Chapter Text
The ground was humming. Why was it humming? Slipstream opened her optics. Everything was blurry. So blurry. She was on some sort of floor. Made of panels. A ship, maybe?
She rolled over, muffling a groan. Her fuel tank hurt. Why did it hurt? And one of her wrist panels, too. She glared at it. Were those scratch marks?
Where was she? She was supposed to be at—
Oh. Oh, no. Frag. She had to get up. She rolled back over and pushed herself onto her knees, freezing as everything spun. Slag, she felt awful. But she had to get up.
"Hey, she's moving!" A voice called. "Told you it wasn't enough."
"Shut it, Vos!" The other mech said the name in an odd tone, a slight hesitation to it, as if it were an alias. It likely was. "Just give her more. We need her intact."
"By myself? After that slagshow earlier?" Vos said. "Nuh-uh."
Slipstream crawled toward the wall, wobbling on her pedes. She slumped against it as her fans whirred.
"I'm steering the ship!" The other mech yelled.
Vos made a clicking noise. "It's on autopilot. You aren't steering scrap. Cut the slag and help me, Helex."
Another codename. Who were these mecha?
Loud, powerful thunks echoed through the ship as Helex approached. Slipstream pushed herself up using the wall. She couldn't let them put that substance in her again. What could she do?
The matrix hummed, finally doing something useful for once as electricity crackled from her clawtips. She could use that. When Helex reached for her, she struck, putting all of her power into it. He backed away with a yell.
"Fragging—!"
Vos dove at her next. She staggered to the side, just barely evading him. Then, she dug her claws into his wings, letting electricity course through them. He screamed.
She leaped over him, stumbling a bit before catching herself. Where was the control room? If she could access the controls, she could turn the ship around and—
Something seized her wing. She turned, baring her dentae, and bit. Electricity crackled again. She kicked a now-seizing Helex away. But as soon as he fell, Vos came into view. Slipstream ran down the hall, using her thrusters to boost herself. The control room had to be somewhere—
There! She slipped inside, hands raising to manipulate the controls. She yelled as she was slammed into from behind, electricity spreading from her plating and into the attacker's.
"You're lucky he needs you alive!" Helex spat.
Slipstream swiped at his face. He cursed, slamming her into the control panel again. He turned back toward the door.
"Vos!" He called.
Vos stood in the doorway, optics wide and wings low.
"Vos!"
Vos fled.
Helex yelled in frustration, slamming Slipstream into the panel again. "Coward!"
He glared down at Slipstream.
"Looks like I'll have to—"
His optics widened, his face going slack.
"Slag," he said. "Slag, slag—"
With a roaring crash, everything around them contorted. Panels fell, wiring sparking. Support beams fractured. A sharp slab of metal came from the ceiling, piercing through Helex's chest. He fell straight onto Slipstream, the metal nearly piercing her own chest.
Slipstream jolted backward, and for the second time in the day, everything went dark. When she woke, it was to smoke and ruin. Her helm ached. She tried to focus her optics, but received an error.
She pushed against the console, attempting to free herself from Helex's dead weight, but her limbs gave out the moment she tried. She slumped with a quiet wheeze. She couldn't get out.
There had to be something she could do. Anything. She squirmed, and Helex's dead arm flopped against hers.
That was it. She grabbed the limb, clawing at the frame's panel until it opened. She unspooled her cable and plugged it in. Immediate access was granted, as dead mecha didn't have firewalls. Since Helex was freshly deceased, there was enough power left in his processor for her to search it. She copied the coordinates his navigation system had stored.
Then, she sent a message to the only mech she could trust not to betray her. She explained as much as she could, but getting the message out was more important than telling him everything. The response was swift.
[Thank frag you're okay,] Starscream replied. [Stay where you are. A local Guardian will retrieve you.]
Slipstream sighed in relief. The Guardians were this world's new society's answer to the Enforcers—mecha trained in various search, rescue, defense and deescalation techniques. They'd find her. It would be okay.
That left her with nothing to do but sift through Helex's processor before it shut down for good. She searched his recent memory files for something—anything—to explain why they wanted her.
Flashes came to her: more mecha in masks, a tall mech with wide wings sitting in the middle of it all. Watching her on the cameras, waiting for the moment she was alone. They were everywhere. But what did they want with—
{CONNECTION TERMINATED.}
Debris fell from the ceiling, smashing Helex's helm and processor into pieces. Slipstream was pinned flush to the console under the added weight, barely able to circulate air through her frame.
Frag.
∆∆∆
A weight was lifted from her. Hands brushed against her plating. Slipstream jolted awake, throwing herself away from the source of the touch with a hiss. She spread her wings wide and flared her plating. The blurry mech before her backed away, hunching in on themself as they held their hands up.
"You're safe!" The mech said. "I'm a Guardian."
They were small. And yellow. So, so yellow. A bright red Autobot brand sat on their chest. Not a Decepticon. Not a potential traitor. Slipstream allowed her plating to relax. The bot offered her a hand, and she took it.
He led her away from the crashed ship. Ahead, a few mecha were gathered—all wearing the Autobot brand save for one. He was bright red, tires on his shoulders. He motioned to a nearby chair.
Slipstream hesitated. She didn't know this mech, but that didn't matter. Where was—? He didn't have an insignia. Why was that so reassuring?
"I'm Knock Out," the mech said. "A medic. I just need to make sure you're safe to move."
Slipstream nodded.
"How are you feeling?" Knock Out asked.
How was she meant to answer that? She attempted to speak, but the words wouldn't come.
"It's alright," Knock Out said gently.
He came closer. Slipstream fought the urge to back away. Hands closed gently around hers, pulling them from her chestplates. When had she dug them in?
She pulled her hands away. Everything inside her wanted to curl into a ball and shut out the world, but she couldn't. She had to get back—to her office, her home, it didn't matter—anywhere but here.
"I—I made it!"
The too-loud shout was a voice she could recognize anywhere. Ramjet ran through, optics wide. He nearly skidded to a stop when he reached her.
Vos was a warframe. Ramjet was a warframe. He had every reason to want revenge on her. But his paint was stark white, and would have shone in the light. He wouldn't have time to repaint. Vos couldn't be him.
"I couldn't find you, then you sent Starscream that message and—"
"Ramjet," Slipstream said weakly. Quiet as she was, her voice stopped his words.
"Sorry," he said.
Slipstream's frame threatened to tremble. Frag it all, she craved a scrap of comfort. But even Ramjet wouldn't want to touch her. She knew that.
"Thank you for coming," Slipstream said.
Ramjet's wings fluttered. "It's the least I could do."
Slipstream didn't know how to convince him otherwise. There was much less he could do—she'd experienced that much less many times. Having him here was enough, no matter how much she craved more.
She had hurt him—beaten him into submission the same way Galvatron did to her, publicly humiliating him the way he did to her, becoming the very mech that tormented her—yet he was here, showing concern for her. Why didn't he hate her? Would it be easier if he did?
"Do you want him to stay while I check you over?" Knock Out asked, motioning toward Ramjet.
"It's fine," Slipstream said. "He can stay."
"Alright."
Knock Out began a basic exam. Despite it being familiar, Slipstream's spark crackled. He was touching her, running his claws along her plating. It didn't hurt, shouldn't have, but—
The claws paused near her panel. It was scratched, small red lines along it. Red. One of the mecha who attacked her was red. That narrowed the list down, didn't it?
"Did they inject you with anything?" Knock Out asked.
Slipstream searched her files. The memory was corrupted.
"I don't know," she said. "But I think so. When I woke on the ship, everything was fuzzy, and my fuel tank hurt."
Knock Out hummed. "Can I take a sample from your lines?"
Slipstream nodded and opened her panel. He removed a syringe from his medical pack. Gently, he attached it to her line and pulled a sample. He held it up in the light, turning it. Then, he handed it off to a mech nearby.
"They're going to analyze it so we know what we're dealing with," Knock Out said.
Slipstream wasn't stupid. She knew why he was taking the sample. He had to know she knew. So why did he keep narrating?
"Can you take your claws away from your chest, please?"
Slipstream looked down. Her claws were, in fact, buried in her chestplates. She moved them away. The Matrix didn't even hurt. When had she…?
Knock Out's optics narrowed as he examined her chestplates, a frown tugging at his face. Slipstream's plating snapped close. The back of her processor wanted to flee, but she forced herself to stay still.
"Does your chest hurt?" Knock Out asked.
"It's fine," she said. "It's… not related to what just happened."
For once, the Matrix was blessedly quiet. But that didn't stop habit.
"Spark pain is very serious," Knock Out said.
"Not spark pain," Slipstream hissed.
Knock Out's optics narrowed, landing on the chamber the Matrix was encased in. "I see."
The rest of the examination continued without incident. Despite enduring a kidnapping and crash, Slipstream's injuries were only superficial—aside from a concussion, which Knock Out claimed would resolve with rest. The substance injected into her was identified as a sedative commonly used to spike fuel at parties. That, too, could be waited out with rest.
And rest was all Slipstream wanted. Her frame was heavy when they finally reached their home universe. But her spark crackled in her chest at the thought of going home, or even to her office—they had been watching her. There was no way they couldn't track her in those places, too. They could be waiting for her.
And she would be alone. They could take her again. How long would it be before anyone noticed?
There was one mech she could trust who would do anything she said. She turned toward Ramjet.
"I'm staying with you tonight," she said.
It was meant to be commanding. It came out as a pathetic plea. Ramjet's wings flicked. His hands moved, then froze, as if he were hesitating to touch her.
"Okay," he said. "Let's… let's go."
She had no idea where Ramjet lived, but she was too tired to do the usual hang back and speed ahead routine, anyway. He led her to his apartment, pausing awkwardly in the doorway. He stuck his helm through, then stepped aside and motioned for her to enter.
It was small—barely enough space for a joint kitchen and dining area, with a berthroom that was most likely a refurbished closet. But it was clean and quiet. Slipstream had slept in worse places (Such as the hallway her ex-wingmates loved to leave her in).
"Thrust normally takes the other berth," Ramjet said, motioning toward the tiny berthroom. "But he's been on a work trip."
A work trip… that would explain why Slipstream hadn't seen him. Seems she wasn't the only mech who'd been abandoned.
"Left you all alone?" She said.
"Not…" Ramjet's wings lowered. "No… yeah. But his work is important."
There was an edge to his voice. His wings twitched. She was right. Whatever 'work trip' Thrust was on, he wasn't returning anytime soon.
"A-and so is recharge, Wingl—" he cut himself off, stumbling over the words. "My—my Prime."
Slipstream preferred Winglord over Prime, to tell the truth. But if she didn't use the title, others would question it. She couldn't have that.
Slipstream snorted. "I can take the hint. Where am I recharging for the night?"
Ramjet motioned toward the berths again. Slipstream rolled her optics and walked ahead of him. She scrutinized the berths, settling on the one that appeared the least used. The moment her plating hit the berth, her body went slack. Tiredness crashed in, the day's events catching up with her.
Ramjet was here. He wasn't one of the mecha who kidnapped her. He would stop anyone who tried, because his job relied on her being alive and present. She could trust him not to betray her right now.
And that was all she needed.
∆∆∆
"Are you sure you don't want to rest?"
Slipstream glared at him.
"Just show me where you keep the energeon," she hissed.
Ramjet backed away slightly before approaching. He crouched in front of one of the lower cabinets.
"Here," he said, pulling it open and reaching inside. "I can reschedule your meetings, or move them to remote—"
Slipstream took the cube he offered her with a quick swipe. Ramjet flinched, squeezing his optics shut and turning his helm. Did he think she was going to hit him?
Slipstream's spark burned. Of course he would. She had done it many times before.
"And then I'll have twice as many tomorrow," Slipstream said. "I might as well get them over with now."
She wasn't going to hurt him. Not anymore. She had to prove herself worthy—first of the title of Winglord, and now as a Prime. But simple vows didn't erase the patterns etched into processors.
"Right," Ramjet muttered.
Slipstream sighed and popped open her cube, waiting for Ramjet to get his own before taking a sip. Then, cube in hand, she headed toward the door. Ramjet trailed after her.
When they reached the lobby, Slipstream froze. A few scattered mecha looked up at her, some staring, optics wide, as they recognized her. She… hadn't thought about other mecha being here. They knew she was here, now. Any one of them could—
"M-my Prime?"
Slipstream flexed her plating.
"Right," she said, stepping forward. "Let's go."
Exiting the building brought yet another obstacle. As she stepped outside, light streamed from the sky. It washed everything in a white sheen and stung her optics. She tried to recalibrate her optics, but received an error. Stupid fragging processor damage. How was she supposed to fly if she couldn't see?
She turned back toward Ramjet, fighting a cringe as his white plating gleamed in the light. His wings twitched as he took a small step closer. Then, he backed away.
"Are you okay?" He asked quietly. "I can still reschedule the meetings."
Slipstream flexed her claws, frustration crawling through her plating. She couldn't let the energy out. There was nothing to strike here. Why couldn't just one thing work? Why did everything she touched have to fall apart?
"Reschedule them," she muttered.
∆∆∆
Her helm still hurt, and lights were still too bright, but at least she could see now. But flying made her dizzy, so she was still thoroughly grounded. Ramjet fetched her datapads from her office, so she requisitioned the dining table for her meetings.
Throughout them, Ramjet was quiet and respectful, completely evading notice. She caught herself watching him the few times he entered the room, more silent than she'd ever heard a mech, as he swiftly fetched whatever he needed to fetch before exiting. It was a far cry from the arrogant mech that proclaimed her unfit to lead, but that mech was long gone.
So, when her meeting wrapped up, Slipstream headed toward the berthroom. She settled on the berth. Ramjet looked over, crouched on his berth with an energeon cube in his hands.
"You're quiet," Slipstream said. "I wouldn't have expected that from you."
Ramjet didn't look away. "You wouldn't like it if I interrupted your meetings."
"I wouldn't," Slipstream said.
She chose him for reasons beyond guilt, though if she said it wasn't a factor, she would be lying. He was more experienced than her, even if he wasn't well-liked, or, really, liked at all. That experience wasn't in leadership, merely in war, but it was more than she had.
Before she hurt him, he was brash. He believed only he was the correct option for Decepticon Second in Command.
Slipstream hadn't seen him coming. One moment, she was alone in the hall, on her way to meet with her wingmates. The next, she was slammed against the wall. Ramjet loomed over her, a grin on his face.
'Look what I found!' He sneered. 'You should really keep your guard up, Air Commander.'
The title was practically spat at her. She struggled beneath him, but he was stronger than her. She couldn't get free.
Her wingmates never asked about the hand-shaped dents on her wings. They just stared. Acid Storm only sighed. After Ion Storm looked away, he refused to look at her wings again. But it was never brought up.
Nova never knew. At least, Slipstream thought she never knew. She always straightened out the dents at the first opportunity she could, and Nova Storm was busier than her wingmates.
(The idea that Nova could have known and done nothing hadn't crossed her mind until now, and it hurt.)
And then she died, a sacrifice in a raid that Slipstream had already criticized. Ramjet's wingmate, Dirge, fell in that battle as well, now that Slipstream recalled it. But back then, she cared little for the losses of others. Galvatron's shoddy plan costed Nova's life, and he was going to pay with his.
She never held any true interest in becoming leader of the Decepticons. It was just what would happen after she killed him. And she would be a better one, wouldn't she?
Slipstream closed her optics. Of all mecha, why her? Why had the Matrix chosen her? Surely, there was a mech more qualified who actually wanted this burden?
"Why did you say yes?" She asked.
Ramjet stirred, the berth creaking as he moved.
"You asked me," he said.
His wings twitched. The ceiling was low, so he hunched as he sat. Ramjet was an old warframe—nearly Galvatron's age—with the height to match.
"If any mech asked you to be their secretary, would you agree?"
Ramjet's olfactory ridge crinkled. "No. Not any mech."
"Do you still think I'm unworthy?"
She needed to hear it.
"No," Ramjet said, shaking his helm. "The Matrix chose you."
The Matrix. Of course. Why did she expect any different?
"It did," she said.
Maybe she wanted to be worth something by herself for once.
∆∆∆
Ramjet never kicked her out, and she never wanted to go back. Her own apartment was cold and empty, and likely being monitored. They fell into a routine. Ramjet always prepared two cubes in the morning. They both went into recharge at the same time.
She was tempted to ask why he let her stay, but asking might remind him he had the power to remove her. She didn't know where else she would go. Those mecha could find her at any moment. But if she was here, Ramjet would be with her.
Still, routines couldn't remain undisturbed forever. Slipstream was finally well enough to fly—with assistance, though that wasn't new, she just finally had an excuse for it—so the medics wanted a checkup. Hook turned out to be a stubborn mech, and no amount of avoidance kept him from demanding one. Eventually, he went through Ramjet, who didn't have the same reservations as Slipstream.
She stuck close to him, praying silently that he didn't notice. It took everything in her to keep her plating from rattling, and her wings kept wanting to lower. Optics watched from around her. Those masked mecha could be anyone.
They entered the medbay. It was clear, save for the medics themselves. Slipstream's plating relaxed, but only a little.
"Slipstream," Hook said. "You're finally here."
Slipstream flicked her wings. "We aren't late."
Hook motioned for her to sit on a nearby berth. With a glare, she obeyed.
"You're not," he said. "But you should've scheduled an appointment the moment I asked."
"I'm a busy mech."
Hook scowled. "Too busy to care about your health?"
Why did she have to pick this medic, of all the medics? She could've made the offer to any other. Though, she knew that was a lie. There were only a handful of fully-trained Decepticon medics.
"I was attacked, if you hadn't noticed!" Slipstream hissed.
"All the more reason to—"
"I would be afraid of leaving home, too."
Both mecha froze at the third voice. Jetfire turned back toward them, wings low and shoulders hunched. He shut the cabinet he was gathering supplies from.
Slipstream stayed silent as he approached. Any words that exited her vocalizer now would be an admission of guilt. Whether to deny or confirm, they would ignore them regardless.
"I could be wrong, I just assumed—" Jetfire wrung his hands. "I heard you were taking your meetings online and working from home. Someone hurt you. It's okay to be scared."
The words, awkward as they were, crawled their way into Slipstream's processor. She wanted to collapse into a shaking, pathetic heap then and there. But she couldn't allow herself to do that. She was the Winglord of the Seekers, leader of the Decepticons, and the only Prime of her universe.
There was no room for weakness.
"I'll be fine," she hissed. "Just get this over with."
The medics took their cue. After that, most of the conversation died, and the examination was swift. It was as she expected: she was healing, no abnormalities. Slipstream hopped off the berth, readying herself to be exposed to possible traitors again, but a quiet voice gave her pause.
"How does a mech get the symbol?"
Jetfire stood, hands wringing and wings low, as if he were trying to make himself as small as possible.
Slipstream narrowed her optics. "Symbol?"
"Brand," Jetfire corrected himself with a shake of his helm. "The brand. The Decepticon brand."
How did a mech get the badge? The simplest answer was this: become a Decepticon. But what was becoming a Decepticon?
(The mecha who attacked her wore the Decepticon brand as masks.)
She killed her master and flew, on her own, until she was lost. Nova found her. She was the one that brought Slipstream to the Decepticons' first base, Darkmount. With hands still covered in energeon, she swore loyalty to the cause and took the brand.
(The mecha who kidnapped her had done the same.)
But was it just an oath, or was it the path toward taking it? Was it the ideology behind the oath?
"Do you want one?" Slipstream asked.
"I do," Jetfire said, voice stronger than it was the entire appointment. "I want to be a Decepticon."
Did wearing the brand make a mech a Decepticon?
(Were the traitors still Decepticons despite harming her? In their view, was she no longer one?)
Before her was a young mech expecting an answer.
"I'll have someone arrange it," Slipstream said. "But know this—you are already a Decepticon."
Jetfire smiled, his wings finally raising. Hook looked between him and Slipstream, then broke into a smile of his own. Slipstream turned away.
"Let's go," she said to Ramjet.
The brand was just a symbol. Anyone could wear it. Being a Decepticon was carried deep within one's spark.
The Matrix hummed—for once, in something other than displeasure.