heavy speedster. "I never knew you understood what your job was, though I'm sure you're not doing it well."

A deep scowl twisted Deadlock's face. As much as Smokescreen liked the idea of watching a physical altercation between the two, it would do no one any favors in that moment. "Hey, let's get back on track here? Deadlock, do your job. And you, Starscream?" Ignoring the annoyed look Deadlock shot at him, Smokescreen held out his arms to either side of his bookended seekers, doorwings held at an aggressive tilt. "You want to insult someone, I'm right here."

Skywarp laughed and drank deeply of what was left in her glass, sharp claws tinking against the side. "You tell him, Smokey babe," she tittered, mouthing along the shape of his jaw. Her wings flittered like those of a flickermoth dancing under a high lumen street lamp. "Take Screamer down so many pegs his aft is sore."

"Skywarp," Thundercracker chided from her place beside Swindle, her own near empty glass being tilted this way and that in her hands.

"The mourning period is over," Sunstorm spoke up, setting aside her barely touched first glass of engex. She took such easy control of the situation that Smokescreen was jealous. "Let this nonsense cease. It's time to make an official pronouncement of how we will proceed in choosing our next Decepticon Lord."

"Sounds like a plan," Smokescreen agreed. He slopped on his smarmiest grin and gave his rivals a smug look. "And, just so we're clear, it is a three-way competition, my good mechs. I do have to say it's probably weighted a little heavier in my favor than either of yours at this point, though." He still wasn't sure about that against Soundwave, but it never hurt to ramp up the confidence—the central tenet of being a confidence mech.

"This is absurd!" Wings returned to the highly indignant angle he'd entered the lounge with, Starscream sneered and swept a hand in Smokescreen's direction. "This—! This upstart has absolutely no place here! He has no standing in seeking the throne of the glorious Decepticon Empire!" His sharp optics shot toward Sunstorm, the unflappable spiritual leader unbothered by his theatrics. "How can you allow this, Sunstorm? The grounder is no doubt out of his mind if he thinks he has any place in the upper tier! He is not Conclave material, let alone meant to lead us!"

"If you're that upset about it," Smokescreen broke in, grinning as he offered, "I'll let you choose how we fight it out."

A loud laugh escaped Misfire, the vibrantly maroon almost-seeker neatly silenced by a slim white hand pressed across his mouth. The mech gave Sunstorm an apologetic look, though several more chiding moments passed before she removed her hand. Misfire was left unassaulted by the Second for the trespass of laughing at him, though, as Starscream proved much more interested in Smokescreen and his proposal. In fact, he offered only a glance toward Soundwave before answering, wings gone from that affronted tilt to appraising.

Rubbing a finger along the squared point of his chin, Starscream lost all visible rage as he accepted. "Done." Just as smug as Smokescreen now, he tossed a sharp smirk at Soundwave then glanced toward the open arch that led into the casino. "We decide this how I choose and everyone will be happy about it. Are we clear?"

Giving Soundwave a quick glance, Smokescreen noted the mech didn't appear particularly impressed, but neither did he seem inclined to protest. Obviously, he intended to let Smokescreen try out his plan unhindered. Feeling bold as highly polished brass, Smokescreen stroked a hand along Ravage's tail where it still lay loose around his neck and turned to Skywarp. He tilted her chin up with a curled finger and kissed her deeply before doing the same with Green. The smugness on Starscream's face was suddenly tempered with viciously narrowed optics by the move, but not gone. Precisely the mood Smokescreen wanted.

Leaned back like he was already King of the Cons, Smokescreen grinned wider as both seekers pressed closer to him. While Starscream's puffed up smile faded a little more at the edges, Smokescreen purred as he asked, "So… What do you have in mind, Starscream?"

Chapter Text

Then:

Watching with careful optics as Smokescreen turned the data slug over in his finger, Streetwise waited patiently for him to do something decisive with it. The two most likely options were either tuck it away—and get his aft chewed for thinking he was walking out of the room with it—or deny he needed the information and set it back on the table. He fully expected either of them as Smokescreen had a long history of not doing that was best for everyone.

"Well?" Streetwise prompted, tossing a glance toward Ratchet. The medic seemed just as entranced as himself by the wait. "What are you going to do with that?"

Smokescreen looked up from the data slug for the briefest of moments, but quickly returned his gaze to the small item that contained so much precious information. If the Decepticons ever found out the sort of things Sec Ops' snitch had been feeding them, the bot's life would be forfeit. Not that the information on the slug would tell Smokescreen who the bot was, but in the hands of someone like Soundwave, all bets were off. Considering how hard bringing the bot into their fold had been, even with Ratchet's help, Streetwise refused to risk anything happening to them. Not to mention there was no telling what Ratchet might do if something did happen.

His fears were instantly allayed when Smokescreen popped open a section of armor at his wrist and plugged the data slug into the revealed port. Streetwise shared another glance with Ratchet—the medic looked just as relieved as Streetwise felt. It took a lot of work to get Smokescreen to cooperate, but the effort never failed to be worth it in the long run.

He sat back in his chair and watched as the download of data from the slug read like sparkles across the blue of Smokescreen's optics. There were things on that data slug that no one outside the Decepticon inner circle would know. The informant Ratchet brought to Sec Ops had access Streetwise never could have dreamed possible. When Smokescreen completed his integration of the information into his memory core, he turned a dumbfounded look on Streetwise. "How the slag did you get all this?"

Streetwise huffed a small laugh, mouth bending into a smirk once more. He gave a little shrug and a tilt of his helm. "How do you think?"

"Informant," Smokescreen said with an annoyed grunt. "Right." He plucked the data slug from his port and tossed it back across the table to Streetwise, closing the small panel at his wrist. The data slug made a small clatter as it bounced, stopping little more than the breadth of a finger from the edge. "Better question: why isn't that enough to yank the plug out of the wall on the entire Decepticon organization?"

Grabbing up the data slug, Streetwise returned it to his frame pocket. "By order of Ratchet, our informant only agreed to give us all of that with the understanding that their identity never be revealed. And, as you know, our system won't allow for that should the accused demand full transparency."

"Which even the Decepticons would get in light of the Senate's being bought and paid for," Smokescreen finished, scrubbing a hand over his face.

"Allegedly," Streetwise said, hearing the disgust in his own voice at the word.

"Yeah. Allegedly," Smokescreen agreed with a roll of his optics. "So you need me because you need someone that can handle his face being known by a bunch of trigger happy gangsters." He paused, threw a narrow look at Ratchet, then added with a sly grin, "And isn't clanging the good doctor, either."

"Something like that, yes," Streetwise affirmed, dismissing the low and disgruntled growl from Ratchet. "As you've obviously accepted the task, you also obviously know and understand the rules of the game."

"Yeah," Smokescreen said, carefully rising from the stool. It creaked worse than ever as he stood. He stretched out tensor cables no doubt gone tight from holding himself still enough he didn't collapse the thing. His doorwings flexed out wide, then dipped deep to work out the stiffness settled in the hinges even after such a short time. "Same as they always are, except this time I've got a friend on the inside."

The immediacy of the irritation that dropped on Streetwise was barely contained by way of pinching hard at the bridge of his nose, leaning his face into the palm of his hand. He was going to leave dents if Smokescreen continued being himself.

"Oh, that one hit good, didn't it?" Smokescreen asked, voice teasing and face begging to be punched. The sound of Ratchet's knuckles cracking, delicately engineered medic's hands that they were, caught the attention of not only Smokescreen, but Streetwise, as well.

"You want to try that again?" Ratchet asked, flexing his fists in a way that snapped a few more joints.

The grin dropped from Smokescreen's mouth as the mech rushed to assure them, doorwings flicked upward in a moment of panic. "Don't worry. I'm just playing. I won't actively look for whoever it is, I promise."

Streetwise looked from Ratchet to Smokescreen, orbital ridges rising high on his helm. "Are we done?"

"Don't know," Smokescreen replied, the sly look slinking back into his optics. "You're the one in charge of the meeting. Are we done?"

The urge to pinch at the bridge of his nose again was strong. Streetwise cycled air through his ventilation system in a slow and methodical pattern, attempting to shunt away the helmache that was dealing with Smokescreen. He and Smokescreen weren't a thing anymore for good reason, but that didn't mean he wanted anything to happen to the mech. "Just one more thing," Streetwise began, fixing a commanding look on him. "Don't get sucked in too deep."

Smokescreen laughed, doorwings flicking away the suggestion as if it were nonsense. "Why are you worrying about that? I never get sucked in."

The sigh that left Streetwise couldn't have been any heavier. "You always get sucked in."

There was a snort from Ratchet and a shrug from Smokescreen, the latter grinning as wide as he ever did when he felt in control of a situation. "And you," the conmech replied heading toward the door of the terribly pasty blue office, pausing with his hand hovering over the control panel to peer back over his shoulder, "are no fun." He dipped his doorwings, offered a sloppy salute that would have him running drills in a different setting. "You really gotta work on that, babe. Maybe I'll put something naughty in the drops I leave for you to help with that."

The door closed behind Smokescreen very gently, definitely meant to avoid gaining attention out in the hall. Streetwise lowered his visor back into place, refraining from putting those dents into his nose again. A hand landed on his shoulder and he lifted his gaze to find Ratchet giving him a commiserating look. "What?"

"Nothing," Ratchet replied, giving his shoulder a pat then pulling away. "Just you and me, we've got some sort of taste, is all."

"That's one way to put it," Streetwise said with gruffness more naturally suited to the medic.

Now:

Smokescreen's "unplanned" meeting of rivals happened at the Chassis for a very good reason. The moment Starscream shifted his weight from one pede to the other, tossing a slow glance back over his shoulder, Smokescreen knew that he'd played his cards right. Whether the seeker realized it or not, Starscream was woefully unprepared to face Smokescreen in this particular arena. The smug face and haughty flick of wings spoke volumes of Starscream's belief in his own superiority, though. Knowing Soundwave intended to follow his lead only made Smokescreen's enjoyment of Starscream setting himself up all the sweeter. He pondered sending a quick ping to Streetwise. A full detail of Sec Ops backup might be nice if the situation went rusty.

"Come on, then," Starscream entreated, waving a hand toward the open arch that led into the casino. "Let us battle for dominance in games of chance. We play until two of us—" he shot a glance toward Soundwave, including his longer term rival in the discussion, "—have lost all their shanix and whatever other valuables they feel the need to be deprived of. Are we agreed?"

The vibes coming off Soundwave, such as they were, did not seem very impressed at the display. He did, however, ultimately nod his assent. "Agreed. We will begin now."

And there went any chance of a private moment to risk contacting Streetwise to inform him of the situation. Smokescreen shot Soundwave a hard look, holding his gaze while he instead pinged the message to his Sec Ops contact right there in front of the Decepticon Third. It wasn't as if Soundwave hadn't already pegged him as working for Sec Ops, anyway. A bright glint flashed behind Soundwave's visor, a sure sign the package had been intercepted and read… before being passed on with a small nod. Concordance it was, then.

"Well?" Starscream demanded, hands planted on his hips. "What do you say, conmech?"

Smokescreen made a show of visibly checking his funds and frowning. "I can't talk you into something less painful, can I?"

Starscream's smirk grew wider, stretching across his face, fully buying into Smokescreen's bad act—and it was bad, Smokescreen would freely admit. "Oh, no, that's not going to happen. You gave up that option when you handed the choice over to me. No take backsies allowed."

Not a single face of anyone sitting at the table around Smokescreen was untouched by the need to laugh at the Decepticon Second. Both Skywarp and Thundercracker looked as if they were barely holding the laughter back. Thundercracker held herself much better than Skywarp, who had to slap a hand over her mouth to keep herself from spitting out a sip of her engex. Her glass sloshed over the rim as she slapped it down on the table to keep from spilling more of it. The vibration of her wings as she struggled around a laughing cough very nearly had Smokescreen concerned.

"All right?" he asked, taking her eventual deep cycle of air and snickering nod as a good enough answer. He swung a grin back around to Starscream. "Well, if you can nearly take out a top notch Decepticon assassin with nothing more than a couple words, I suppose it's not very smart of me, a simple conmech, to naysay you, is it?"

Watching that grin morph into a sneer for the briefest of moments as another muffled round of drunken amusement slid around the table was fascinating. Knowing he'd gotten under Starscream's plating so easily only made his confidence grow. There was no way he was losing to the so very punchable seeker at the casino tables. And Soundwave? He wasn't an issue. They'd set up an accord, after all. However that accord fell out in the end, it didn't matter in comparison to stomping Starscream's pride into dust on the floor. Smokescreen was pretty sure Soundwave would agree with that summation if asked.

Again and again and again, Starscream lost. Whether to Soundwave's occasional wins or, more usually, Smokescreen's utter trouncings of them both, the seeker's funds quickly depleted. Watching him grow increasingly incensed with each coin, each valuable big or small, that made its way to Smokescreen's pile was almost more fun than teasing Streetwise.

He'd nearly laughed when Starscream paused their trial by gambling to call in underlings with a large sum of shanix to replace every bit of coin and goods he'd lost with more. Smokescreen wondered if he was looting the Decepticon coffers, seeing the extent of the treasure set before the seeker. Starscream arched an orbital ridge and gave Smokescreen a twist of his mouth that wasn't quite a smile. He waved toward the card table they were sat around. "I'm bored of this game. Let us move to a new table, shall we?"

Another five tables later, Smokescreen eyed the riches he'd taken off Starscream—twice—and, astoundingly, Soundwave. He'd thought a mech with Soundwave's fabled abilities would have done better, though maybe he just wasn't a gambler. Or possibly, Smokescreen mused, he was simply playing badly on purpose. Maybe he sought to let the blame of Starscream's failure fall on someone else's shoulders, namely Smokescreen, if things went badly—which was always a possibility. And it looked much closer to likely than not every time Smokescreen looked at Starscream.

"New game?" Smokescreen suggested, just to mix it up a bit, watching Skywarp straighten the tall stacks of coins that sat in front of them. Her wings fluttered as Smokescreen rubbed his hand over the small of her back.

Starscream scowled. "Yes," he hissed and glared at the tables around them. Eventually, he jabbed a finger in the direction of a table near the center of the floor. It emptied the moment the bots currently playing noticed Starscream's intentions. "That one right there. It will be our last game. I doubt you even know what it is so I'll take great pleasure in taking back my coin and valuables… as well as all of yours."

With a shrug, Smokescreen agreed. Starscream called his help to cart his remaining shanix and valuables to the new table, not even waiting for Soundwave's say on the change. Smokescreen blinked at the faint amusement that washed over him as he walked past the host mech. How about that, Smokescreen thought in a moment of wonder. Soundwave wasn't entirely emotionless, he'd known that, but he hadn't expected anything quite that— Intense wasn't the word, but he couldn't come up with a better one in the moment so it would have to do.

The three gamblers and their hangers-on soon ringed the chosen table. Other gamblers still lingering quickly found their way to other areas of the casino as Smokescreen took in the set up before him. The table was dedicated to an alien game, one Smokescreen was very intimately familiar with, despite Starscream's belief otherwise. He'd hoodwinked more than a few fellow scoundrels out of all they had in their frame pockets with a few well-tossed rolls of the dice. Playing against an angry Starscream and an ambivalent Soundwave would be like taking energon sweets from a new forge.

He surveyed the bots still with him, always preferring to accurately scope the lay of the land before partaking of a new game. To his left, Swindle did his best to hold the attention of Thundercracker with tales of his exploits and his intricate knowledge of various weapons. The blue seeker didn't appear entirely interested, but she at least humored the smaller grounder now rather than completely disregarding him. Smokescreen bit his glossa to withhold comment. It was probably the best Swindle could expect, knowing Swindle's advances hadn't yet gotten Thundercracker into his hab, let alone berth. No longer to his left, though, Smokescreen mourned the loss of Green. He'd begged off back to work, intent on finishing up a shift that no doubt had been over for at least a couple of orns at that point.

Behind him, lingering closer to the table than perhaps he should? The watchful optics of Deadlock from behind his dark visor, the security mech apparently doing his duty with a tenacity Smokescreen hadn't seen from him before. It didn't matter, though, or shouldn't. Smokescreen was only cheating a little, nothing to get fussy over. Of course, blowing all his wins off as good luck might be pushing his credibility, he had to admit. And Deadlock was still a weird creep, whether he did his job or not.

To his right? Misfire and Sunstorm continued to exhibit themselves as the most healthy couple Smokescreen had ever known. Sunstorm seemed distant, but he'd never seen either her or Misfire ever entirely on different pages from one another. It was enough to make him sick, honestly. Not that he was going to tell them because that would be rude. Smokescreen was plenty rude to all sorts of bots, but those two? They didn't deserve it. Yet, anyway.

Also to his right, but much closer? So very much closer, indeed. His favorite seeker ever, a freshly lit cy-garette hanging from the corner of her mouth. He grinned and plucked it from her lips, saying, "Let me borrow that, beautiful."

"Borrow?" Skywarp replied, obviously well-aware he had no intention of returning it to her. She flicked her wings, but looked amused as he blew a kiss at her and put the thin, burning stick of some fancy herbal mixture wrapped in tin foil between his lips. Hopefully, it wasn't the sort of mix that would do things to his brain module. The foil crackled as it burned a little brighter as he pulled a puff into his system.

Equidistant from him around the table, his opponents waited, each surveying the others. Smokescreen looked around the table himself, moving quickly over Soundwave and his gathered casseticons. They weren't a problem. He frowned a little as he passed over the table's setter, another seeker. He wasn't quite sure why that bothered him. Finally, his gaze slid to Starscream, still without any flunkies. He didn't consider himself to have anything in the way of special abilities, but his internals lurched hard again, his instincts yelling loud and clear that everything he understood in that moment was about to be turned upside down.

Feeling very much in his zone with their Starscream-declared Last Game despite the sudden flood of apprehension, Smokescreen set his hands down on the padded edge of the tall bumper ringing the table. He leaned forward over the glittering towers of shanix, faintly purplish smoke rising from this glowing tip of the cy-garette, reflecting the purple glow of the decorative casino lighting. "So," he started, giving both of his competitors a slick smile, "who's casting first?"

When neither of the others made to reach for the dice, Smokescreen decided to shake things up a little. He snatched up the fancy platinum cubes with their deep violet pips and shoved them at Swindle.

"How about you start this off, Swin?" he suggested, giving the dice a rattle in his lightly closed fist. "We'll all start off with bets on what we think of your luck."

The slightly smaller mech slowly stretched out his hand, optics suspicious behind that split-visor of his as the dice were dropped into his palm. At their spots around the table, Starscream and Soundwave both watched with overt distrust of their own, Starscream's a blazing inferno of skepticism compared to Soundwave's calculating curiosity.

"All right," Swindle replied, looking very much like he wanted to duck from the table at having Starscream and Soundwave's sights turned on him. He tossed a glance toward Thundercracker, though, and fluffed up his plating with a bravado Smokescreen knew the mech didn't entirely feel. Held in a loose fist, the dice clacked and jingled before Swindle rolled them across the table and set his main number.

Smokescreen and his two opponents placed their bets.

Swindle scowled when he saw all of those bets placed on Lose. "Not funny," he said, jabbing an elbow at Smokescreen's side.

"Very funny, actually," Smokescreen said through a puff of wispy smoke.

Gifting Smokescreen with a dirty look, Swindle pushed half his small stack of coins forward to the caster's box as his luck in the game rested entirely on his ability to throw the dice. He shoved the rest of his shanix toward Thundercracker. "Bet big on me, sweetspark," he said, sliding his visor away to give her a wink and a come-hither grin. "I'll make it worth your while, show you guns that'll make your panels quiver."

"Is that so?" Thundercracker in that low and melodic voice of hers as she accepted the offer of his coins. When she shoved them to join Smokescreen's on the nearest Lose space, her smile was serene over neatly muted laughter. No one else around the table from Smokescreen's party was anywhere near as nice, all of them laughing loud and hard. Even Sunstorm twitched an orbital ridge in more outward amusement than usual. Smokescreen would have sworn he even heard an aborted snerk from Deadlock. Starscream, however, scowled annoyance while Soundwave merely waited for the game to continue in silence.

For his part, Swindle just gave a sigh that blasted through his vents like a creaky floorboard. "Yeah, yeah, we're all hysterical."

And, with his next roll, he immediately scratched out. He groaned and watched as Thundercracker reined in both her stack and the one that had been Swindle's. That subtle smirk of hers seemed more than enough to set Swindle's cheeks aflame with a flush of energon. Smokescreen thought he might be sad if Swindle failed to score with her.

"And that was an awesome way to start our last game," Smokescreen said, slapping a hand to Swindle's back, his grin wide and Skywarp's laughter mocking. "Let me take over now, yeah? Unless you want a loan to keep going?"

Swindle threw him a grouchy mutter, arms crossing over his chest, but didn't protest as Smokescreen scooped up the dice. He looked a little less grumpy when Thundercracker scooted the stack of coins she'd taken to sit in front of him again. In fact, he grabbed hold of Thundercracker's hand and laid a kiss to the back of it, setting her wings aflutter and the faintest of blushes across her cheeks. Smokescreen grinned and gave Swindle a little elbow to the side—she wasn't entirely disinterested and Swindle might have a chance.

"Time to finish this," Smokescreen announced, his mood lightened. He returned his attention to the table and his opponents for the crown of the Decepticon empire. "Remember! No more tables after this by Starscream's own decree, my good mechs." He held up his hand in front of Skywarp's mouth, the dice held in the curl of his fingers. "For luck, babe?"

After a moment of obviously wondering if he was serious, Skywarp snorted and blew gently through the tunnel of his fingers. Then, he threw the dice.

The growing heat of Starscream's anger absolutely breached containment, flooding the entirety of the casino. Many civilians outright fled the building in response, leaving the majority of the Chassis' remaining patrons at least Decepticon adjacent. The air in the casino grew tense, word of what was happening spreading among the rank and file. The attention on the table increased. Things were going to end peacefully, Smokescreen's gut told him louder than ever. There was nothing for it but to continue playing, though. Roll after roll, Smokescreen won, scraping indecent amounts of the filthiest lucre to his end of the table. He tried not to be too visibly puffed-up as Starscream became ever more enraged. Even when he was forced by chance to let the dice from his hands, he pulled in winnings on his bets that dwarfed those of his rivals.

The piles of shanix, stacked straps of alien currency, Decepticon-stamped gold bars, array of various weapons—both Cybertronian and offworlder in design—vials of innermost, what looked to be a few fancy circuit boosters, and who knew what else all belonged to him. Nothing unusual in a high stakes night of barely legal gambling, really. The keyring, though? That was weird. He couldn't even imagine what the keys hanging from it opened. There were a few things he didn't know what they were at all, either. It was no wonder Starscream was a mass of barely contained fury. Even Soundwave seemed a bit perturbed at his own poor showing.

More interestingly, though, Smokescreen realized Deadlock had moved closer to the table, practically watching right over Smokescreen's shoulder. He flicked his doorwings, surprised they didn't hit the creep. "Hey, security goon, don't worry. I left my weighted dice at home today."

The rough mech glowered, mouth pulled into a disgusted frown. He nearly laughed aloud as he felt a scan run over his frame, tips of his pedes to points of his chevron crest. Someone wanted to look good at their job in front of the three mechs battling to be his new boss, obviously. Rattling the dice, Smokescreen put his attention back on the table just in time to catch the tiniest of nods and a sharp flick of a wing from Starscream in the corner of his optic. Moments later, the sharp-edged muzzle of a blaster cut into the plating of his side.

His right side.

That sweet voice he'd become so familiar with leaned in to murmur low and hot against his audial. "Your next roll better be real bad for you."

Smokescreen slowly turned a disappointed gaze Skywarp's way, doorwings dipping sadly for the briefest of moments. He grinned around the cy-garette—it had been too good to last, romancing a Decepticon assassin. She'd been a great tumble for a while, but he had better options. He could name one that was particularly outstanding, even. Still, break-ups never felt good. "You're breaking my spark, babe."

"Aw," she said with the fakest of sympathy, jabbing her blaster a little more firmly into his side. "You were a fun time, Smokey, but, push comes to shove, I am loyal to Starscream."

"Huh," Smokescreen said, looking around the table. He set his hands down on the edge, dice still held in his loose fist. "Anyone else loyal to Starscream?"

To his left, Thundercracker raised a hand and wiggled her fingers. At his spot along the edge of the table, Starscream smirked, gone smug with what he no doubt considered the swing of fate in his favor.

"Not unexpected," Smokescreen said, noting the fall of Swindle's face at that declaration. He looked at Misfire and Sunstorm. "You two?"

"Oh, not me," Misfire exclaimed, waving off the idea as if it was the silliest thing he'd ever heard. "I'm all Soundwave's. Nobody suspects the dumb guy to be spying on them, after all, you know."

Smokescreen had to give him that. At least Misfire didn't have a blaster pointed at him. He looked to the golden yellow seeker and prompted, "Sunstorm?"

Her smile was small and distant, her wings fluttering softly. "I serve the Cause."

"Ah, gotcha." Nodding, Smokescreen glanced toward Swindle again and lifted his hand with the dice to give the pale cubes of platinum another rattle. He sensed a twitch behind him, the sensation of someone moving closer. Deadlock. As much as he wanted to look, the idea of taking his attention off the now notedly unfriendly bots staring him down at the table left Smokescreen less than thrilled. Was it Deadlock wanting to watch him fail? Well, failure wasn't about to happen. Maybe the Decepticon crown was out of reach, but there was still a way to win—getting his aft out of the situation alive. Steeling his dented nerves, Smokescreen bumped a warning pede against Swindle's then pulled back his hand for a good toss of the dice.

He flung his hand forward, unleashing the dotted cubes harder than necessary… and, with both hands, splashed the unending stacks of glittering shanix coins across the table with the dice. They tumbled and rolled toward Starscream and Soundwave, some of them even spilling over the edge, catching everyone but Swindle off guard. Flinging his hand back, he caught Skywarp's arm and shoved it just enough aside that her shot was ruined, sending her into a howling rage. Smokescreen hissed as blaster fire that still managed to hit him singed his plating, lighting up pain along his side and across his back.

With the first shot fired, Smokescreen's intuition proved correct. The fraying threads keeping the situation from going feral snapped, spiraling everything out of control. He threw a side kick at Skywarp's canopy, sending her toppling backward, her blaster skittering across the floor as it fell from her hand. From above, the flying casseticons dive bombed and shot at anything that moved. The other casseticons scrambled through the casino, tackling random legs of bots that pulled out weapons of their own, firing indiscriminately—or maybe not. They'd all been around long enough to know who supported which candidate. Unlike Smokescreen, who only knew enough to get himself in trouble… and trouble he was definitely in.

Glass shattered and tables crashed as the Decepticons remaining in the casino took the chaos at the table as their own cue to wreak havoc. Fires started and blazed in the midst of the ruckus as flamethrowers spit their namesake like venom, billows of smoke choking vents and hazing optics. Beside Smokescreen, Swindle started piling as much loot as he could into his frame pockets, ducking and diving projectiles and blaster bolts as they came his way. His skill was readily apparent in the fact the mech had yet to take damage. Smokescreen himself couldn't say how his own frame bore nothing more than the blackened graze from Skywarp.

A recovered Skywarp got her senses together and came at Smokescreen again. Just as her claws, fully extended and sharp, swiped at him, a hand caught Smokescreen's collar fairing from behind and yanked him backward. He found himself staring up at the underside of Deadlock's chin, doorwings flared in shock as a bolt from Starscream's null ray cannon whipped through the space where he'd just been, very nearly hitting Skywarp in the process. Smokescreen yelped, "What the frag?!"

Deadlock didn't even look down at him, instead flinging a roundhouse kick at Skywarp's helm and sending her tumbling helm over pedes a second time.

"We've gotta get out of here!" Deadlock informed him, pulling Smokescreen back upright, where Smokescreen discovered himself staring down the buzzing null ray canon Starscream aimed down the length of the table at him again. Before he could do more than open his mouth to warn Deadlock, the mech swiped a gold bar from the table and flung it at Starscream. The pale seeker's helm clanged out loud as the bar connected. A grunt and a hissing shriek sounded as Starscream clutched at his dented helm vent. Flinging Smokescreen behind him and reaching for a second gold bar, Deadlock shouted, "Frag you, Screamer!"

"Hey!" Swindle shouted as well, sounding very put out. "Stop chucking the loot at people!" Not waiting for an answer, the wily mech yanked the gold bar from Deadlock's hand and continued shoving shanix and gold and whatever else he could reach without being injured into his increasingly overstuffed frame pockets.

The table shook as Ravage leaped atop it, further scattering coins splashed from those tall stacks as the sleek cougaraider made his way toward Smokescreen. Behind him, Soundwave watched in silence, giving Smokescreen no more than an impassive tilt of his helm. The way bullets and blaster bolts missed him and Ravage without fail was surreal—either he had some sort of forcefield or everyone was taking immense care to not hit either of them. Smokescreen suspected it was the latter. Before Ravage could do whatever he was up to, though, Starscream caught the cougaraider by the tail and yanked the casseticon from the table with a joint yowl from both of them.

"This is done!" Starscream shrieked, slinging Ravage aside and directly into an unexpecting Soundwave before beginning his own crawl across the table. His claws dug into the surface with each movement. Voice dropping as he drew closer, Starscream pushed Deadlock aside and leaned forward until his face was little more than a breath away from Smokescreen's. "You and your friends are dead, conmech," he murmured in the closest his vocalizer could get to soft tones. The brilliantly white expanse of his wings shivered with bristling contempt. A sharp claw tugged at Smokescreen's bottom lip, drawing a drop of energon, as Starscream added, "Just. Like. Megatron."

Then another gold brick flew, slamming right into the seeker's face this time, dropping him like a rock on the table with a bloodied nose and screeching threats. The seeker was shoved off the table as Swindle rolled him out of the way to stash away more valuables—including the keyring. "I'll take that, thank you very much! Lock, hand me that gold bar you just used."

Smokescreen blinked, watching blankly as Deadlock tossed the gold bar to Swindle, no complaint. A couple of shots took out the lighting fixtures nearby, casting the table and nearly their entire section of the casino into shadow.

"You should go now. I won't stop you," Thundercracker said dodging a stray bullet, her voice quiet, barely audible above the cacophonous din. It was still loud enough to catch her a terrifying shriek of "Traitor!" from Skywarp, who flung herself back into the fray.

Deadlock caught Smokescreen by the collar fairing again and yanked as the black and violet seeker vanished with a vop! and reappeared right where Smokescreen had stood. Wings high and tight, tension throughout her frame displaying how very livid she was, Skywarp swiped at Smokescreen and Deadlock before throwing herself at a Thundercracker very nearly taken by surprise. The two seekers landed on the floor in a tangle of limbs and wings, claws out and curses flying.

"What are you doing?!" Starscream hollered, pulling himself together and back upright with the help of the table. "Attack the enemy not—!"

Honestly, Smokescreen stopped paying attention at that point as Deadlock literally dragged him through the casino, into the lounge, and toward the kitchen. They dodged blaster fire, bullets, and even attempts to tackle them along the way, but Deadlock didn't appear to be in the mood to let anything stop their progress. Smokescreen couldn't decide whether Deadlock was talking to him or talking to himself as the security mech repeated, "We've gotta get out of here! Don't wanna get caught in the middle."

He watched what they left behind only long enough to watch Swindle continue to dodge yet more bullets and blaster fire while grabbing as much of Smokescreen's abandoned winnings as he could. The last thing he heard as the swinging kitchen doors closed behind them was the front entrance blowing open with a loud bang and a stern voice calling out, "Security Operations! Put your weapons down and your hands up!"

"Oh, good," Smokescreen said, not caring if Deadlock listened. "Streetwise's bots made it."

Closed away from the disaster falling out in the casino itself, the stark lighting of the kitchen was too bright on optics grown used to the neon glow then darkness of the casino. His audials felt numb, the noise reducing materials of the kitchen walls cutting out almost all the pandemonium filling the casino and lounge. Deadlock didn't give Smokescreen time to adjust, though, and just continued dragging him toward the employee halls and one of the back alley exits. He did stop at that door, though, pressing his audial against it as if he could hear anything through the thick barrier. It gave Smokescreen a chance to get his pedes under him again, if nothing else.

"What are we doing back here?" he asked, keeping his voice low, but unable to help the bit of a growl that crept in. "Are you trying to get our brain modules blown out? Sec Ops is outside!"

The look Deadlock turned on him wasn't at all like he expected. In fact, it was downright calm. "I know that," he said. "They're also inside. Between the two of us, I think we'll be better off outside where the guns aren't already putting holes in bots."

Smokescreen looked at the mech, wishing the visor wasn't obscuring the golden optics he knew were underneath—he didn't know nearly enough about Deadlock to really be able to clock his trustworthiness with such a crucial element missing. "Yeah, I guess you might be right about that," he finally said, reaching for the door himself. "Let's go, then."

As he pushed it open, a high speed scurrying came at them from the direction of the kitchen. Smokescreen wore no weapons. It was all right, though, as Deadlock already had one of his massive blasters out and pointed in the direction of the incoming pedesteps, his expression tight and resolute.

"Whoa, hey!" cried out a voice they both knew. Swindle jumped back around the corner before anything might accidentally go off. "It's me, you wingnuts! No shooting co-conspirators!" He paused, peeked out again, and eyed Deadlock for a while. "We are co-conspirators, right?"

Smokescreen shared another look with Deadlock, thinking over everything that had just gone down. He lifted a hand and wagged a finger at Deadlock as his processors put all the pieces together, suspicions suddenly confirmed. "You're the informant."

Putting his gun away, Deadlock smirked. "Thought you were the best at what you do, spybot. Took you this long?"

"Frag off. Or better yet, go frag Ratchet. I had other things on my mind," Smokescreen shot back, rolling his optics. He turned to Swindle. "Yeah, co-conspirator. Or close enough, I guess."

Swindle looked back and forth between them, then reached out and plucked away the cy-garette that somehow still dangled from between Smokescreen's lips. "Outta the way, then, co-conspirators. Don't know about you, but I've got friends waiting for me," the mech said, taking a deep puff off the burning herbal stick. He paused, gave it a look, then popped it back in the corner of his mouth. "Huh, nice. Skywarp always did have good taste when it comes to the things that really matter." He gave Smokescreen a long look, then patted his shoulder. "Take that how you will."

He shoved past Smokescreen and Deadlock, pushing the exit door open with the pure confidence of which only the finest confidence mechs were capable.

The alley they stepped into was dark and empty, at least on their level. Overhead, though, a click they all knew sounded. Several of them, actually. Smokescreen and Deadlock immediately lifted their hands. Swindle did, as well… after Smokescreen stomped on his nearest pede.

"We're on your side!" Smokescreen called out to the bots atop the neighboring building. "Just ask Streetwise about Smokescreen! I'm sure he's out front?"

At first, silence was the only response they got. Eventually, one of the Sec Ops officers above called back down to them. "You're cleared," she said. "Your friends, too, but the little one better watch himself because he's the only one no one spoke for."

"Little one? Oh, that's not cool," Swindle muttered, chomping on the end of the cy-garette.

Smokescreen smirked while Deadlock snorted, both mechs catching Swindle by the arms and dragging him down the alley toward the main street that ran in front of the Chassis. He was notably heavier than he should have been, a testament to his loot scavenging abilities. Swindle continued muttering the whole way, cy-garette wagging with each annoyed word.

At the mouth of the alley, they were greeted by more Sec Ops agents with guns.

"The consistency is amazing," Swindle drawled, yanking his arms out of Smokescreen and Deadlock's grips. "Do you guys welcome everyone with guns all the time, every time?"

The officers were notedly not impressed. One in particular Smokescreen recognized as a fresh graduate of the Academy, neatly painted up in black and white. "Prowl," he greeted with his most annoying grin and a drawl. "How's life as a cadet?"

The young officer narrowed his optics and glared. "I'm a full-fledged officer of Security Operations now, Smokescreen," Prowl replied, no doubt itching to slap a pair of stasis cuffs on a set of mechs he viewed as unredeemable criminals. "You're well-aware of that."

"Ooo, we've hit the big mech leagues," Smokescreen teased. Before the youngster could get his pretty red chevron in a twist, Smokescreen added, "Point me toward your mentor, officer."

If Prowl glowered any harder, the kid would have permanent wrinkles in his protoform before he hit his first promotion. In lieu of answering, Prowl jabbed a finger down the street toward the Sec Ops vehicles that waited out front of the Golden Chassis. Flood lights filling the space made it very difficult to miss. Smokescreen sighed, doorwings giving a slow flap.

"Right in the middle of it all. Of course," he muttered. "Thanks, Prowl."

Swindle looked and grimaced. "Yeah, I'm not going that way, sorry. I'll see you around, though. We'll do deals together."

"Yeah, you've got my comm frequency. Don't lose that datapad," Smokescreen said, giving his fellow conmech a wave and watching him head the other way down the street. Prowl and the other unnamed officer beside him both seemed a bit twitchy watching Swindle walk away with not even a warning. Smokescreen smirked and nudged Deadlock. "Let's go."

"Don't act like you like me now," Deadlock said with a grunt as they headed toward the main entrance of the casino. More and more officers flooded inside as more and more detained Decepticons were brought out in cuffs while they watched. "How long have you—"

"Deadlock!" A hand shoved Smokescreen out of the way as Ratchet pushed by, catching Deadlock's face between his hands. The medic's face was angry, but not in a way that meant he was looking to hurt him. "Drift."

"Ratch? What are you doing out here?!" Deadlock asked, sounding shocked to find the mech in front of him. His visor folded back, revealing wide and surprised golden optics.

"You're done," Ratchet said, his words fierce with a force that brooked no debate. His fingers clenched tight over the shape of Deadlock's rounded cheek guards, quaking for the strength of his hold. "You're not going back into anything like that again, do you hear me? You're going straight and you're not leaving my side again. Tell me you understand that."

Deadlock blinked, obviously at a loss for words. "Yeah, Ratchet. I get it."

Leaving them alone before he could witness anything more intense—like the full mouth-on-mouth kiss Ratchet dragged the former security creep into as Smokescreen turned away—Smokescreen let himself be amused before another medic wandered along and pulled him into a medical checkup or something of the sort. He wasn't looking to swap oral solvent with any of the Sec Ops medical unit, after all. The sleek white and red mech standing toward the back of operation command, though, with the rest of the top officers? That guy was a little different.

Brushing away any dirt that might have found its way to his chevron, Smokescreen set his shoulders broad and relaxed, his doorwings perked at a jaunty angle. He bit down the grunt of pain as the movement reminded him of the blaster graze across his side and back. No medic visit. Yet. Paying the officers working around him no mind, Smokescreen made his way over to Streetwise, his favorite lawman—his favorite ex—with his best swagger.

Streetwise noticed him, of course, turning to meet him with an arched orbital ridge. "Your aft is lucky we had enough to bust them today, you know that?"

"How much was my contribution and how much Deadlock's?" he asked, wondering if he could manually trigger that damn visor to fold back.

"Enough his that he couldn't go back in without being immediately given a public deactivation," Streetwise admitted. He sighed, flicking back his visor without Smokescreen having to figure it out. Tired fingers rubbed at even more tired optics before Streetwise met Smokescreen's gaze again. "You won't be able to go back in, either."

Smokescreen's orbital ridges rose high and he laughed almost under his breath. "Yeah, we'll see about that." Taking a hint from Ratchet, his hands came up and curled around the shape of Streetwise's strong and angular jaw, pulling him into a slow and sloppy kiss. There wasn't much resistance before Streetwise's hands came to rest on Smokescreen's chest, his whole frame leaning into him, soft and such a nice reminder of better times between them. Easing away with the knowledge that Streetwise still couldn't resist him, Smokescreen gave the mech a pat on the cheek. Streetwise's optics were half-closed, optical shutters heavy with resurgent memories of his own, Smokescreen was sure. A small, but crooked smile on his mouth, he murmured, "I'll be checking my accounts tonight."

He turned away, walking back the way he'd come, wondering if Swindle was still nearby.

"Smokescreen!" Streetwise yelled after him, coming back to his senses. He didn't sound anywhere near as angry as he wanted to, no doubt. "Debrief! My office, tomorrow morning! Don't make me hunt you down!"

"Hunt? Babe, you know where to find me!" His grin widening, Smokescreen couldn't help the cheerful flicking of his doorwings. The job was over, but he foresaw it leading to more fun times in his very near future—especially if Streetwise meant any of those incredibly rude things he was yelling.

END