Chapter Text
Slipstream had never been wanted. That was the truth. Galvatron only offered her the position of Air Commander, and later Second in Command, because all of his other candidates rejected it. Every step of her life, she was second best—the last resort option for when every other had been exhausted.
So, as she stood by the doorway as mecha conversed, she attempted to sneak away. There was no place for her here, where mecha embraced and smiled and cried. But she was beckoned, so she obeyed. There was only one mech worthy of giving her instructions with Galvatron eliminated.
Starscream stood before her, wings relaxed. His new frame, pristine and undamaged, shone in the light. A smile graced his lips as he motioned to the mech beside him.
Electricity seared Slipstream's lines. The mech that stared back at her was a ghost. Wide optics, open smile—no, she died long ago. This wasn't her. It was the version of her from this other world.
She offered a hand.
"You could be mine, if you wanted to be."
And oh, how Slipstream wanted. Every night she spent under the tyrant's pede, a locked door between her and the last remains of the only mech she felt safe around, she yearned. She wished to go back, wished for the war to end—anything to see Nova again.
But this wasn't her Nova, and she wasn't her Slipstream. When this Nova Storm realized that, she would be disappointed. Slipstream would be cast out again, yet another item added to her long list of rejections.
She backed away.
[You'll never have good things if you can't let yourself have them.]
Of course Starscream would chime in. He glared at her, a barely suppressed scowl on his face. She was struck by a realization: Starscream had his own mecha. He didn't need her and never had. Now that he was back home, he didn't have to stay with her.
He would be happier with them. They were what he truly wanted, after all. Slipstream was just an interim replacement. With time, he would realize that.
The hand was still in front of her. She turned away. There would be no fooling her this time.
Not again.
∆∆∆
Her office was quiet, but her helm wasn't. Ever since that infernal thing attached itself to her, there was a constant buzzing in her helm. Background processes ran, analyzing every little moment. The fragging thing had feelings, and judging by the aggressive hum, it was displeased.
Why? She couldn't say. She had a successful negotiation that morning. The humans had finally allowed them to build cybertronian signal boosters under the requirement that they were aided in adapting those signals into their own technology. Slipstream saw no reason to deny it—direct communication with the humans would only make relations easier.
Prowl was more reluctant, citing concerns that the humans could use this information against them. Apparently, in the other world, they had. But this world was not that one, and with twice the amount of cybertronians capable of fighting back, the prospect would be unappealing.
Wheeljack—an eccentric mech she learned was the head of the Cybertronian Revival Initiative when he casually waltzed into one of the negotiations—was ecstatic. He eagerly volunteered his mecha to work with the humans, which saved Slipstream and Elita from having to figure out which mecha from their factions to spare—something Prowl would make immensely difficult.
The angry hum increased, and Slipstream caught herself bringing a hand to her chest. She let out an irritated hiss that deflated into a sigh. Stupid thing. Why did it choose her, of all mecha? Didn't it know the only reason she was leader of the Decepticons was that no one else wanted the job after Galvatron died? If it were up to her, she'd be somewhere secluded on the other world's revived Cybertron.
'You want to abandon your soldiers because you don't like them.'
Starscream's words played in the back of her processor, almost as if summoned. She pulled her hand away from the desk as her claws caught on its surface, leaving small marks. She flicked her wings.
Who did he think he was? What right did he have to give her hope only to take it away?
'I ended up alone and miserable. You shouldn't take the same path.'
And where was she now? At the helm of a faction she didn't want to lead, with some stupid artifact humming in her chest that made everyone think she was supposed to be there, without any wingmates or allies by her side. The Matrix vibrated, searing heat emanating from it, traveling through her plating like an electric shock.
Slipstream dug her claws into her chestplates and bared her dentae, hissing at the Matrix, "Shut the frag up!"
A knock sounded from the door. Slipstream nearly flinched out of her chair. She rose from it, pressing a button on the keypad to open the door.
On the other side was Ramjet. He shuffled in place, his wings twitching. He towered over her, yet still refused to meet her gaze. She glared up at him.
"What is it?" She said, trying and failing to keep annoyance from seeping into her voice.
She wasn't angry with Ramjet. He just had bad timing. The mech had been nothing but helpful since she asked him to be her secretary. Granted, neither of them actually knew what a secretary was supposed to do. But if they admitted that, they'd be deemed incompetent. Slipstream may not have wanted this job, but she wasn't going to ruin her already abysmal reputation just to get out of it.
"Hook is here!" Ramjet said, voice somewhere between a whisper and a hiss.
Ah, right. She'd asked around for a medic, since the Decepticons were lacking in that department—thanks to Galvatron's 'the weak shall be purged' mentality. But he wasn't supposed to be here just yet.
"He's early," Slipstream said. "Why should that matter?"
Ramjet glanced over his shoulder, wings barely twitching out of the way. For a tall, battle-worn warframe, he was certainly twitchy.
'He shouldn't hurt you. That's just plain fragging stupid.'
She… may have been to blame for that. Once, Ramjet was as arrogant as his wingmate Thrust, possibly even more so. He scoffed at her plans and laughed at every small flub, always there with a mocking jeer. Before she became Winglord, he would take her rations.
He said it was because she didn't know what she was doing. Clearly, an experienced warframe like him deserved the position more than a Seeker, especially a domestic Seeker. She tried not to care, but when the same words came out of Galvatron's vocalizer, she couldn't ignore it. He had to be silenced.
Now, he stood before her, hunched as he swayed awkwardly. He glanced backward again.
"He brought someone with him," he said.
Slipstream hummed in displeasure and headed down the hall. Ramjet trailed after her, wings held low.
"He didn't inform us, if you're coming here to tell me now. Is it anyone we know?" Slipstream said.
"A shuttle," Ramjet said. "White, black, and red."
Jetfire? Slipstream didn't know any other shuttles with that color scheme. Still, she had to confirm it. Finally, they reached the entrance. Hook stood, a scowl on his face. Beside him was Jetfire, wings low and arms drawn close, as if trying to disappear into himself.
Acid Storm and Ion Storm stood before them, wings wide. As Slipstream approached, they turned toward her.
"He brought an Autobot!" Acid Storm hissed.
Jetfire's plating bristled. "I'm not an Autobot!"
"He's not," Hook confirmed. "Jetfire was created and raised among Decepticons."
Acid Storm reached forward, poking Jetfire's wing. Jetfire flinched backward, his wing hitting them on the helm as it flicked.
"Then where's his badge?" They said, rubbing their helm. "He was with the Autobots before."
Acid Storm was right. But Slipstream knew Jetfire was a medic, and they needed all the help they could get. Besides, this was the second time he had rejected alignment with the Autobots, so he clearly hadn't been with them by choice. Slipstream stepped forward.
"The war is over," she said. "We may not allow Autobots here, but Jetfire is not an Autobot. He said so himself."
Jetfire's plating relaxed.
"Although—" It tensed again. "I wasn't informed he would be coming."
Hook frowned. "It was a last moment arrangement. I assumed you wouldn't mind."
"I don't," she said. She motioned toward Acid Storm and Ion Storm. "But my mecha aren't used to peace. We don't trust strangers."
Hook dipped his helm. "I apologize."
Slipstream flicked her wings. A small crowd had gathered at the edges of the room, mecha watching warily with narrowed optics and widened wings. Acid Storm and Ion Storm may have been the first to confront them, but clearly others were disturbed by their arrival.
"It's fine," she said. She waved the crowd away. "Everything is fine."
Now noticed, the crowd slowly and awkwardly began to disperse. Eventually, the group was left with only the prying optics of their own. Energy built beneath Slipstream's plating, crackling as silence passed over the group. Her claws coasted gently over her arms before she could stop herself.
"How is Starscream?" She asked, unable to fight it any longer.
Jetfire smiled, but the nervous wringing of his hands betrayed him. "He's fine. Everything reintegrated well."
"That's good," Slipstream said.
The energy dissipated. Starscream was fine. He was with mecha who cared about him—who meant more to him than she ever could. And she was okay with that. It was fine. Good, even.
Slipstream turned away.
"I'm going back to my office," she said. "Please show them around, Ramjet."
Ramjet nodded emphatically before proceeding to do just that. He led them out of the room, wings twitching. He was always twitchy.
She made him that way. Why did the thought make her want to claw her spark out now when in the past she was proud of breaking him?
She sighed and headed toward the hall.
"Slipstream?"
Slipstream stopped, flicking a wing. Of course Acid Storm would have something to say. She just had to be kept from retreating.
"What is it?" Slipstream hissed.
Acid Storm's wings lowered. She took a step back. "Can we… talk?"
"About what?"
Acid Storm and Ion Storm had abandoned her, yet Acid Storm had the gall to nearly ruin her and Starscream's assassination plan by attempting to save her for once. When she was beneath Galvatron's pedes, begging for him to open the door? Nothing. But now—
Crackling pain spread through Slipstream's chestplate. She froze, bringing a hand to her chest. Her claws dug in. They grew moist with energeon.
"Slipstream?"
Slipstream turned away, fighting not to shake. She knew what this was. That stupid fragging artifact. What did it want? Why did it choose to act up so severely now?
Claws brushed her shoulder.
"Are you okay?" Acid Storm asked, brow furrowed. Behind her, Ion Storm's optics were wide.
Slipstream forced her pedes forward.
"I'm fine," she said.
Only when she reached the hall did she allow herself to slump, claws still digging in. She forced herself back into her office, immediately curling up in her chair. The pain, energy—whatever it was—continued to crackle.
For a moment, she was small. Not Slipstream the Winglord, but Slipstream the domestic Seeker with a boundary collar and defective navigation systems, curled up on the edge of the border as rain fell. She closed her optics, trying to force the thoughts from her processor.
This would pass. Whatever the Matrix wanted didn't matter. It couldn't keep doing this to her forever.
But between reminders of the past and the haze of pain, Slipstream missed her borrowed wingmates. They loved Nova Storm, not her, and that was readily apparent. But they used to cuddle with her every night. Acid Storm would stroke her wings while Ion Storm entwined himself with her.
And then being touched started to hurt. Every casual brush was an electric zap, every gentle hand a crushing grip. Embraces became entrapment, making her spark pulse. So she clawed and spat and yelled and scrambled away, and they didn't want her anymore.
'It was her fault,' they said.
'What were they going to do with her?' They asked.
The worst part was that they were right. She was the one who tried to kill Galvatron, thinking him an unfit madman. It was his plan that led to Nova Storm's death in the first place! But poor planning skills and a penchant for madness mattered little when a fusion cannon and fists strong enough to crush metal evened the playing field.
She never stood a chance.
His optics had gone offline. She swore his spark flickered out from the hole in its chamber. Yet, somehow he was able to grab her pedes and rise, dragging her to her doom.
'This is what happens to traitors!' He yelled, holding her helm in one hand.
She couldn't flee. Her joints were crushed. She was lucky he left her wings attached. So many optics—all of the Decepticons—stared at her. He crossed the room and tossed her at Acid Storm and Ion Storm.
'You,' he snarled. 'Take care of this.'
They left her in the medbay. When she returned, the door to their shared room was locked. She knocked, pleaded, claws, but it stubbornly remained shut. She only stopped when she wore herself out, slumped in the hallway as she fell into recharge.
When she woke again, the door was still locked. They didn't want her. They never had. But eventually, when her injuries healed, they took pity on her and let her back in.
And so the cycle began. She would stay with them, Galvatron would find some fault with her, she would be punished, they would be angry and refuse to let her in, then they would cave. Galvatron may be dead now, but she recognized the pattern. It was her turn to shut them out, or they'd eventually just find a reason to be angry with her again and it would all start over.
She had no one. Everyone hated her, and those that didn't left. Closeness only hurt. Proximity was a weapon. She needed to remind herself of that.
She curled in on herself, the pain in her chest refusing to abate.
"Stupid fragging Matrix," she muttered.
∆∆∆
Her chestplates still hurt by the time another meeting was scheduled. The pain came in and out, sometimes a minor twinge and other times debilitating. She still didn't know what the Matrix wanted, so she did her best to ignore it. As she stood at the entrance to the Decepticon base, she massaged her chest. This time, it was fairly mild, but still enough to make her want to dig her claws into her plating.
Where was Ramjet? He had to come. She insisted—he was the closest thing she had to a second in command, title or not. He was supposed to be here.
And, no. Her plating didn't tense at the thought of flying alone. She wasn't afraid of getting lost. She didn't fear the terrible disorientation that came from having no one to fly with her. She could do just fine on her own. It was just that she needed to make sure Ramjet made it.
The claws that weren't buried in her chestplate coasted along her arm. She had flown to the spacebridge before. She knew the way. But the meeting, once they got to Cybertron, was being held in a newly constructed building.
She pulled up the image of it Starscream sent her. She just had to memorize—
"Sorry!"
Slipstream startled, turning around. Ramjet ran toward her, wings set low. She glared at him. He wilted.
"At least we aren't late yet," Slipstream said.
"I'm s—"
Slipstream flicked her wings. "Stop apologizing and get in the air!"
"Right!"
Ramjet saluted, then leaped. He took off into the sky. After a moment, Slipstream followed him. Every mech understood that she preferred to follow, but they didn't understand why. She wanted to keep it that way. When asked, if glaring didn't make them surrender, she spun a quick lie—if she were at the front, she'd be an easier target.
In reality, she kept her sensors fixed on Ramjet, noting landmarks as they passed by. One wrong turn would leave her completely lost. She couldn't stray from the path.
Cybertronians had innate positioning systems. Those who traveled in space actually had two—one for space travel and one for planetary travel. Since Slipstream was supposed to be a Seeker, which weren't built to leave the atmosphere, she was intended to have one. Instead, she had none.
Planetary positioning systems used the electrical field of the body and surrounding ones—whether planet, moon, or something else—to determine where exactly on the planet an individual was. Any cybertronian could call up their position by coordinates at any time, and save and share coordinates, sorting them by body.
Slipstream lacked the ability to determine her own coordinates. Sure, she could save sets of them, but that was useless when she had no idea where they were in relation to her. Still, that ability helped her pretend she could—when others asked, she could provide as long as someone else had given her the position first.
When the spacebridge finally came into view, Slipstream blasted ahead, determined to arrive in front. Ramjet fell back. The first few times they flew together, Ramjet alternated between forcing himself ahead and forcing himself behind. Slipstream's odd habit of hanging back until the last moment was known, but it was one thing to know her habits and another to break one's own.
When Dirge was alive, Ramjet flew at the front of his wingmates. After Dirge's death, he stayed behind Thrust, who… when had Slipstream last seen Thrust? She couldn't recall.
They passed through the spacebridge. It opened up into a bustling town, half-repaired buildings and all. A few mecha glanced their way, and one of the spacebridge technicians nodded at them. Ramjet smiled back at them, his wings fluttering.
Revulsion rose inside Slipstream, and she scoffed. The Matrix hummed angrily in her chest. She forced her hand back as she found herself digging her claws in yet again. Why couldn't the stupid thing just keep its thoughts to itself?
[Are you okay?] From Ramjet. Slipstream sighed.
[I'm fine. Let's go.]
She leaped into the sky, taking off before he could press any further. It was only a few moments after she blindly surged forward that she remembered she didn't know where she was going. She slowed down, coasting on the air. Eventually, the roar of an engine signaled Ramjet's approach.
He slowed down as he got closer, keeping himself behind her. Slipstream…
She kept going forward. She didn't know where else she was supposed to go. Even if she had remembered any of the cities and locations from her world's Cybertron, they would do her no good—everything had been destroyed and rebuilt.
[That's… not the right direction.]
Of course it wasn't! She needed to throw him off.
[If you're so good at navigating, then go ahead. Lead.]
That would work.
[Um—]
Was he clueless?
[Go. Ahead.]
Hesitantly, Ramjet increased his speed until he was ahead of her. He made a slight turn, and she mimicked it.
Eventually, the building was in sight. Slipstream pulled up the image Starscream sent her to double check before surging forward. She landed before Ramjet, heading for the entrance. Since the rooms were numbered, the meeting room was relatively easy to find. She took the first open seat, Ramjet sitting awkwardly beside her.
Wheeljack had a mess of loose parts at his seat. Starscream leaned toward them, wings fluttering. An unpleasant prickle spread through Slipstream's plating. She ignored it.
Optimus—the Prime—er, other Prime, since she was technically one as well—sat next to Megatron, who nearly eclipsed him. Megatron's optics fell on hers, and Slipstream fought not to recoil. She couldn't cower like some pathetic glitchmouse no matter how much she desired to. It didn't matter that the mech was large and powerful and looked just like Galvatron before he got the Matrix.
Windblade sat opposite to Wheeljack. She leaned back in her chair, wings twitching. Every few moments, she glared at Wheeljack, who paid her no attention. Briefly, she glanced at Slipstream, then quickly averted her gaze with a frown.
Elita and Prowl sat together, though their chairs were positioned further apart than the others, making the spacing uneven. In the past few negotiations in their home universe, Elita and Prowl sat apart, but Slipstream assumed it was just their preference. Was there tension in her world's Autobot command?
She didn't have time to wonder. Optimus spoke, and the meeting began. It was uneventful, overall—mostly just summarizing the various projects going on across universes. It could've just been a message, but the mecha of the other world seemed to have a preference for meeting face to face.
Wheeljack's CRI was working with the humans on signal boosters. She already knew that. Apparently, they were also aiding conservation efforts for creatures on Earth. Optimus and Megatron's Autobots were proud to announce new construction efforts, as if that wasn't something that couldn't already be assumed from the very building they met in.
Windblade's CRI was studying spark-coded traits, and the mechanics of the spark. At the announcement, Starscream tensed, claws digging into the table with a quiet noise. But he didn't speak.
What about that research was so upsetting? Slipstream didn't know enough to tell.
It didn't matter at the moment. It was her turn to speak. Slipstream removed her hands from her arms, where they had already begun to rub nervously. Her plating tingled, electricity coursing through it.
"As Wheeljack already stated, we successfully negotiated for the placement of signal boosters on Earth," Slipstream said. "We also—"
Something in her chest snapped, the angry hum returning tenfold. She gripped the table, fighting not to curl in on herself then and there.
"We also received our new medics," Slipstream forced the words out.
Optimus's optics caught hers, his brow furrowing. He cut in, drawing the attention away from her. It was Starscream's turn to speak for his Decepticons, reading a prepared statement on behalf of the other members of command, who were unable to attend for various reasons.
After that, the meeting turned to discussing future developments. Slipstream did her best to focus, but words jumbled together as all she could think about was the stabbing pain in her chest.
[Does the Matrix hurt?]
A comm from… Optimus?
[None of your business.]
Just leave her alone.
[It used to hurt for me, too. It's trying to tell you something. You need to find out what that is.]
[Do you think I haven't realized that?]
The line went silent.
[I apologize. Know that you can speak with me at any time.]
Slipstream was tempted to roll her optics, but didn't want to draw any attention to herself. Why would she want to speak with him? Just because they had the same obnoxious relic humming in their chests? She never asked for this. She just wanted to matter for once.
The meeting came to a close, and Slipstream sped into the hallway, dodging any attempts to speak with her regardless of the source. She didn't care. She needed to get out. Go somewhere—anywhere—secluded enough for her to curl up in until the pain passed.
That was how she ended up in a storage closet, huddled behind a stack of boxes. In the darkness, only her optics shone. A flicker of light appeared in the corner of her vision, and she jumped, plating flaring, but it was gone the moment she searched for it.
The door flew open.
"She's in here, they saw it on the cameras—"
The voice was familiar, but she couldn't place it. The outlines of two mecha appeared through the door, glare from the light hiding their faces. Slipstream rose to a crouch, one claw still digging into her chestplates as she aimed the other toward the intruders.
What did they want with her?
"There's no need for that," one of them said. "Just come quietly."
Slipstream fired a warning shot. The mech sighed.
"The hard way it is," the mech said, lunging for her.
Slipstream sidestepped the attack, claws at the ready. She swung, scratching at the mech's face—but it didn't connect. Something was over the mech's face. It caught the light. A mask.
It resembled the Decepticon insignia. Slipstream dodged another attempt to seize her, kicking the other mech in the abdomen. They, too, wore the mask. What was this?
Another retaliation revealed a set of wings on one of her attackers. They were too large to be a Seeker—a warframe, then? There weren't many of them left in her world, but there could be more in this one. The other was a grounder of some sort; she swore there were tires somewhere.
The warframe grabbed her again. She kicked against them, activating her thrusters. This proved to be a mistake. With a crack, her helm smashed into the wall. Was she really that close to it?
In her daze, the mech pinned her. As her vision fuzzed, her panel forcefully opened. A tube was clumsily shoved into her secondary intake, and she realized something: they herded her toward the wall on purpose. She struggled against the mech, and her helm was slammed into the wall again.
"Watch it!" The grounder said. "Tarn wants her functional."
Tarn? She didn't recognize that name.
"Yeah, well, should've given us something that acts faster, then!" The warframe said.
The grounder sighed. "If you frag this up, we'll both be slag."
Slipstream was pushed further into the wall. Her limbs were numb, unresponsive to any commands she sent. Her mouth tasted bitter. Something in her fuel tank burned. Dark spots crawled at the edges of her vision, slowly overtaking it.
"It's working," the warframe said. "It'll all be fine—"
Everything faded away.