Archive of Our Own

It was all about the pressure control. Not too light but not too forceful either. As well as the tremendous amounts of needed focus.

Truthfully, at least this was the one thing Slipstream knew she possessed. While the control seemed like a learnt skill, patience was much more aligned with her coding. Breems upon breems spent doing the repetitive training sequences taught her not to rush things forward. In some parts that was. Her superiors like Shockwave always said that her emotions would’ve become her downfall. Always too much; Never truly enough.

Another brushstroke across the sleek metal came adorned by a sound. One which in general would’ve been a lovely melody to Slipstream’s audials. Right then, in the moment of complete focus, it was but a distraction.

She pressed her derma together, her vocoder drawing out the name, “Windblade…”

“I’m sorry but I can’t kid around it any more. It’s pretty tickly,” answering with an almost involuntary giggle, Windblade drew a little further. Then as she took another taxing look, her shoulder pads swayed in a muffled laughter.

To which Slipstream raised her brow ridge in a rather unamused manner. Alright, maybe she was a little amused. Just a little. Mostly due to how Windblade always looked the sweetest being this playful. Primus knew how much she loved to see that.

Hence Slipstream pulled her brush further away. Ex-venting heavier, her attention shifted towards another pigment for her to mix, “Let’s take five. You clearly don’t want this finished now.”

“What? Me? Mmm, not a chance, Slips. I’m not the one distracted. In fact you could make the case I’m best prepared for it,” Windblade lounged her back more casually than she was used to. Still sitting down, her frame curved in crossing her arms, as she tilted her head forward.

A knowing smile curled at the corner of her mouth, “Are you?”

“Yes. Very much so in fact,” nodded Windblade, then peeking with just one of her optics, she could’ve still seen Slipstream’s sudden amused look. It wasn’t long until she swayed closer in her direction and let her servo run across the line of her neck. Just enough to lift Slipstream’s chin for maintaining optical contact. “Actually… There’s something right about not having all my makeup done yet.”

Oh, how she hoped Windblade hadn’t heard her fans suddenly get louder, “Which… Is…?”

With a sultry look, she focused on the culprit of her derma. The illusion of keeping it cool in front of her shattered as Slipstream felt the careful drag of her pointing digit across her faceplate. Who cared anyway. Not her when her servo landed on Windblade’s waist, pulling her towards.

To Dark Spark with nonchalance.

“Simple. I won’t smudge my lipstick just yet.”

For a split klik Slipstream almost physically felt her optics widening at her words. But before it was of any importance, the real sensation was right within her reach. Windblade’s derma captured her own, swiftly and momentarily. She always started like this. Whenever Slipstream was led to believe it would’ve been a simple brush of her rosy derma, she was instantly proven otherwise. Granted, most often than not by her own design, ready to thoroughly taste Windblade. Yet this time, when she took the initiative, Slipstream’s gratitude knew no bounds.

Even for passerbys, it wouldn’t have been hard to decipher her desires. Let alone for a cityspeaker telepath who read other bots like it was a card on a Maccadam’s trivia game night. Even more so when it involved her sparkmate. Any secrets or barriers were crumbled to dust long before they crossed Slipstream’s processors.

So she didn’t deny it. Instead, her focus laid entirely on Windblade. Her dermas opened further, taking Slipstream in as her glossa slid across hers. The intricate lines of her aviator chassis she grazed with the utmost devotion. Falling right into her arms, like she was meant to forever stay embraced by Slipstream’s touch. And those kisses which stole every ex-vent she had settled in her chest.

Then her electrifying blue optics opened. She drew away from her needy dermas with a hum of her engine, “Slipstream…”

“Mh, yes?” Still hazed by the affection, she tried to come back onto the ground.

“I think you’re doing a great job there,” with the lightest of ghost kisses, she pressed her derma against hers one last time. “Don’t fret too much.”

“So you do want me to fret in some capacity,” semi-jokingly Slipstream couldn’t have helped but to remark. Though that mask was way too see-through for either of them to disregard.

“Sure. If we weren’t scared, how would we know we’re up to the challenge?” Fixing herself up, Windblade slid back to her mat. Once comfortable enough, she picked it up again, “If you’re scared, it means you’re well-prepared. If you didn’t know about the potential failures, how would you know how to get it right?”

“Ignorance is blissful,” she scoffed.

“Some might say that. But with you and your craft? I doubt anyone would’ve thought of this as subpar,” Windblade kept on treading ever so carefully. The moment she realized the scope of her words, a somewhat sunny mischief returned, “And if they did, I’d have a few choice words to say to them. Me or Stormfall.”

“Now you’re just trying any means necessary.”

“Is it working?”

Scanning her from the bottom to the top, Slipstream really didn’t want to refute, “Somewhat...”

In the corner of her optic, Slipstream saw her features soften exponentially. Those beautiful looks of hers, full of grace and compassion. Never weakness. In part, she couldn’t help but to feel that certain push across her chassis to keep going. Despite the second-guessing and the inner torment, Slipstream picked up the brush back and started trying out the pigments. Motions so regular they eased another part of her processor. The smallest of reliefs.

Color by color, she tested out another combination right against the tone of Windblade’s plating. When the pink was right, she went first with the prepared white on some touchups to the whole. All the while Windblade awaited her next move.

“Do you even like it when I do it?” Asked Slipstream, blending a part of unruly white against the side of her cheek.

“Do what?”

With a turn, she took another portion of the foundation, as her wrist did controlled motions, “Testing the looks on you. Sure it’s not rehearsal which is all the more terrible, if you ask me but–“

That was when her actions stopped once more, grounded by Windblade’s grab. Who knew a fellow aviator would’ve been this convincing with such but… She was exceptional. Especially as Slipstream gazed into the depth of blue.

“You’re seriously overthinking it. C’mon. Do what you do best, sweetspark.”

Her best… Nothing more situational than that phrase. Yet wrapped in her own objective, Slipstream could’ve only agreed. Even without any thunderous incentive.

The war was over. Her military prowess had little to no use in the new world welcoming her with spread wings. As well as the fact that when faced with making a decision regarding her future, Slipstream was sure of at least one thing – battles didn’t have a place in her current life.

Not after Starscream had almost tried to deactivate her for vetoing his AllSpark ambitions. Not after her state was critical after Bludgeon’s attack pierced her tank. Not after Quintessons, not after perfect Decepticons. There was no use in continuing on and… Frankly, no need. For Slipstream, it was an easy choice to make. It was then the matter of her life beginning again.

Nursed back to health by Windblade and learning about the structures of the Autobot ranks made her sparksearching at least a bit more manageable. The sights of fresh paint on the buildings, ones which climbed up the skies of Cybertron made her feel at home. Right then, they finally seemed tangible, approachable, even tactile.

And Windblade was by her side all this time. Her dearest Windblade.

There was always this fascination within Slipstream when she was assigned to capture the aviator cityspeaker of the Autobots. Little did she know this fascination would’ve been only the beginning. Windblade had always impressed her; A skilled fighter, a loyal warrior, kind spark, playful manner of being, courage unlike any other.

At the beginning, Slipstream didn’t know their ending would’ve ever been shared. Yet when fascination blended into affection, it seemed like the most welcome of turbulence. And Windblade joined in for that flight.

Yet love and kinship were only the starts of her journey. The question lingered on her processors like an icicle clinging from the building – who was Slipstream? The answer couldn’t have been unearthed by anyone but her. So she had searched and searched, every inch of herself, in every way possible.

As she took another portion of the pink blush on her blender, Slipstream almost couldn’t have believed it took her this long to find an answer. With the art of faceplate paint and makeup, her visions became much clearer, tinted with all the colors at her disposal. When her blender touched the surface of Windblade’s cheek, it was apparent the magnitude didn’t stop there. For it was one thing to create but when the canvas was her beloved’s faceplate it almost constituted as perfecting the masterpiece.

She found solace in the visages appearing from underneath her makeup brush. Intricate patterns she herself loved to design and enact. For once, Slipstream felt like her servos were meant to create not to destroy.

It was just that particular cycle the task went beyond her. The awareness of a million optics watching her opus from every angle. Adorning her beloved Windblade’s features in the sharpest closeups.

Maybe Slipstream was somewhat nervous. Maybe.

Involuntarily, the grip she held onto the brush tightened exponentially. The shake of her servo no longer guided her forward but treaded in an unsure circular pattern. All to make the curve of her markings this more pronounced, this more detailed.

Then it slipped. A colorful smudge ran across Windblade’s cheek. Slipstream’s own stare numbed, barely holding itself steady. Though pink in color, the shape was undeniably familiar. Face to face with her work, Slipstream took back her servo. The image became too vivid to ignore, the memories flooded her processors with an overwhelming surge. The brush fell from her hand.

Thankfully, Windblade didn’t spare a moment to react.

“Hey… Hey Slipstream, it’s fine, I promise, you’ll just wipe it out, it’s…” Though seemingly ready to continue, Windblade closed her dermas. Instead, her own realization hit her like an enemy's blaster, “Oh. Oh, my dear.”

But her words only partially got to Slipstream. Not when the only thing she had noticed right then were her servos, opened before her. Trembling at the smallest of disturbances, there was a clear image in her processors. There were still energon blue stains all across them, muddied into one.

No matter how Cybertron changed, the patches remained. In reality, Slipstream doubted they would’ve ever disappeared.

Amidst this sight, another pair of servos approached her. The dainty, virtuous ones, which hadn’t touched her, not just yet. But they were enough to capture her attention.

So Slipstream once more moved her helm upwards. Meeting Windblade’s stare, one so full of compassion and understanding, she never knew how to properly respond. Though her intentions were crystal clear, Slipstream hesitated on the next step. All which she could’ve mustered was the release of the ex-vent she was holding.

“I know… It’s just hard.”

“And I know that too,” said Windblade, not exactly softer yet the plush feeling ran all across her. Oh, how she had deserved that kindness, Slipstream never knew. Changing her demeanor a little, Windblade moved her helm in a knowing manner. “C’mon. I know this one’s not my color, let’s just get rid of it.”

Slipstream chuckled, “It’s about color now?”

“I dunno,” to which Windblade shrugged, hoping to appear unphased. Or not to strike any difficult chords. “There’s no other reason for you to feel conscious sooo… Frankly, I think it’s the pigment’s fault.”

“Sure. Let’s blame it on this one,” realizing her true intentions, something in Slipstream’s own sight shined. The corners of her derma moved slightly upwards.

And Windblade reciprocated. No other words needed. At least for this short blip in time.

Taking another pad to her servos, Slipstream started to remove the unfortunate mark. Her focus was immense and undeterred by the outside circumstances. Though her processors couldn’t have exactly let go of the mental image they tormented her with. With each stroke, before Slipstream was the image of her Windblade, beaten, bruised and defeated. Snapshots changed quickly, yet there was always something just as ghastly. Slipstream rubbed and rubbed, hoping it would’ve finally disappeared.

Yet one thought prevailed – all of the malfunctions were Slipstream’s doing.

“Slipstream…”

Her name sounded between them as the last link to reality at servo. Especially spoken by Windblade. Not that her processors were able to catch it all in such a small amount of time. Like in a trance, she kept going.

Until Windblade hadn’t taken her wrists again. If her voice was the flickering light, her touch must’ve been like a lightning strike to her helm.

“Slipstream. Stop that.”

Then her optics met hers again. Clearcut realization had hit her – she was still shaking.

“Agh, Primus,” retracting her servos away had to be the most damning evidence. Just as if her chassis wasn’t even hers. One more heavy ex-vent, as she covered her optics. “I’m sorry, I just… No. I’m sorry. No excuses here.”

Despite the momentary friction, nothing about Windblade screamed she was mad or distant. Her brow ridges drew closer together in boundless understanding. As if taken from the rift of space and time, Slipstream could’ve only watched the events unfold. Suddenly, the touch shifted, from her wrists to the palms of her servos. Before she was ready to accept it, her frame appeared steadier.

“Tell me what’s on your processors. I mean two brain modules are better than one to figure scrap out, right?” With her silky voice, Windblade pressed a promise against her burnt up metal plating. Anything to soothe the pain. “You know I won’t judge.”

She wouldn’t have. Slipstream, on the other servo, was used to judging herself. Yet looking back into those optics, she knew any other denials were counterproductive. Hence it was prime time to come clean. Even if she had never felt less suited for Primehood.

“It’s a big deal, Windy. I have no idea how you’re staying this calm. Okay, sure, I’ve seen you perfected this and all but let’s be real for a klik,” Slipstream’s grip had waned. Slowly, her frame had sunken lower. “You and your dance are used to being seen by the Cybertron. I barely even walk around Iacon without feeling like someone’s creeping on me. Not sure how many bots will even want to see art by a Decepticon… We aren’t exactly the beacons of good will, creativity and what have you.”

There it was. Right in front of her.

It was one thing to find passion within the underground scene of makeup and chassis markings. Yet to share it all with the world which has too many objections to who someone was, was a completely different thing. No matter how freeing the process became for Slipstream, she knew any attention given could’ve easily ended with another tidal wave of blame. Maybe times had changed but freeing bots’ processors was no easy task.

Hence Slipstream worked independently, usually hidden away from the unwanted spectators. With a brush in her servo, she moved with precision and intent surpassing any of her military work. Paints flowed from her servo, like a trail left behind by a shooting star. Every time Slipstream looked at what she had done and determined that yes, she was made to do more than beat, bruise and destroy.

And Windblade followed. Looking at her work improving and talking with her clients, she couldn’t have been more proud of the one she loved. Oftentimes she herself was the subject of Slipstream’s creations, as she tested new looks and techniques. Bless her spark, Windblade shared her heaps of patience.

Then came the proposition, one which Slipstream would’ve been a fool not to accept.

The social unity between Decepticons and Autobots remained up in the air. Despite her distance from the government, Slipstream had heard stories from Windblade regarding the constant musings of how to improve the relations. Step by step, it seemed more achievable but there had to be someone to take those steps. Fortunately for Cybertron, Slipstream knew her wonderful, diplomatic sparkmate was the right one for the job.

A bit of Camien flare was something both sides appreciated. Windblade spoke of unity and togetherness in a way so natural, Slipstream wanted to listen to each and every word given. Whenever Windblade described Caminus, she often wondered why she left it in the first place. Though the answer always came within the same kilik – Windblade was too curious of the world to be bound to one place. And without it, she would’ve never fallen in Slipstream’s embrace.

Caminus was a place of tolerance and appreciation of arts and culture. What bound them together were the performing arts, shareable with everyone. A festival of such caliber and intention seemed like the perfect way for everyone to express themselves through artistic notions. Everyone was free to join and showcase anything they wanted. From Chromia’s impressive martial art showcase, through Soundwave mixing music and Hot Rod singing along, to even Perceptor’s mixology session.

Then there was Windblade. Immediately, her submission became a performance of the traditional Camien dance of circuits. Confused by the concept, Slipstream was past trying to act like she didn’t care. Especially when Windblade’s servo took her own and the warmth within her simply confirmed she was where she was supposed to be.

What commenced were the series of rehearsals which Slipstream watched taken aback in the most profound way. The delicate and intricate movements of Windblade’s filled her processors with swirling patterns. Smudges of black and pink blended together when Windblade soared through the sunsets above the Iacon skyscrapers. Every training, Slipstream was there. Once or twice even taking part, as Windblade showed her the way two could’ve shared this experience.

At the very end, Windblade’s digits grazed against the edges of Slipstream’s faceplate. Spoken between kisses, she asked her for the honors of being the one who did her makeup for the actual show. Who would’ve Slipstream been if she hadn’t agreed to it? 

Possibly less stressed than she was right then.

Mighty fall to reality forced Slipstream to reconsider all her actions. With her shaking servo the doubts crept on all sides, as she barely faced Windblade in the preparations garderobe. Lamps casting enough light to see her movements were a given, illuminating her sparkmate’s faceplate from every angle. Yet Slipstream remained. It seemed as if she had always remained in one place.

Still, Windblade’s digit drew circles at the back of her servo. After a moment, she spoke again, “Who said good art can’t be made by ex-Decepticons? I’ve seen plenty to judge that you are as creative as they come. In every field there is.”

“An audience for that kinda thing seems marginal,” answered Slipstream, trying to keep her focus on Windblade’s movements.

“If that’s the case, let me lead the way,” she stayed within her assessment, fixed in place. “If your vocoder can’t be hearable I’ll take a megaphone and stop the world so they notice.”

As sweet as that statement was, Slipstream couldn’t have shaken off the bitter aftertaste, “No offense but I don’t want to rely on you all my life.”

“I don’t want you to be bound to it either,” ex-vented Windblade, even from afar her processor swarmed with the possible ways out. “I’m just saying that hiding is not a way out.”

To which Slipstream fell silent. Digittips reached towards the makeup equipment, just to hold them for a second or two. As if the smallest amount of tactile agency would’ve helped her assess what was real.

“Continue,” she whispered, ghosting the edges of the brush, memorizing its shape.

How strange it was for their roles to end up this warped. Not that long ago, she would’ve made extra sure to always be on top with her tasks, leading the double edged conversation, not just following it. She wanted that control so badly, be it in the smallest of things. 

Right then, all she craved was guidance, a map detailing the intricacies of the real world. The Decepticon nightmare ended with her stranded in the middle of the road.

Thankfully, Windblade had the paths memorized.

“Adjusting is not the easiest thing in the world. That’s not a profound observation though, just a fact,” she fixed up her stance ever so slightly slouching her shoulder pads. After Slipstream’s low hum of approval, she continued, “But there’s no use in going out of your way just to blend in with the background. When I first arrived on Cybertron I was so damn lost but… Sure as the Dark Spark, I didn’t wanna settle on staying in the corner. You have more agency than you realize.”

“You’re forgetting I was made to sit in the corner. I’ve had it better than most of the Seekers but it’s still who we were – Seekers. Copies, expendables, whatever,” each next descriptor she accented with the next tightened grip on her brush. “Not individuals.”

“Have you ever believed that?”

Slipstream’s mouth felt dry, “It’s not a matter of believing. Just abiding.”

“That’s not the Slipstream I know,” crossing the arms on her chest, Windblade gave her a curious look. One with just enough superiority. “Not the Captain I remember.”

“Well, maybe I wanna forget her.”

The snap happened immediately, shattering the illusion of the control she cultivated for the longest time. From a quick snarl, she bore her denta almost in discomfort, as if to solidify her stance. But Windblade didn’t flinch. Instead, her faceplate softened again. They both knew it too well. No matter which past had already been written in detail.

Hence Windblade looked away, optics full of sorrow. The tension didn’t dissipate just yet. Not when Slipstream’s servo landed to the top of her helm, anchoring her in place at least in the smallest capacity.

“I’ve done so much terrible stuff, Windblade. I don’t even know how you could’ve forgiven me because I cannot do this to myself!” She snapped, her servos landing down within a curve of motion. More helpless by the kilik, “How can I build Slipstream back when I don’t even know who she is? All I have are the bots I hurt and restrictions and every damn thing I did against you. It doesn’t make up for much. Not worthwhile, that’s for sure.”

Burdened by all the storms inside her, Slipstream stood up. Oh, how much she had wanted to take another puff of those sticks Seekers always raved about. Right then, emptiness swallowed Slipstream from the inside. Without a proper way forward, a treacherous maze rose before her instead. Her heel turned her around, her whole frame sank within her. As the garderobe gave them the smallest amount of space, it echoed what was inside of her. Folding her own chassis to the point of crumbling it down.

Then there was a vocoder. Flickering light which guided her back on the ground. A whisper of a touch she could’ve felt on her wearied chassis. Presence she craved more than anything else.

“Slipstream…” Her tone was once more like a feather ever so slightly brushing against the surface of the metal. Slipstream still remembered the birds back on Earth. She remembered the feeling of them against her plating.

Not to mention Windblade giving her the one thing she still clung onto the most in this entire lifetime.

Her name.

Suddenly the spinning room halted. The presence of Windblade soothed her wearied senses, quieting down the merciless spiral. If a part of who she was, was voicing her own needs, she had to try. Her chassis straightened up a little, a coil which let go of the grasp. Her helm peeked from her left shoulder pad, meeting Windblade halfway, seeing her unsure movements. The question of permission though not yet spoken lingered between them.

Just like that, Slipstream didn’t want to hold back on her desire. Right there and then, she simply wanted her. Shame felt far beyond her comprehension.

“Hold me,” her raspy vocoder managed to sound out these words. “Please, hold me, Windblade.”

With optics full of shining stars, Windblade nodded a little. The confirmation was enough for Slipstream to simply fall into her arms. Chassis pressed against one another, as she felt Windblade’s servos clutch against the cannons placed on her shoulder pads. All while the feeling of her faceplate pressed against her cockpit almost made her own spark leap out of her chest chamber.

Between all those details, Slipstream focused on one crucial sensation – she felt so damn small. Not overwhelmingly, not as if she was powerless. Simply small, a spec in the universe held by Windblade’s anchoring touch. All her memories of being shaped by the Decepticon command seemed to dissolve one by one. Where she heard Megatron’s booming command to never back out of the fight, Slipstream finally surrendered. Yet losing the battle of wills to Windblade’s affection was more than an honor.

“I think… I think you know who Slipstream is,” flush against her plating, Windblade stated with grace, the same as the birds Slipstream noted in her past. “You just need to visualize her as she deserves it. Maybe see what she really needs.”

“What… What does she need?” Hoarse at first, Slipstream switched her vocoder back to the right setting.

“Understanding. Agency. Support,” each word of hers was accented by another firm grasp at her back. The most soothing of motions, when she felt her closer and closer on her frame.

Yet there was still something Slipstream didn’t want to resort to. Heaviness built across her plating, when she admitted, “I told you, I don’t wanna rely on you…”

“Mmm, not me. You.”

Like so, every bolt in Slipstream’s chassis screwed itself tighter. Words which launched onto her stiffened her frame with half-realized truths. All she could’ve done in return was to look at Windblade again and hold her shoulder pads in place. While confusion swallowed her whole.

“Define it. I-I mean, explain.”

A side smile lightened up Windblade’s faceplate, as if she had a snarky comment on the tip of her glossa. Ever so courteous, she decided not to say so.

“I know you want the world to see you as someone new and trust me, I am completely with you. But the change can’t appear out of thin air. The moment you give yourself this kindness and show the world you’re not going anywhere, it’s worth more than a thousand Seeker reports and Starscream commands,” Windblade’s explanation drew across her plating in another series of intricate swirls. Her digits kept delicately motioning against every detail of her chassis. “The only thing that should define you is you. And the choices you make. The rest will settle itself out, just as you create it.”

There was this ex-vent that Slipstream lost in the process, while focusing on Windblade’s features. The way she always managed to calm her nervous circuits. Finally, she realized how during the war other bots trusted Windblade with their lives over and over again. Maybe it called back to the first time Slipstream did so – when for the first time she was seen as someone beyond the purple tones.

“It still feels foreign,” heavily, she lowered her helm. “The assembly line was so much easier to navigate.”

Windblade hummed, “It must’ve been... Grueling.”

Solemnly, Slipstream nodded. Autonomy gained after a thousand lifetimes of being simply one of the copies had never been the easiest to gain. The shame settled itself deeply into her own core, like it was ingrained within her ever since Megatron placed a Decepticon logo on her chestplate.

“Every choice I make it feels like everyone is staring back. Oh, this Seeker wants to do something worth a damn. This Seeker decided to join the Autobots! This Seeker is in a relationship with an Autobot. No matter how small it is, it’s like the command is looking at me and judging,” laying down her spark, her vocoder seemed even more so desperate in the process. “When all I want is to just be Slipstream.”

“I can’t say it can be fixed this easily. I know what Autobots loved to talk about whenever Decepticons weren’t around and I admit, I was one of them,” Windblade put one of her servos up, freely admitting so. “But I know how to read sparks and you know that too well.”

Slipstream scoffed playfully, “And here I thought Soundwave was the empath. You just care too much.”

“That’s right. Guilty as charged.”

Which Windblade accented with that pearly laughter of hers. And when Slipstream held her close, seeing her smile and listening to the most beautiful sound in her life, something inside her tugged. Between the starting lines of the painted details of her faceplate and the simple awareness of her presence, she was certain of one thing. A smile to match graced her own features, as she leaned in.

“But I love you, Windblade. In just that way,” the tip of Slipstream’s helm brushed on top of hers, affections though still hard to speak out drew from her own glossa.

There was no surprise within Windblade. In a way she must’ve sensed the love around her merely from being in her company. Still, the happiness visible on her features never ceased to calm Slipstream’s weary processors.

“I love you too, Slipstream,” Windblade echoed against her, digits grazing softly on her chin again. “The real you.”

Real. What a beautiful word it was.

When her life had been a shadow puppet show of being out of the limelight, suddenly Slipstream didn’t know how to handle the focus. It was always about doing whatever the Decepticons had wanted. All of this limited to commands given to her on the daily. Keep existing as Megatron dictated, report to Starscream and fulfill his wishes, be studied by Shockwave, feel Soundwave’s surveillance. Remain the Seeker the troops needed her to be.

Right then, all of this shaped up to become Slipstream’s nightmare of the past. Her optics closed, still trying to imagine what realness truly meant for her. All she could’ve thought about were the careful accents of her liners and brushes against Cybertronians’ platings.

“I just want to… I dunno. Live and do makeup and love you… Without that damn shame and Megatron’s vocoder ruining my parade,” heavily, Slipstream confessed.

But Windblade’s demeanor remained ever so airy, “Well, I’d say you took that first step towards it.”

“How?”

“You’ve said it yourself, something is not right. So now we can fight it,” with her digits still at her chin, she pulled her closer, inch by inch. “And I promise I won’t leave you alone.”

And Slipstream smiled, “Holdin’ onto that.”

Letting Windblade take the next move, her derma pressed against hers oh so thoroughly. Though less needy than before, Slipstream’s focus remained lingering on her beloved. As if the time had stopped for just this moment and dissolved itself in the feeling of Windblade’s kiss. The final stop after the long journey, the homecoming she didn’t know she needed that desperately. Yet she realized, it was the understanding she craved which Windblade gave her again and again.

Then all of the sudden, the grip of Windblade’s arms tightened on her shoulder pads. Cradling her fully, falling into those reliant arms, feeling her wholly. Every piece of her chassis was overwhelmed by her presence in the best possible way. Windblade’s derma lingered on, while the touch of her servos made her… Tangible. Like she finally was real.

At that moment, Slipstream understood. It wasn’t just about what she had needed. It was how she was needed and desired in return.

“Stay… Stay with me,” Windblade drew against her lips, with little to no space between.

Too many tides washed away by the wars. In her optics, Slipstream saw too many losses. The camaraderie of Caminus, the countless Titans she couldn’t reach out to, the battles lost, the friends she missed for too long. All this woven together in the web of Windblade’s past, one she wasn’t able to get back.

Windblade lived her life to the fullest, knowing everything could’ve been gone by the next gust of the wind. And yet she continued on. So Slipstream took her servos into her own and with a kiss, she pressed that vow against her.

“I will. I promise that too.”

The smile she gave back was the greatest response she could’ve gotten. Nothing else needed.

“Are you alright with continuing? It’s almost showtime,” as she sat back again and looked into the mirror, Windblade asked.

Around Slipstream her tools scattered onto the ground. The tubes and inserts of colors of all the different shades and purposes. As she sat down back and took a liner in her servos, she then glanced back at Windblade. Though there was nothing demanding from her, the sense of duty still clung to Slipstream. Maybe it was the only thing worthwhile she had learnt from the Decepticons.

Her processors once more were filled with the visions of bots looking at Windblade’s performance. Following her every movement, marveling at the beauty of Camien artistic expression. Not to mention her, the dazzling breeze in the sky. Who would’ve Slipstream been if she didn’t help the finishing touch?

“Yeah. Can’t let either of us down, right?”

Even the most elaborate mission didn’t lend the same amount of thrill.

Not when around Slipstream the tribunes full of bots chanted the all too familiar songs and applause for the performers. Whether they were Autobots or Decepticons, right then it didn’t matter. Truth be told, Slipstream herself was slowly beginning to forget. At least she hoped it was the deal and not her processors playing tricks on her wearied self.

Up above, the sun beams send themselves back at the bots, making every chassis shine bright. The lands before her and the performance stadiums glistened with welcoming sheen. It must’ve been like that, Slipstream thought to herself. The dreadful anticipation couldn’t have been universally experienced the same way as she did. Oh, sometimes she wished she could’ve shared Windblade’s spark-feeling abilities.

Especially right then. When the world put her before a question mark, she didn’t really know the general answer to. Nor the question it asked. When all she could’ve relied upon was Windblade’s struggle to keep a relaxed look. If she couldn’t read the public, at least her sparkmate was her open book. Which was to say as easygoing as she had wanted to appear, Slipstream immediately sensed the tension.

“You okay?” Ever so delicately, Slipstream asked, brushing her digits slowly against her right upper arm.

“Hm? Sure, I’m all good,” she dismissed with a wave of her servo. “I’ve taken down a sea of Scraplets. Why would I be scared of a performance?”

Her fans started blowing just a bit faster. Slipstream raised her brow ridge.

“C’mon now, Windy…”

“I mean it! It’s nothing, don’t worry about it,” her tone was anything but calm. Still, Slipstream decided not to press.

“Well, if you say so… I mean you’re gonna look sensational no matter what,” from the side, she got a bit closer to her. Just enough.

“Because of your makeup looks?”

“Partially. But they say you can’t improve perfection and who would I be to even try,” rather sheepishly, she followed Windblade’s reactions. Longing for any of the smallest of notions she could’ve cast against her.

And so she did. In the form of Windblade’s beautiful laughter and a flicker at her enstril ridge, “A visionary. Which just proves my point, sweetspark.”

In any other case it would’ve been enough to calm Slipstream’s processors and let her go forward. Yet the uneasiness still spread throughout her chassis, when more of the details had revealed themselves to her. It wasn’t merely about the scope of the event anymore. The merciless looks seemed to cut her through, as if she was made from purest glass.

Whichever one of them was the worst, Slipstream couldn’t have exactly deciphered. From one side there was Optimus Prime, THE Optimus Prime, simply… Watching Shadow Striker’s current show. The level of casualness from him unnerved Slipstream right to her core. The visions of Megatron on his high spot, overlooking the troops simply existing, was way too ingrained into her alertness. Her optics shifted, observing Optimus happily chatting with both Ratchet and Wheeljack, like it was the most normal thing. As well as look at Shadow Striker’s prowess with genuine curiosity.

A sudden ache spread across her spark region, one of losing something she never knew she even had. How different would she have been if instead of constant judgment and comparisons, she’d known… Compassion? Slipstream still observed, that solemn look plastered onto her. When Megatron always appeared cold, Optimus radiated warmth akin to the morning sun. It was just that Slipstream was built to resist the lowest temperatures.

On her other side, the view wasn’t any better. The rows of bots crammed in one place brought back some terrible associations. When Slipstream looked closer, the reality became even worse – most of that particular seating area was occupied by the past Seekers. She saw Thundercracker and Nova Storm bickering about something, Skywarp lounging by the rail, Thrust surprisingly drawn into the performance… All so similar yet how easily it was for her to spot the differences in their demeanors.

The faceplates she saw every time her reflection stared back. Thousands of judgments directed at nothing but herself. Of how she even got to a place like this, how did she manage to think she was free or even unique.

She was one of the many. That was the destiny laid before her.

Her servo clung to the middle of her chest plate, trying to feel out her spark. Temperature regulators worked at their highest capacity, calming her involuntary reactions. Times like these she was glad Megatron decided she was the worthy one to bear the heat resistance experiments.

When the outside spun around in the vicious circles around her, Slipstream knew she needed a focus. Her helm tilted ever so slightly, seeking the comfort that was beyond any words and…

There was none.

Of course, Windblade still remained in the place by her side, steady as ever. Yet amidst her own whirlpools and uncertainties, even without a cityspeaker abilities Slipstream realized the sudden change. While Cybertron was engulfed in the sunshine of a perfect day, on Windblade’s faceplate there was something unlike the usual solace. It was miniscule and could’ve been easily passed as deep focus. Yet Slipstream knew.

In times of her utmost engagement, Windblade would’ve held her helm up high, looking into the challenge with dedication and trust in her own self. Optics shined like they were made of a precious stone from the crystal forests. Windblade at her truly most enticing and beautiful.

Right then, though her helm was still up towards the sky, there was something else entirely in her optics. She could’ve faked the confident pose all she had wanted but Slipstream knew too much of the details to let it go. Focused on them, she noticed the streaks of circuits running at the edges.

Windblade was terrified.

Something inside Slipstream halted reality as she knew it. Whatever stares were cast upon her either by Optimus Prime or her own fellow Seekers of the past, they all blended into a shapeless mass of one. If till all are one shared its meaning with such then at least for once Slipstream fully internalized it. Yet between all this was her true center of the universe, as she had always been. Along with her invisible, to the rest, peril.

Another twinge ran all across her chassis. Her shoulder pads drew back, her dermas pressed together, swallowing the words which came to her. She should’ve remembered her training, anything that the Decepticons did to stick together. As the former captain of the Seekers unit, there were some procedures to handle discomfort. Sure, most of them included leaving the weakling behind and carrying on with the mission but what about the internal code? Why didn’t Megatron think of anything else but his failed plot to either Conjunx or assassinate Optimus Prime!?

Once more, Slipstream was left to her own vices. Truly, what else was new to her.

“Can you… Did something happen?” She asked carefully, remembering what those other Autobots did whenever their comrade was distressed. Next time she should’ve looked at how Soundwave comforted Hot Rod, if she wanted to learn how to console her sparkmate. Then again Soundwave had outer emotional capabilities of a rusty unplayed for megacycles jukebox.

“Hm?” Taken away from her thoughts, Windblade tilted her helm. To then put two and two together. “Oh, that? It’s nothing, really. I’m just pondering the performance, that’s all.”

“You’re gonna do great. I know one or two things about your relentlessness so I’m sure you’re just as persistent in dance,” nodded Slipstream, her chassis straight and proper.

“You have the weirdest way of giving compliments,” there was a twinge of irony in her vocoder Slipstream decided to ignore. Especially when giving that small smile, “Thanks. I guess I’ve been thinking about… That cultural exchange.”

“What do you mean?”

Almost half-dimming her optics, Windblade’s stare drifted further away. Somewhat uncharacteristically hazy too, “It’s one thing when you’re on Caminus, doing what everyone is doing. Right on Cybertron, it’s new to all and I’m just wondering. There’s one thing being good on Caminus and the other being representative on Cybertron.”

Slipstream’s engine hummed outside the realm of her control. As different as it all was on the surface level, the eerie similarity cut through her purple plating with the correct strike. Her grip tightened on the edges of the rail, trying to hold onto reality for just a bit longer. Then she returned to Windblade, optics heavy and remorseful.

“It does sting when you have to be the proxy for others to see,” she admitted, a solemn look spread across her features. “Thankfully that proxy is the most skilled bot I’ve ever met. And compassionate and thorough.”

“Oh, stop that,” Windblade laughed a little and Slipstream couldn’t have helped but to take even the smallest victory. “It does feel lonely. Once you have so many other bots to be at your aid, sharing what you know… Then it’s gone. And you pick up the pieces yourself because Caminus is so far away.”

Sudden dryness overwhelmed the inside of her mouth, “Do you ever… Regret choosing Cybertron?”

“No. Never,” there was no hesitation to her response. “It’s my new home. The bots and the sights… It’s who I am. No matter how lonely it might feel apart from those vorns on Caminus, I never feel alone. If all that makes sense to you.”

“More than you can imagine…”

Though at first her periphery ended within the blurry images of the stage, Slipstream then decided to focus entirely on Windblade. The feel of her servos brushed against hers in almost like the smallest motion of one’s wings. Amidst all this, it was her who took Windblade’s servos and placed a kiss against them. The smallest romantic indicators were a rarity among the Decepticon ranks, even between the conjunxed pairs. Thankfully right then, she was free to love however she had wanted.

Everything within Windblade’s electric blue optics told her it was right. Circuits stopped corrupting the vastness, as she focused on her, only her. And within her optics, Slipstream found the serenity of the future, one she was determined to reach out for.

“Let’s have a round of applause for Shadow Striker and her stunt acrobatics and gun show extravaganza!” Nearby speakers trembled with Jazz’ enthusiastic announcements. Slipstream didn’t know much about her during the war times but right then, it seemed only natural she was the master of ceremony. “Next up on our agenda is our dear cityspeaker heroine Windblade and her traditional Camien dance of circuits. C’mon everyone, give Windblade the hottest rally!”

The audience erupted with enthusiastic hollers and thousands of servos clapping in unison. All around them, the sound carried itself and swelled them up as if in the middle of a tornado. Like the center of the universe was simply them.

“Well then,” Windblade’s shoulder pads tensed in her get-ready manner. “Time to put on the show. Wish me luck.”

When the center shifted, that learnt confidence in Windblade remained. Not entirely sincere but enough to go by. The world has its optics focused on her. Chanting and screaming, doubts which overwhelmed both of them in the long run. Second guesses clung onto both of them, as Slipstream looked at her features adorned by the makeup look. She was going out there to show a piece of herself. All while Slipstream’s art remained by her side.

Once more, Windblade smiled at her with those sunny optics of hers. Spinning around on her heel, she was kliks before ascending forward.

“Windblade–!”

But Slipstream knew there were things bigger than uncertainties and stains left by the past. Bigger than the purple of the Decepticon logo and Megatron’s shouts.

From her shoulder pad, Windblade gave her a puzzled look. Right then she was just a femme standing in front of another femme, hoping to give her a piece of her own today. For then and for forever.

Slipstream took a step forward, “Dance of circuits can be performed in pairs, right?”

“Yeah. What about it?” Everything within Windblade told her she must’ve known her intentions. Still, she played along.

“Since I was there, dancing with you and saw your rehearsals,” Slipstream paused, the words almost burning her vocoder lines. “What would you say if I joined your performance?”

Something in her optics shifted, as she went forward. Something hopeful, yet just as careful, “Wouldn’t that be asking for… Too much?”

“Eh, I’m the one asking,” as they met halfway, Slipstream stopped. Her digits ghosted against Windblade’s not taking them just yet. “I’m an ex-Seeker, we were constantly told to bend our wings backwards. I’d say it’s enough.”

And Windblade bridged the gap, fully taking her servo, “It is more than enough.”

To which Slipstream smiled. What commenced danced itself on her processors within the half-remembered steps.

She remembered the grip Windblade had on her chassis. The firmness of her digits and frames pressed against each other in a waltz to have been kept in their forever. Dance of circuits was an avian performance, hence the moment they took to the sky, the trails left by their engines dissipated within each other. There was a blue sky and the elegance of Windblade’s movements. There was happiness on their faceplates, as they swirled around each other. There was that particular sound her t-cog made while turning into a jet and back. There was warmth radiating from Windblade’s plating with each of her next touch.

What escaped Slipstream was the audience adorning her. Whatever the bots were saying, chanting or anything else, that was beyond her understanding at the moment. Yet how important was it, when Windblade’s arms secluded her in their grip. Within the end of the performance, as Windblade’s derma captured hers, Slipstream could’ve sworn the world went quiet.

Maybe that was her true answer. Her past as an ex-Decepticon was something she couldn’t have changed, that was for a fact. Vorns spent being torn by Megatron and bossed by Starscream’s screechy yell were never to have been gained back. But whatever was right, then remained entirely in Slipstream’s servos. The potential looks and gossips be damned, when for the first time in her life Slipstream was free.

A chance like such couldn’t have been wasted by crying over what was. Once wielding a gun, right then she had taken a brush and created whatever she wanted. Slipstream could’ve seen who she had wanted, listen to what she had wanted, love whoever she had wanted. And her spark craved only Windblade. Yes, she couldn’t have been the answer to all. But an answer to some was the greatest feat Slipstream never thought she would’ve achieved.

Hence the world was silent. There were no ex-Decepticons yelling, there were no stares from Optimus Prime, no matter how positive. Right then, Slipstream only knew of her own legacy, a road leading towards her future. By her side, Windblade already took the honored place she had left for her.

Guided by her servo, they went forward together.