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Chapter Text

When they returned, the Old Ones did not take the form of notables. No, instead, they showed themselves as unknown bots, never truly risen above the positions assigned to them. Neither Prime nor even the long gone Council could have named them. They themselves remained unaware until the God Code initiated.

It happened one boisterous night aboard the Lost Light, not long into their journey in a new universe. Swerve's bar, fuller to the brim than the drinks he served, hosted a rousing celebration of the nuptials between Drift and Ratchet, no doubt only the first of such celebrations. Somewhere in the rowdy midst of the gathering, something triggered the beginning sequence within some of the revelers.

Quickly cascading into rising awareness of who they once were, thirteen bots sat still and silent as their coding was overwritten. Around them, the party continued, most of the afflicted unnoticed. It so happened, though, that one sat directly across the table from a highly skilled medic.

"Streetwise? Are you all right?" First Aid asked, leaning across the table to stare at the lines of glyphs scrolling through his fellow Protectobots optics. He frowned, the downward curve of his mouth visible with his mask retracted.

"What's up?" Blades asked from his spot next to the unmoving Streetwise. He shifted forward, turning to look at the mech, as well. His rotor blades shuffled in a show of surprise. "Uh, whoa. Are optics supposed to do that?"

"No," Hot Spot answered for First Aid, concern showing in his tone. "Aid?"

"We got company," Groove said before the medic could respond. He nodded toward the approaching figure of Bluestreak. While definitely the Praxian in frame, something about the gait of his walk seemed off.

"Hey, Blue," Blades greeted the mech, offering him a quick wave. "What's up?"

He didn't respond, instead focused quite intently on Streetwise. First Aid noted further oddness in the depth of his optics, as well. Normally a gentle, well-humored blue, they burned a vivid ultraviolet hue. Reaching out a hand, Bluestreak waited until Streetwise turned to him, the scrolling glyphs fading away as a new hue took over his optics, matching that of Bluestreak's.

Streetwise set his hand in Bluestreak's and allowed himself to be drawn to his pedes. As a group, the rest of the Protectobots watched as Streetwise stepped close to Bluestreak. On his face was a softness that First Aid had never seen there before.

His jaw dropped when Bluestreak spoke. "My beautiful Solus, how I've missed you."

The rest of the Protectobots joined in the dropped jaw club when Streetwise responded.

"Megatronus," Streetwise said, standing millimeters from brushing chestplating with Bluestreak. He lifted a hand and stroked it softly along the shape of the mech's helm, teasing a fingertip up the slope of one crest horn. "Such a sweet new form you've taken. I never would have called you cute before this."

Chapter Text

How the topic even came up, Streetwise couldn't quite figure out, but he was certainly ready for it to go away again. He sat stuck in the back corner of one of the large three-sided booths at Swerve's, doing his best to hide in the shadows it provided. With arms crossed, he glared at his glass of bottom shelf, high-intensity engex—he was here to get cratered as fast as possible, not drink whatever frilly thing Groove had sitting in front of him.

"What's wrong with you?" Blades asked, not very quietly and nudging him with an elbow. "You look like someone ran over your cyber-puppy and you wanna bludgeon them into offlining."

Streetwise shot a look at the mech, briefly shocked at the comment until he caught the loopy grin on his face. Rolling his optics, Streetwise shoved Blades away from him. The heli was already deep into his cups. Of course, considering how little it took him to get that way, he was still behind Streetwise's count.

"Hey, no roughhousing at the table," First Aid reprimanded from across said table, like the caretaker-bot he was. The medic leaned farther into his elbows and gave him a searching optic from behind that visor of his. "And for once he's right, you know, Streets. You're acting weird. What's up?"

"Nothing," he muttered, crossing his arms again. "Can we just change the topic?"

"What? The arranged conjunxing stuff, you mean?" First Aid asked. He paused to take a sip of his engex, the bright orange color glowing a little as he swirled the cup. "Oh, now that's a story if it's upsetting you this much."

"And I'm not sharing it," Streetwise shot back with a sharp frown. He slumped down in his corner of the wraparound bench, intently looking away from everyone else at the table.

Under the table, a pede nudged against his. He ignored it.

"Hey, Streetwise," Bluestreak said from beside First Aid. A glass of Black Label sat half-finished in front of him, his optics a bit brighter than they were normally. "Don't be like that. Nobody meant any harm."

Streetwise scowled at him. "Are you seriously telling me not to feel my feelings the way I feel them?"

"Whoa, that's deep," Blades said, optics gone wide.

"That's my line," Groove protested with a snort. He reached over to grab Streetwise's drink. "If you're not drinking it…?"

"Whatever," Streetwise said, sighing and letting him take it. Shooting a glance toward the end of the bench where Hot Spot sat on the opposite side of Blades. "Mind letting me out? I need to hit the chute real quick."

A grumbling shuffle of mechs let him slip free and he made an abortive start toward the room at the back of the bar, but changed his mind before getting more than a couple steps. He turned back to the booth and eyed his teammates and the handful of others that joined them. Only Bluestreak, Hot Spot, and First Aid paid him any mind.

"Hey, I'm just gonna head back to my hab. I'm not really feeling tonight, anymore," he told them.

"Oh, let me walk you!" Bluestreak said, shoving Smokescreen and Inferno out of his way. He offered Streetwise a smile, helm tilted to one side in a small show of embarrassment. "Not that you need the escort or anything, being a grown mech and all, but well… is it okay?"

"If you have to," Streetwise told him. "You'll have to keep up because I'm not waiting." He swung around and was out the door into the halls before Bluestreak could respond.

"Hey, Streetwise," Bluestreak called after him, trotting along a little faster to catch up. Streetwise didn't make any concession, forcing him to move even faster before he could catch hold of Streetwise's hand and tug him toward a little traversed hall. The look on his face when he tugged Streetwise around was a show of concern. He caught Streetwise's other hand, holding both between them as he walked backward, moving them farther down the hall. "Hey, talk to me?"

One of his hands was freed as Bluestreak lifted one of his own to catch Streetwise's chin when he looked away. "What do you want me to say, Blue? You know what I think about that scrap."

Bluestreak took up both hands again, pressing kisses along the knuckles before meeting Streetwise's optics. "I also know you got away from him, just like I got away from mine."

Chapter Text

It wasn't so much a reopening of Visages as a reimagining of what the space could be. Sure, Streetwise appreciated Swerve's for all that it presented itself as, but sometimes he really just needed something a little different. During his time on Earth, a short spell spent hanging around Jazz had given him a deep appreciation of the old hep scene, the original hipsters, the beatniks. Or, well, a deep appreciation of a scene that reminded him of his youngest years before a desperate date with a Relinquishment Clinic and a run in with Enforcers, but that didn't much matter anymore.

Swerve's? Was not that scene of his youth. He loved it for what it was, yes, but his spark wanted something else. A few holidays spent listening to Minimus croon old standards made up his mind. Even if no one else came, Streetwise would have his scene bar and the squares could take care of themselves.

And he hadn't actually meant to steal Bluestreak away from Swerve's employ. That technically all lay on Bluestreak himself, claiming Streetwise completely lacked the skills to do the job. Streetwise begged to differ, but didn't argue once Bluestreak made his case: plying him with scene-inspired drinks then fragging him strutless on the stage during the clean-up. Once Streetwise's brain module rebooted and came back to him, Bluestreak had the job.

Not quite ready for opening night just yet, Streetwise spent his free time working on the last details. Quite often, Bluestreak joined him, deferring the decorating to him as it was Streetwise's baby. "Where should I put these?" he asked, lifting up the boxes he carried for Streetwise to see. "It's that glassware you picked up on that last mechanoid station we passed."

Streetwise nodded toward the bar. "That would be your thing, ya dig?" he said, looking up from where he worked on stripping the stage for resurfacing. "You wanted the gig behind the bar, cat, you take care of it."

The way Bluestreak paused and gave him a long look before grinning and shaking his helm. He jerked his chin up a bit before replying, "Yeah, I dig, baby." Setting the box down on the bar, he turned back to Streetwise, leaning back against the lip of the counter. "You know, you still haven't told me exactly why you're doing this. And don't give me that Jazz and Magnus scrap again."

After a quiet moment, Streetwise sat on the edge of the stage and gestured for Bluestreak to join him. "C'mere, then. It's storytime, sweetspark."

"Oh, I like storytime," Bluestreak said with a smirk, making his way over with an enticing sway of his thick Praxian frame. He sat down nearly in Streetwise's lap, draping his legs across it and leaning in close. "Is it a happy story?"

Streetwise huffed a quiet laugh, smiling a bit as he rubbed his hands along Bluestreak's neatly presented legs. "Some of it, yeah. Didn't end so happy, a bit of a let down, really."

"But it ended up here with you and me, didn't it?" Bluestreak said, "Doesn't seem so bad an ending to me."

"Took a long time to get here, Blue," Streetwise sighed. The look in Bluestreak's optics wouldn't let him stay down for long, however. He pondered a moment, then looked around the empty club. "This?" he said, waving a hand in vague reference to the whole. "This is about rebuilding something very special to me."

"Oh Primus," Bluestreak said, suddenly grinning wide and catching Streetwise's face in his hands as comprehension dawned on him. "You were a Beatbit, weren't you? You went to the same sort of joints Jazz went to, right? Teach me to be one?"

Streetwise blinked and stared at his excitable lover. "Okay?"

The grin on his face turned blinding and then that smiling mouth was kissing him hard and wet, and his back hitting the stage as Bluestreak laid over him. He could live with this. Yeah.

Chapter Text

"Why are you making me do this again, sir?" Streetwise asked of his commanding officer. Of all the things Prowl had done over the course of their time in the same precinct, this was perhaps the most absurd.

"Because we need the good optics," Prowl said, blunt and entirely honest with no hesitation. "And you are young, well-adjusted, and pleasant to look at—" because that was something a mech always wanted to hear from their boss, Streetwise suppressed a shudder, "—meaning the average civilian will be more likely to view you favorably, as opposed to the likes of some of your peers."

He stifled a sigh. "Look, sir, I can understand Sunstreaker not fitting that because he's hardly well-adjusted, but why not Sideswipe, instead?"

"Sideswipe is a showman," Prowl replied, tilting his chair back a bit. His hands played idly with a stylus on his desk in front of him. "I need someone sincere. The people will know."

"But what if…," Streetwise started, biting it off and starting over. "Sir, I can't dance."

Of course Prowl had an answer ready for that. "Already taken care of," he said. "I've booked you lessons with a very talented mech I'm acquainted with." He handed a dataslug across his desk to Streetwise. "All you need to know is on this. Your schedule's rearranged to accommodate."

He couldn't hide the entirety of the frown that attempted a takeover of his face. Slipping the dataslug into a hollow in his arm, Streetwise gave Prowl his best compliant look. "Yes, sir. Can I get out of here?"

Prowl returned a somewhat unamused look, which honestly wasn't all that unusual, and said, "Please do."

Showing up at the address on the dataslug a few kliks late was not going to impress Prowl, but Streetwise couldn't have helped this one. Traffic congestion got the best of everyone, including Enforcers. Comparing the address on the building to the one on the dataslug, he wasted a few more nano-kliks because he really didn't want to do this. In fact, he was so against this he had even risked the humiliation of his gestalt mates laughing at him the previous night, whining to them about how much he didn't want to do it.

He'd woken that morning to slaps on the back with calls of "Go get 'em, twinkle toes!" and a cheap tutu tossed in his face. Sometimes, he really hated his brothers. Even First Aid—he'd been the one with the tutu.

Standing there feeling sorry for himself wasn't getting anything done, though, merely putting off the inevitable. Eyeing the single glass door, emblazoned with glyphs spelling out "Dance Your Blues Away," Streetwise steeled his resolve and reached for the door handle. He gave the long vertical pipe a tug and discovered the door… locked.

"Great," he muttered, letting his hand drop to his side again. By the times listed on the door, the studio should have been open at least five kliks at that point.

As he considered how long he'd give the mech he was supposed to meet to show up, Streetwise noted a pair of pedes racing his way down the sidewalk. He turned to look and—

"Sorry, sorry, sorry!" called out a sleek Praxian, painted up in silvery gray and standard black, with a pair of thighs (among other areas) in a red that screamed "look at me." "I'm so sorry," the guy continued, fluttering up to the door, a keystick in hand. He offered Streetwise a broad and sincere grin, chagrin in his bright blue optics. A vividly red chevron crest he knew he'd seen before decorated his helm. "Time just got away from me this morning. You must be Streetwise? My brother said you would be showing up this morning."

Thumpwump. Oh. So that's what a stuttering spark felt like, like was mentioned all the time in First Aid and Blades' romance films. Streetwise stared at the mech, drawn in by that sweet face. "Yeah, that's me." He paused, crinkling his face in a bit of confusion. "Um, brother?"

"Did Prowl not tell you that part?" The mech laughed and shook his helm. He held out his hand. "Not surprising in the least. I'm Bluestreak, owner of Dance Your Blues Away Studio and your teacher for the next deca-cycle."

"Huh, so I have seen that crest before," Streetwise said as he shook the offered hand, not realizing he was speaking aloud.

Bluestreak snorted and grinned. "That's just about the only thing we have in common. Come on in."

He pulled open the studio door and held it until Streetwise stepped inside.

Chapter Text

Streetwise sat bolt upright out of a sound recharge as the klaxons sounded. With wide optics, he stared around his berthroom. No, it wasn't his berthroom. Wherever it was, it was definitely not his berthroom.

"Hey, Stevie, you gonna turn that alarm off or what?" called out a voice from a small room off to one side of the berthroom.

Stevie? Streetwise frowned and looked a little better at his surroundings. This was a human berthroom. The soft berth with mounds of coverings that so easily wrapped up around a frame and made it difficult to move.

Frame.

No, what he was looking at was very much not a frame. It was soft and squishy and very, very organic.

"Steve!"

He stared at the open door again and met the bright blue gaze of a human male. A shag of dark hair streaked through with silver and red topped a kind face that he would recognize no matter what form it took. Tilting his helm a bit, he asked, "Steve?"

"Yeah. Have you forgotten your name now?" Bluestreak replied with a smirk and a roll of his optics. No, eyes. He jabbed a foaming stick he pulled out of his mouth toward Streetwise, or maybe at the blaring item beside the berth. "Alarm clock, please?"

Streetwise frowned a little and narrowed his gaze, turning to look to the side. The loud series of buzzes he'd mistaken as a klaxon continued unabated from a device that could only be a human chronometer, judging from the series of numbers on its face. Reaching over, Streetwise fumbled his fingers along the surface, knowing there had to be a switch or button somewhere that turned the alarm function off.

"Wow, you are really out of it," Bluestreak said around his mouth of foam. He used the back of a copper brown hand to wipe away before smiling at him. "Really wore you out that much last night, did I?"

Okay, so that comment sounded entirely normal, but so far it was the only thing about the morning that was. Finally finding the switch that silenced the alarm, Streetwise shoved the covers away from his frame. Then stared down at the naked human form it revealed. In a sleep-roughened voice that still registered higher than he was used to, Streetwise balked and dragged the covers back up. "What the hell?"

After ducking into the smaller room to spit the extra foam from his mouth and running a bit of water, Bluestreak returned and made his way toward the berth with a look of concern on his human face. "You all right?" he asked, sliding onto the bed with Streetwise, warm arms wrapping around him. "That did not sound very okay."

Turning a hard, wide-opticked stare at Bluestreak, Streetwise clutched the covers to himself. "Why am I a human female, Bluestreak?"

Bluestreak paused, pulling back a bit, giving him a look in return. "Because, last time we talked about it, that's what you are, Stephanie," he said. Then, he frowned, his concern growing. "Why did you call me the name of my mecha?"

Chapter Text

Bluestreak stared at the top name on the screen. He'd been coming to this arcade for months now and soundly held first place on the Space Invaders top player list almost since day one. Now, though, his mark—BLU—sat beside the number two. He glared hard at the new number one. WIZ. Whoever that was, they were going down.

"Hey, Blue," called out Sideswipe as he and his brother entered the arcade. "What are you up to?"

"Sides," he greeted, then waved toward the screen. With narrowing optics, he asked, "You or Sunstreaker have any clue who this WIZ person is?"

Sideswipe got close enough to take a peek at the screen and winced. "Ouch. That's gotta hurt." He offered Bluestreak a conciliatory pat on the shoulder. "Wish I knew, mech, but I've never seen the sig before."

"We did have had a bunch of new bots come into town recently," Sunstreaker said, leaning against the other side of the arcade game cabinet. "Maybe it's one of them?"

With a sigh, Bluestreak bounced his door wings in frustration. It was silly to be so invested in such a thing, but nobody else had even come close to taking his spot since he started playing the game. "Yeah, maybe," he said, glancing around the arcade. "Guess I'll just have to keep an optic on everybody and figure it out."

"What? Gonna challenge whoever it is to a duel?" Sideswipe asked with a grin. "Regain your good standing?"

That got a laugh out of him. He shook his helm. "Nah, I can take it back right here and now, but I'm definitely going to find out who it is so I can rub their face in it in person."

It became a game of back and forth between himself and WIZ, growing bigger with each trade off. Bluestreak knew eventually they'd run into one another under the colorful lights of the arcade, it was only a matter of time and chance lining up, after all.

One day, fully intent on cementing his position in first place again, Bluestreak showed up at the arcade with the twins in tow. They'd become his near constant audience when it came to racking up a higher high score than ever. Sideswipe even teased that he was going to give the game a glitch when he went beyond the score capacity coded into it, starting off a cascading failure into smoke and flame. Already at the cabinet, though, were a set of new kids on campus—the gestalt of rescue crew types Prowl had brought in.

"Hey, guys," Bluestreak said, heading over with a smile. His door wings flicked through a series of happy greetings, not that any of them understood. Probably for the best, he thought, because they said all sorts of inappropriate things about the way Streetwise looked bent over the game controls like that. "Any luck?"

"Oh, this is Streets' game," First Aid told him, sipping at a chilled cube. "He keeps insisting on beating out this one player every time we stop by."

Bluestreak blinked and his door wings flicked curiosity. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah," Groove spoke up from the other side of the cabinet, watching Streetwise pound through row after row of 8-bit alien ships. "Some bot that signs it B-L-U." He paused and gave Bluestreak a speculative look, arching an orbital ridge in question.

"Oh," Bluestreak replied, drawing it out a bit. He grinned, perhaps a little viciously, and stepped up behind Streetwise. Hooking his chin over the pretty Protectobot's shoulder, he murmured against his audial, "You wouldn't happen to be WIZ, now would you?"

And the game sang out its theme of losers as Streetwise jerked and missed the high speed attacker. "Slag!" he swore, swinging around on Bluestreak, bumping against the front of the game cabinet as he stepped back a bit. He scowled, but only for a moment, swiftly falling into a crooked smirk. "Ah, my nemesis revealed?"

Chapter Text

When they first found the planet, the denizens of the Lost Light voted. Unanimous and unsurprising, those denizens became citizens of their newly chosen homeworld. A mechanoid world, filled with flora and fauna unfamiliar, but compatible fully with Cybertronians, it was as if they had been led there by the Guiding Hand—by Primus, himself, even.

Streetwise wasn't a particularly religious mech, but he definitely felt something sort of divine-ish in the way they stumbled on their new home. Even better than that, though, was learning Bluestreak's secret skill because of it.

Puffing smoke around the edges of one of many boxes in the small field where he kept his apiary, Bluestreak glanced up at Streetwise and grinned. "You're gonna love this, Streets," he said quietly. "If you thought ener-honey from the store was good, straight from the hive is going to blow your processor."

Robo-bumblies—as Bluestreak called them, much to Streetwise's amusement and endearment—buzzed around them in a smoke-calmed daze. Much like Groove, Beachcomber, and Drift (and sometimes Rodimus) down at the lake on occasion. They thumped against him, then backed up, and carefully made their way around him, instead. One even landed on his finger when he lifted his hand, multi-faceted little optics looking him over curiously.

"I'm so glad these guys aren't like the Earth bees I saw stuff about," Streetwise said, using his other hand to carefully stroke the soft spun-wire fur that covered the robo-bumbly's tiny frame. "I'd hate to never be able to do something like this."

Bluestreak gave him a warm look and set the smoker aside. "The one's back on Cybertron were a lot more like some of the more aggressive Earth bees, honestly. I'm kinda glad these guys are so docile, myself."

With a gentle wave of his hands, he cleared away the robo-bumblies that lingered around the open top of the hive box, then grasped one of the frames within. He slowly lifted it out, revealing the lattice of waxy calcite filled with the muted amber glow of ener-honey. Streetwise stared at the bounty, oral solvent flowing. He'd never seen it look quite like that. "Oh, that looks amazing." The little bumbly on his finger buzzed her wings, bringing his attention back to her. "Sorry, sweetspark," he crooned, stroking a finger down her back again. "I didn't mean to forget who was more important."

His cheeks flushed as Bluestreak laughed. "We'll make a beekeeper out of you, yet, Streets." He carried the frame over to their nearby picnic table. "Come on, let's get you a taste of fresh comb."

Not having the spark to shoo her away, Streetwise carried his little friend over to the table with him.

Chapter Text

Lifting the laser rifle to his shoulder, Streetwise lined up a shot down his lane of the shooting range. He might not be hailed as a sharpshooter on the same level as his fellow Lost Lighter Perceptor, but he could take out an optic from ten mecha-miles, given the chance. And he'd done so a handful of times over the course of the war.

Not that he needed the skill at this point, the war over and behind them all. Pit, the command crew included Megatron! Still, he figured it might come in handy at some point and so kept up with his practice.

Just as his finger started to squeeze on the trigger, the light changed as the door into the hall opened. He lowered the rifle just as a warm hand came down on his shoulder. Turning to the intruder on his practice, Streetwise felt his spark flicker and his system flush with a soft heat. "Hey, Blue," he said with a smile, dialing up his audials. "What are you doing here?"

"Came to see my favorite bot," Bluestreak replied, leaning against the counter with a sly grin. "Only so deep I go in relationships with my team, you know. Don't exactly want to take Hot Spot or Groove to my berth."

Safety locked, Streetwise arched an orbital ridge as he set his rifle off to the other side of the booth counter. "What about the other two?"

"Oh, Blades is cute, I have to admit," Bluestreak teased, moving closer and not stopping until Streetwise bumped up against the side of the booth. He propped an elbow over Streetwise's shoulder, pressing chest to chest. "We might have to discuss Aid, but we can—"

Streetwise cut him off with a hand to face, laughing. "Aft." Soft lips pressed a kiss to his palm and Streetwise rolled his optics, moving his hand upward to trace one horn of his bright red chevron. "Sometimes I wonder what it's like to have the sort of thing you've got with them. What's it like to be part of a combiner, Blue?"

A hand curled around his wrist, bringing his hand down to rest on Bluestreak's shoulder. "You really want me to answer that?" Bluestreak asked, sliding his hand along the smooth plating of Streetwise's side. A tingle spread through Streetwise's belly. "I came looking for you because I'm off duty and had more fun things than talking about the Protectobots in mind."

With an affected sigh and another roll of his optics, Streetwise relented. "Fine. Later, though. I want to know."

"Yeah, yeah," Bluestreak said, huffing a quiet laugh—maybe not enough of an agreement for some, but Streetwise knew that he was good for it. "Now, how about you kiss me and we see just how far we can get with making out before Minimus interrupts us?"

"Good plan," Streetwise told him, slinging both arms around his neck and tilting his helm to meet Bluestreak's mouth.

Chapter Text

With the ship back on course—or as on course as it had ever been—Streetwise found himself rooming alone. In the mess of Getaway and Mederi and New Cybertron and… well, everything, very few of them (read: none of them) had spent much time in their habs. Not until he stood before the door after celebrating their successful jump into an alternate universe did it occur to Streetwise that Rook wouldn't be in the second berth.

He pressed his hand against the door, suddenly very reluctant to open it. Life forced them together in ways neither expected, but Streetwise had been quick to become very fond of Rook. The thought of settling in for a recharge knowing his teammate was no longer around to be his roommate unsettled him. With the war over, something like this shouldn't happen.

Touching briefly on the bond that remained between him and the rest of the surviving Protectobots, Streetwise discovered all of them already deep into their rest. He sighed, recalling that he had stayed a bit longer to finish a hand of poker against Smokescreen (who no doubt had been cheating, as usual).

Streetwise curled his hand into a loose fist and thumped his knuckles against the door. Not in hopes that someone would answer as obviously no one would, but rather a small venting of his frustration and the grief he still felt.

"Hey, you okay?"

Turning on slightly wobbly pedes, Streetwise stared at Bluestreak as the Praxian walked his way. His hab was a few doors farther down the hall, the door left open behind him. "Oh, scrap," Streetwise cursed, shaking his helm a little and wincing. "Sorry, Blue. I didn't disturb you, did I?"

Bluestreak gave him a quiet smile and a small shake of his helm. "No, I only got back a few kliks ago, myself. You were losing one last hand to Smokescreen when I left Swerve's." He leaned against the wall beside the door of Streetwise's habsuite. "If I remember right, you roomed with Rook, right? This the first time you've been back since—"

"Yeah," Streetwise said, stopping him before he could say it out loud. Not that Streetwise had any issues hearing it. He wasn't that far gone. He tapped his knuckles against the door again, then turned and leaned back against it. "Just kinda weird, you know? I roomed with him before the deal with the Enigma, even."

"Mm, I remember," Bluestreak said, nodding. He crossed his arms and gave Streetwise a speculative look. "Okay, I know this is gonna probably seem weird and out of nowhere, but I never had a roomie on this ship so I've got an extra berth. Wanna hold off on facing that a bit longer and recharge in my hab tonight?"

Streetwise took all of a nano-klik to decide. "You sure you won't mind? Because I'd really appreciate it."

"No problem," Bluestreak assured him, jerking his helm toward his own door. "Come on, then. Won't be the first time I've shared a hab. I was getting a little lonely, anyway, I think."

A grateful smile spreading across his face, Streetwise followed him as he led the way. "Thanks, Blue."

Chapter Text

The planet just kind of showed up on their scanners. It had been the way things from the beginning, really, with the Lost Light. And, of course, that was all that needed to happen for Rodimus to decide to investigate. For all the faults he'd found in the silly mech over the years, Bluestreak had to admit Rodimus sat as one of his all-time favorite captains.

Secretly, he'd grown kind of fond of Megatron recently, as well, but no one needed to know that. It seemed to simply be the way of things in this new universe. And, really, Bluestreak was pretty certain he much preferred it that way.

Especially when he got to gallivant around a mechanoid world with his favorite mech by his side. Sure, Streetwise came as a party pack with four others, but they didn't mind if he showed favoritism. They each had their own favorites outside the team, too, after all.

He caught up Streetwise's hand, tangling their fingers together as they walked through the lush cyber-flora. In particular, his optics were attracted to a growth of copper-barked trees, resplendent with a multitude of tiny fluorite blossoms in shades ranging from pale blue to intense lilac.

"Look at all of them," he said, pulling Streetwise toward one tree that stood out among the others. He gently brushed his fingers over the blossoms, the tiny chime of delicate crystal petal tinkling in his audials. Bluestreak turned a grin on his lover. "These ones. These are the color—"

"Of my optics?" Streetwise cut him off with a smirk, shaking his helm. "Really, Blue?"

Bluestreak placed a finger across his lips to shush him. "Let me finish," he said in reprimand. "These are the color of your optics," he repeated, leaning in close to murmur against his audial, "when you overload on my spike."

Heat flooded Streetwise's face. He was pretty sure he'd never get used to Bluestreak talking to him like that.

"Oh, Bluestreak just said something naughty!" Blades called from the far side of the small grove, laughing, rotors flittering in amusement. "Look at the shade of the blush on Streets' face."

Of the other three, only Hot Spot was polite enough to muffle his laughter. Before Bluestreak could say anything, Streetwise managed to flip them all off. "You guys only wish you got the sort of dirty I get."

Bluestreak laughed along with them this time, but was shortly distracted by a buzzing sound that touched on a very old, very nearly shoved into the deletion queue memory. "No way," he breathed, following the sound. "I cannot be hearing this."

He curled his fingers a little tighter into Streetwise's and tugged him along after. "Blue? What's up?"

Shooting a grin back at the white and red mech as he tugged him deeper into the flowering trees, Bluestreak said, "We're about to find out just how much of a utopia this place really is is what's up."

He could tell Streetwise wasn't entirely sure what he was talking about, but he came along for the ride willingly, anyway. Bluestreak's sensors caught onto a glade not too far ahead. Tugging Streetwise through the treeline, Bluestreak gazed over the sun-warmed clearing with smiling optics, his spark swirling to burst. Waves of metallic grasses filled the clearing, dotted with more types and colors of cyber-flowers than Bluestreak could possibly find comparables from his memories of pre-War Cybertron for.

And, bouncing among those flowers, buzzing as they went about their business—

"Robo-bumblies!" Bluestreak said, turning an ecstatic look on Streetwise. Oh, it was obvious Streetwise didn't understand his enthusiasm, but Bluestreak was more than enthusiastic enough for both of them.

"Whoa, what's going on here?" said Groove as he and the other Protectobots finally caught up, stepping into the glade. "Is this real, mech? I'm not dreaming this, am I?"

"No, Groove, you're not," Hot Spot said, sounding awed in a way Bluestreak very much understood. "This is amazing."

Bluestreak tugged Streetwise to his side, slipping an arm around his middle. He made no protest, settling warm against him. "Yeah, it is. I can't wait to find out what everyone else is coming across." He gave Streetwise a grin before continuing, "Can't wait to teach all you city bots a thing or two."

"You're a city bot," Streetwise reminded him.

"Rural outskirts, Streets," Bluestreak corrected. "Very rural."

"You telling me I'm hooking up with a hick?"

Bluestreak responded with a huff of laughter and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "The hickiest."

Chapter Text

Bluestreak sat at the end of the small dock, dangling his pedes in the chill, thin oil of the lake. Summer never got better than this—camp counselor to a cabin of younglings during the day, then an evening break to just enjoy the setting of the sun over the lake or laying out on the empty archery range to watch the stars pop into view one by one by three by twenty. Usually, he had a couple of the other counselors show up before the sun slipped this low, but he didn't mind some alone time, either.

Leaning back on his hands, Bluestreak let the fading sunlight wash over his frame. Kicking his pedes splashed droplets of pale gold oil across the surface of the lake, the sound accompanied by the quiet noises of cyber-trout kissing the surface from underneath. He grinned at the antics—he'd never known such spoiled robo-fish before he started attending the camp—and wondered if he had any fuel granules in his subspace.

The sound of pedes racing down the dock, however, disrupted the search before it could even begin. Bluestreak twisted to peek over his shoulder and caught sight of the mostly white mech mere moments before he leaped over Bluestreak to splash in the lake with a joyous hollar. A massive plume rose up and splattered down on Bluestreak and the deck around him.

Wiping his face, Bluestreak laughed and kicked his pedes through the oil again, waiting. He stopped when hands smoothed their way up his shins, a strong pair of well-built shoulders coming up between them. Moments later, Streetwise rose from the lake, oil slick along the brilliant red decorative crest and delicate audials horns. A grin split across his handsome face as he caught his chin over his hand along the edge of the dock between Bluestreak's knees.

"Hey, Blue," he greeted, optics warm and sparkling with mischief. "Wanna come in? Oil's warm."

"No, it's not," Bluestreak said with a snort. He kicked his feet where they rested in the lake to either side of Streetwise. "It's nowhere near late enough in the season to be anything other than cold as ball bearings."

"You sure?" Streetwise asked, giving him a far too innocent blink of those pretty optics of his.

"No, Streets," Bluestreak said in warning, starting to pull his pedes from the lake. "Don't you even think about—"

His hand was grabbed and he was tugged forward before he could finish. He landed in the lake beside Streetwise, sputtering and shivering as the oil slipped beneath his plating. Streetwise laughed, pressed a quick kiss to his open mouth, then dived under the surface to escape.

"Streetwise! You aft!" Bluestreak shouted after him, grabbing the edge of the dock to pull himself back up. He fluffed out his plating, shaking off the chill as much as he could. Until he caught sight of where his boyfriend swam a few short meters away from the dock. Bluestreak watched with narrowed optics, waiting for him to give his heading away, then threw himself into the oil, tackling the mech among the robo-fishes.

Chapter Text

A whiff of smoke from a strange candle gifted to him by a guest of his creators and the young mech lost all memory of who he was. Not that he recalled after it happened, of course. With none around to witness, it went quite unnoted. In a daze, the young mech walked without thought. As he often left the castle to wander the village, no guards thought to stop him as he passed through the gates. One did note the fog of confusion that seemed to float about his helm, but figured it no more than the usual haze that followed him as he contemplated whatever the oddness he contemplated.

Pressing deep into the city, away from the center, finding the market on the far side through sheer and overwhelming curiosity to fill the blankness of his mind. Drawn by the myriad of colorful objects, garments, and tall stacks of fuel, the mech with no memory let his pedes lead him where they would, his optics taking in the sights all around him. Though he did not know it any longer, he was a common visitor and he received nods and greetings from the merchants, but no one attempted to stop his passage down the crowded lane. Soon enough, however, he passed through the last section of market stalls and found himself at the edge of the crown city. Vast fields stretched beyond sight here, occasional farm homes dotting ever smaller in the distance.

Tilting his helm, the mech turned a look back on the city and the castle that stood above it. He flicked his door wings, not aware at all of any reason he should stay. Not when something so vast and open called for exploration. Of course, he didn't rightly recall the place he'd come from, but something told him he knew it very well whether he remembered or not! It would be much more interesting to explore the places he didn't know.

Decision made, the young mech set his shoulders and headed down the road that made a mostly straight path between fields. On either side as he walked, he noted the ditches that flowed with water running off the fields, being recycled through the canals for later reuse. Deeper in the fields, away from the road, farm workers toiled lazily under the afternoon sun, the hardest work done in the cool of morning. How the mech knew this, he couldn't say, much like the other things he knew without knowing how.

As the afternoon wore on, the mech came upon a forest, dark and foreboding. The tingrasses around it petered out only a short step into the wood, the limbs grown so high and tight together that nothing of the sun seeped through. Perhaps, if he had remembered, the mech thought he might not have entered the forest. However, as he did not remember, he gave into curiosity and strode with great interest under the woven ceiling of crystalline and metallic limbs.

It wasn't long before he clicked on his headlights, using them to guide his way through the shadowy depths of the forest. His audials were treated to the sound of robo-avians taking flight to escape his intrusion on their peace. He thought they likely weren't often graced with the presence of a bot. The forest didn't seem much like a place the local townsfolk spent a great deal of their time. In the distance, his audials picked up the sound of trickling liquid. What sort, he couldn't know until he reached it, but the dryness on his glossa made him hope it was the sort ingestible by mechanical beings.

Watching the ground in front of him as he walked, the mech slowly became aware that he followed a trail that must have been carved into the land by large mechanimals. It certainly wasn't the sort of path a bot would make, smooth and wide enough for three large mechs abreast. His door wings perked behind him, sensors attuning to the forest as he leaned into a crouching walk. Another thing he did not remember learning—this was the way of a hunter. If he were to find something along the trail, he would be ready for it. His fuel tank gurgled, letting him know of its emptiness. Maybe whatever he found would be easily taken down and allow him to fill his belly.

He creeped through the sparse underbrush, ducking behind wide tree trunks when something in his hidden memory told him to hide. From another trail, smaller than the track he himself had been following, the rustling sound of some creature came rushing in his direction. The mech pulled back a little deeper into the shadows of his hiding spot. He watched with quiet fascination, door wings perking up with much interest, as the maker of the noise stepped into view.

It was another mech. Definitely a grounder, lacking wings of any sort and bearing a set of tires on his frame. The primary color of his frame was white, glowing oddly under the half-light of the dark underforest. Bits of red played a strong secondary color, much like the mech with no memory's own colors. He was a slim figure of a mech, the glowing one, not bearing the same robust chassis the mech with no memory bore, but that made him all the more interesting. Those barely there pedesteps took the mech across his path before vanishing him into the forest on the other side.

The mech with no memory straightened, door wings bouncing with a sudden urgent desire to follow. He only just managed to maintain himself, keeping hidden to the best of his ability—or, he supposed it was the best as he didn't really recall—and sought out the trail that slim white frame had vanished down to follow at a much more controlled pace.

Even though he'd watched the mech slip into the forest as if he'd walked the trail an uncounted number of times, finding the trail himself left the mech with no memory scratching at his helm. Following instinct again, he dialed up the sensitivity of the sensors in his door wings, using the advantage to guide him right to the hidden trail. He looked it over and shook his helm. He'd never have found it without the extra sensors his frame was blessed with and definitely not without previous knowledge that the trail even existed. Where his own was a game trail and obvious to anyone that knew what to look for, this one seemed as if it were not a trail at all.

A mere winding through the underbrush, as if a new trickle of water were deciding the best path to take. It wasn't long before that thought became a reality, his audials filling with the gentle tinkling of water running a small path over the land nearby. Not the beginning of things, a spring emerging from below the ground, nor was it of any good size. A brook, the mech supposed, judging from the sound as he drew nearer to it, though he couldn't have explained why he thought that, of course.

From ahead, light grew as he approached a break in the trees, a place where the light of the sun was allowed to peek through. The tall, broad trees stood guard over the babbling water source, shading the banks and portions of the water, itself. Finding himself a place behind one of the trees, his attention was not taken by the shadow, though. No, his optics focused on the gathering of mechs arranged around the sun-dappled clearing. Like the first, they all bore that strange glow to their varied frames. They lounged on the banks or dipped their pede tips into the cool liquid from one of the boulders that littered both sides and dotted the length of the brook within the break of the canopy.

In all, five of them played in the water, speaking to one another in a language the mech with no memory didn't understand. They laughed and splashed, demeanors filled with the uninhibited joy of sparklings, something they were most assuredly not. A varied bunch, the mechs seemed quite unaware of his presence. His attention fell quickly, though, to the one he'd followed. While the others were pleasant to gaze upon, the first, the sleek grounder sent flutters through his spark.

His door wings flittered a little as he watched the mech return a volley of water at what looked to be a two-wheeled alt mech. While the two-wheel sputtered and sought to return the splash, the mech the one with no memory was interested in laughed and ducked behind another, a boxy white and red mech with optics hidden behind a blue visor who gasped in shock as a great wave of water splashed over him. A much greater wave than should have been possible for such a small flow, the mech with no memory realized moments later. He blinked and peeked out a bit more from his hiding, a door wing accidentally scraping against the trunk of the tree. Silence fell over the five playing in the brook, their optics shooting his way to stare in a range of emotion from surprised to curious to angry.

In the blink of an optic, though, they were simply… gone.

"You shouldn't be here. How did you follow me?"

The mech with no memory sucked in a shocked breath and swung around, finding the sleek grounder standing behind him. His door wings fluttered a bit as he took in the faint glow that emanated from the mech standing there in the shadows, seeing no reason for the glow to exist like it did.

"I… don't know?" the mech with no memory answered. "I tracked you, but I'm not entirely sure how."

The glowing mech tilted his helm, eyeing the mech with thoughtful regard. He reached out a hand and placed it against his forehelm, pressed gently over the chevron crest. Soft blue optics turned hazy, as if he were no longer really looking at him. "Oh," he said, voice soft. His mouth curved in a tender smile. "I see."

"You do?" the mech with no memory asked, rather suddenly besotted by the look on the mech's face. "What is it you see?"

The hand dropped from his helm and, together with the other, curled around his hands. Warmth thrilled through the mech with no memories frame, starting in his belly. "I see a mortal mech who needs my help," the glowing mech replied. "And perhaps that of my brothers. Will you come with me?"

The mech with no memory wasted no time in thought, door wings flicking through a quick dance of fascination. "Yes, I will."

"Will you give me your name?" the mech asked, his fingers stroked softly over the mech with no memories hands.

"I…," he started to answer, then paused with a frown. "I don't remember."

The glowing mech sighed, optics thoughtful. "Whoever did this to you was quite thorough, it seems." He tugged at the hands he held. "Come with me. We'll set things right."

The mech with no memory followed without hesitation. "Will you tell me your name?"

Giving him a long look, the mech was quiet for a few moments before he answered. "I will," he said, "when you remember yours."

Chapter Text

The supply closet door opened and a grayed frame, covered in the dim magenta of drying energon, slumped to the floor in front of him. Streetwise's spark jumped in his chest and he stared down at the deactivated mech with wide optics. Without taking a closer look, there was no way he could determine what happened, but others needed to know at the same time.

He held a couple fingers to the side of his helm as he knelt beside the gray frame, indication to anyone that might come across him that he was on comms. "Hey, Red," he said the moment the security head picked up, "we've got an issue downstairs."

::I can see that,:: Red Alert replied. ::Stay there. I'll inform command and have a crew down that way shortly.::

"Will do," Streetwise managed to say before Red Alert cut the call. While his once legendary paranoia had been resolved, when on the job, he remained curt almost to the point of rudeness. Honestly, Streetwise found it comforting that the trait remained despite everything the mech had gone through. Then, his comm beeped an incoming message. "Blue?" he answered. "You headed my way?"

::Sure am,:: his mate replied. ::Wanna give me a heads up on what to expect? Red Alert kept it kind of short. We are escorting First Aid and Lotty down that way, though, so I guess that says a little something.::

Glancing back at the body, Streetwise huffed a hard, unamused laugh. "Yeah, you could say that. To put it bluntly, we've got a stiff that fell out of a supply closet." He shook his helm and shot a look each way down the hall. It was dark down this way, the lights always set no more than half-level to preserve power since it was so rarely visited, anyway. "How far away are you guys?"

::Just a few minutes,:: Bluestreak told him, concern ringing in his voice. ::Hang tight, Streets.::

"Yep, will do," Streetwise agreed, nudging the gray frame with the toe of a pede as the line clicked closed. He had no clue who the guy was—a very odd thing on a ship with a crew he'd long come to know every one of, whether it was simply a face he recognized or someone he trusted his spark with. Then, out the corner of his right optic, he would have sworn something shifted in the shadows down the hall. He frowned and pulled out his blaster. "Damn, this is creepy."

Turning the direction of the movement, Streetwise sharpened his sight, zooming in on the far end of the hall. Nothing moved, but that didn't mean he hadn't actually seen something. Streetwise had seen a little too much during the war to write off that sort of thing so easily.

"Hey!" he called out, gaze intent on that distant cross corridor. "Who's over there?"

He wasn't at all surprised when there was no response. There never was in this sort of situation. This was the point when something like the body grabbing his ankle happened. Just the thought had him quickly stepping out of reach should the grayed frame suddenly decide it wasn't quite so deactivated as it appeared. Unfortunately, the body was a lot closer than he recalled, though he realized a few moments later that was because he'd forgotten to remove the zoom on his optics.

"Slag," he muttered, shaking his helm as his vision returned to normal. He sighed and checked the safety on his blaster—still on, but easy to disengage should the need arise for use of his weapon. "Gonna need to work this scrap out of my system soon as this is over."

He pondered asking Bluestreak what direction they were coming from when a barely audible skreeee reached his audials from— Well, he wasn't quite sure where it was coming from. Glancing down at the gray frame, he made certain it wasn't that thing deciding it had fooled Streetwise long enough and making its move. It wasn't, thankfully.

"Hey, Blue," he said into this comm, finding himself jittery enough to not hesitate in checking in on Bluestreak and the team he was leading down, "you guys almost here?"

Before his comm could do more than spit an odd static, cold fingers curled around Streetwise's ankle and yanked hard. Pulled off balance, Streetwise looked down and saw the grayed hand holding him tight as he tipped backward. His arms flailed ineffectually as his helm came down hard on the floor, knocking him into darkness.

"Streetwise?" Bluestreak called out as he and the group he escorted came to the hall that held the supply closet and its grim contents. He held out an arm and stopped the others from going around the corner when he got no answer. "Stay here."

"I don't think so," groused First Aid, pushing past him. He stopped in the middle of the hall, staring down the length. Concern wept through his field, followed swiftly by intense worry. "Streetwise?" he asked, starting down the hall. "Where are you?"

Bluestreak rolled his optics and headed after him. He caught the medic, his partner's gestalt brother, and pulled him back. "Behind me, Aid," he told him, taking point. Into his comm, he spoke to the security director. "Hey, Red, how about some real light down here? Something's not right."

::That's why you were sent down in the first place,:: Red Alert replied, so much calmer than he'd been in past vorns. Moments later the lights came up to full capacity in the hall, though. ::What's going on now?::

Moving slowly down the hall, Bluestreak's spark flickered in its casing as he got close to the closed closet door. Dragged in a smear from one side of the hall and directly under the door was cooling energon, the sort obviously spilled from an open wound. "Frag," he breathed, fear rising in him. "Red, Streets is missing and there's energon on the floor."

Beside him, First Aid kneeled beside the energon, making a careful scan of it. "It's his," he confirmed, looking up from behind his visor with worried optics. "What's happened to my brother, Bluestreak?"

Chapter Text

Bluestreak wandered through the outdoor market, looking for fresh goods for that night's dishes. His restaurant really didn't serve a lot of folks, small and new as it was, but he enjoyed bringing the best he could find to his meals. His patrons seemed to appreciate it, returning again and again, slowly spreading word through their friends and other social groups.

At a nearby farmer's table, a neatly stacked selection of a rainbow quartz peppers caught his optic. They were perfect for the spicy Stanix-style robo-chicken fry-up he had planned as the special for the night. Reaching for the top pepper, a lustrous smoky violet, Bluestreak did not expect the hand that came down over the top of his own.

With a frown, he turned on the bot next to him, ready to speak up… and found himself glossa-tied at the mech he discovered standing there. He was busy with a handheld comm device, paying little attention to anything else. A sleek racer build in white with accents in red and silver. Marks on his paint showed places where decals of some sort rested at a probably recent time in the past. Judging from the shapes left, definitely a former Enforcer—they reminded Bluestreak of the Praxian decals he'd once worn. Beyond that, he also had a very pretty face, the kind Bluestreak's spark flipped over time and again.

"Look, Spot," the mech said into his comm, sounding aggrieved, "I know it isn't what you want to hear. This isn't the first time you've mentioned it to me. Can you please just back off and let me do my own thing for once, maybe?"

Whatever this "Spot" said on the other end didn't go over well, the mech rolling his optics and his hand squeezing over Bluestreak's. He would have bruised the pepper had Bluestreak's hand not been there to take the considerable pressure. "Ah!" he said with a hiss. It didn't matter how easy on the optics the mech was at that point. That was just rude. "Hey! Do you mind?"

The mech stilled and went silent, then turned a wide-opticked look in his direction. He had the grace to appear deeply embarrassed, too. "Um, Hot Spot? I'll talk to you later, all right?" he said into his comm before closing the line and clicking the device to its hip cradle. To Bluestreak, he eased his hand away as he said, "I am so sorry. My brother just wanted to yell at me again for scrap." An expression of exasperation passed over his face that Bluestreak recognized deep in his spark. "He doesn't like some of the personal choices I've made lately."

Bluestreak plucked up the purple pepper and tucked it into his basket. He gave the empty spots on the mech's frame a significant look as he grabbed more peppers from the stack. "Let me guess," he said with a smirk. "You used to have a very promising career with the Enforcers and he doesn't understand why you gave it up?"

The mech blinked, befuddled for a moment, then returning a rueful smile. "Good guess," he said. His optics drifted over the stack of peppers, though he didn't reach for them again. "Sounds like you might have dealt with something similar?"

"My brother is Prowl, Chief Enforcer of Praxus," Bluestreak said, watching the light of understanding dawn in those—oh, wow—periwinkle blue optics. His spark wobbled like it had never wobbled before.

"You're Bluestreak, aren't you?" the mech asked, turning to lean his hip against the edge of the mechano-vegetable table. He crossed his arms and a gentle smile lit up his face. "The younger brother that left the force to become a chef?"

Door wings fluttering, Bluestreak fought against the flush of energon that touched his cheeks. He'd never been recognized like that before and wasn't quite sure how to react, but he definitely preferred not to react like this. "Yeah," he replied, making a show of carefully turning over a bright yellow crystal pepper. "That's me. Guess the story made the rounds, then? All the way to Iacon, even."

The mech grinned and snagged the pepper from his hand, putting it into Bluestreak's basket. "Yeah, it did. It's what inspired me to do the same, just so you know," he said. "I only just got started on the journey, though, so I'm not where you are yet. By the way, name's Streetwise."

Bluestreak huffed a soft laugh and held out his hand, warmth suffusing him when Streetwise pressed his palm against it in kind. It was time to show some bravery, he decided, unable to look away from the mech. "Nice to meet you, Streetwise. Help me finish shopping for tonight, then lunch?"

Now it was Streetwise's turn to show heat across his cheeks. He handled it a bit more smoothly than Bluestreak knew he himself would ever manage, a grin spreading across his mouth. "To commiserate or to get to know me?"

Bluestreak really liked that smile. A lot. "Why not both?"

Chapter Text

They were way out in the vast swath of pinewoods, on a road that hadn't been repaved in recent memory, but it wasn't so bad as to make it impossible to drive on. The sun dipped slowly toward the western horizon and the roar of an approaching vehicle with a very much non-Earth engine came from the east.

"What the hell, Bluestreak?" Dean demanded, scowling and waving a hand at the incoming law enforcement vehicle. "You called the fucking cops?"

"No," he responded, sharing an exasperated look with Sam. "I called my Conjunx, like I told you."

"You didn't say he was a damn cop!" Dean was moving beyond frustration into actual anger, Bluestreak could see it. He'd dealt with situations like this more than once over the course of his long life, after all.

"Dean!" Sam said, tone reprimanding. He ran a hand through the disheveled mop of his hair. "Sorry about him, Blue. I'm sure Streetwise is a great person."

"Streetwise is a cop."

"Dean."

"Sam."

Bluestreak sighed and shook his helm. He could hardly believe the things he'd seen since fate had drawn him into the world of the Winchester brothers, but he definitely believed the way they treated each other. It was so very much like Sunny and Sides. He couldn't decide whether he wanted the two sets of brothers to meet or not.

Rather than come to a complete halt, Streetwise flipped out of his alt mode a few car lengths away and walked the last bit to join them. Bluestreak's spark hummed at the playful swagger the sleek, white-framed mech carried himself with. He reached out a hand and pulled him close for a brief kiss before turning to the two humans. "Sam, Dean, this is Streetwise. He's got a good helm for mysteries."

"Nice to meet you," Sam greeted with a quick nod.

The look Dean was giving Streetwise was indecipherable. He shifted from one foot to the other, not quite looking at Streetwise. "Hey."

"I hear you two could use some help," Streetwise said, his voice smooth and warm on Bluestreak's audials, as always. Oddly, Dean coughed and turned away from them for a moment, grabbing his brother by the arm and attempting to drag him toward their human vehicle.

"Be right back," Sam said, excusing them while appearing entirely confused by whatever was bothering his brother.

Streetwise turned a questioning look on Bluestreak, who shrugged but dialed up his audials. While he wanted to give the humans their privacy, he wasn't about to let Dean pull anything weird on his mate. The two humans stopped on the other side of the shiny black Impala and Bluestreak waved for Streetwise to stay quiet.

"That's two aliens, Sammy," Dean said, sounding very odd. "Robot aliens that turn into cars."

"I know, Dean," Sam replied.

"Gay robot aliens that turn into cars."

Sam gave another exasperated release of air. "Apparently so."

"One of them's a sexy cop, Sam," Dean said. Oh. That's what it was, Bluestreak thought with a stifled snicker. "A sexy, gay, robot alien cop that turns into a smoking hot car."

Silence settled between the brothers for several moments before Sam sputtered into laughter.

"It's not funny, Sam!"

Streetwise looked askance at Bluestreak, who merely smiled and said, "Dean thinks you're hot."

Chapter Text

"Why are we here again?" Streetwise asked, turning an unamused optic away from the group that frolicked at the edge of the organic lake. They'd stopped at an uninhabited planet for a little shore leave, then himself and Bluestreak had been tasked with keeping watch over a particularly notable selection of the crew.

"Because Megatron and Minimus and Ratchet want to make sure Rodimus, Drift, Beachcomber, and Groove don't have too good of a time," Bluestreak replied, a quiet smirk on his mouth. He sat beside Streetwise on a fallen tree, leaning over a bit to bump shoulder kibble. "You know exactly what they're going to get up to the moment they're done with their first splashing around."

"Yeah, I do," Streetwise said with a disgruntled sigh. He slumped forward, elbows settled on his knees. "Doesn't mean we've been put on anything more than sparklingsitting duty for the ship hippies."

A grin blossomed across Bluestreak's face, giving Streetwise a fluttering in his fuel tank. Bluestreak nudged his side with a hand. "Streets, c'mon. Don't be like that. It's not like we're actually going to have to do anything."

"That's the problem," Streetwise muttered. He couldn’t imagine he looked even remotely impressed by the proposition of sitting on his aft basically doing nothing. It had to be all over his field just how Not Interested he was in that.

"Okay," Bluestreak said with a laugh, shaking his helm. "No being lazy, then."

"Nope," Streetwise replied, "I don't do lazy." He glanced out toward the group at the lakeside, finding them settling down along the edge. A small waft of smoke floated up around Groove's helm before a neatly rolled mesmer-crystal cyg was passed to Drift. Streetwise couldn't help the angry rumble of his engine at the sight. "Primus, I can't watch this."

He was on his pedes and heading away from the lake before he'd even considered he was basically defying command. Right behind him came Bluestreak. "Streetwise, where are you going?"

"Away from here," he called back the mech following him. "I'm not sitting there watching people do something I used to arrest them for." He sighed and slowed as he reached the edge of the forest. When Bluestreak caught up, he didn't bother to shrug off the hand on his shoulder. It was warm and welcome.

"Does it really bother you that much?" Bluestreak asked, easing Streetwise around to face him.

Streetwise grimaced before he answered. "It was drilled into me, Blue. That—," he jabbed a finger toward the lakeside, "—is not supposed to be allowed. I've gotten over so much of my training these last few years, but some things are harder to unlearn than others."

"So it's not that you're being kept from free climbing that massive cliff face we saw coming down on the shuttle, then?" Bluestreak asked, a good-humored glint in his optics.

He gave Bluestreak a long and calculating look as his brain module considered how best to answer that. With another grimace, Streetwise dropped his gaze from where it met the other's, blankly taking in the loamy forest floor. He dug a toe into the detritus and heaved a vent. "Does it make a difference in what you think of me if I say both?"

Warm hands curled around the sides of his face, soft lips pressed against his helm crest. "No difference at all," Blue told him, resting their forehelms together. "Which do you think will piss off command worse? Running off to climb that cliff or joining the free love crew at the lake for flower crowns and a little smoke?"

From the laugh Bluestreak gave him, Streetwise knew he looked positively scandalized at the suggestion.

"C'mon, Streets," Bluestreak cooed, optics sultry and inviting, hands slipping down to rest against Streetwise's chest armor, "don't you wanna misbehave for once? And I mean really misbehave."

Streetwise softened under his touch and smirked. "Flower crowns, huh?"

"Flower crowns." Bluestreak grinned as he caught Streetwise's hand and tugged him back toward the giggling group on the sandy bank.

Chapter Text

Bluestreak ended up face down on the street before he'd even had time to comprehend what was happening. A glance over his shoulder revealed a wide-opticked Streetwise urging him to put his helm back down. "Just stay down, Blue!"

"What's wrong with you?" Bluestreak asked with a hiss, but lowering his helm enough that Streetwise seemed less agitated. His weight didn't move from Bluestreak's back, though. "What the Pit is going on?"

Suddenly, the ground shook, rattling the buildings around them. Bits and pieces were knocked loose, falling all around them. Only luck kept the larger chunks from landing directly on them, Bluestreak knew. Streetwise pressed his mouth close to Bluestreak's audial, speaking loud enough to be heard as a loud and deep bellowing shriek swept down low over them. "Stay down!" A wave of bubbling heat swept over them, scorching the street and all that sat on it around them. Above him, Streetwise hissed and pressed down onto him, a quivering weight.

"Streets?" Bluestreak prodded, filled with sudden worry. "You okay?"

No response was quickly forthcoming, sending Bluestreak into a roll that put Streetwise beneath him. A stifled scream of pain led to him bolting upward, pulling his weight away from Streetwise. Swinging around, he grabbed Streetwise's hand and yanked him up off the ground. Carefully wrapping an arm around his middle, Bluestreak eased him into the shadow of a tall building. He'd feel safer in a tight alleyway than just tucked up against the side, but he'd take what they could get for the moment.

The ground was filthy, making Bluestreak wary of laying Streetwise down. While not as prone to infections as organics, Bluestreak wasn't about to risk it. He held the shuddering white and red frame against himself, gentle as he could. Getting a peek over Streetwise's shoulder, he saw the mess of melted armor and blackened wires and tubing that was the entirety of the back side of his frame. Only the barest amount of energon leaked, burned away or sealed inside by the sheer heat of the attack.

"Holy frag," Bluestreak whispered in horror. "We need to get you to a medic!"

A loud, animal roar sounded above them, yanking Bluestreak's optics upward to catch sight of the massive creature. Almost like Swoop of the Dinobots, but organic—a giant lizard with a set of wide, leathery wings keeping it aloft on the air currents. Bluestreak pulled Streetwise and himself deeper into the shadow of the building.

"Oh, Primus, Streets," he breathed, optics cycled wide as he watched the flying creature. "That's a dragon! How is there a real dragon up there?"

Streetwise shuddered against his chest, hands grasping at Bluestreak's  bumper. "Need help, Blue," he said, quiet and panting with the pain that no doubt suffused his badly damaged frame. "Comm base. Mine's not working."

Bluestreak tore his gaze away from the glittering opalescent scales that covered the long slither of its body. He nodded as the words registered in his brain module. "Yeah," he said, carefully holding Streetwise a little closer. "Just hold on, Streets. I'll get us out of here."

Chapter Text

The warm winds over the Rust Sea were high, brushing fine grains of oxide along the lines of Bluestreak's frame. He'd long since given up bothering with anything more than basic maintenance, only giving in to Sunstreaker’s demands he get a full detailing on putting ashore. The golden mech was a slave to his vanity, really. It was rather amusing how it extended so far beyond himself.

"Captain!" called Sunstreaker’s brother Sideswipe from the crowbot's nest. Bluestreak glanced up to find the red armored mech leaning deep over the edge of the nest, spyglass to his right optic. "Sails to the west! Iaconian colors!"

Bluestreak's mouth twisted in thought. Iacon meant big gains if they could take the ship, but they were also the best defended. He gripped the rail and glared in the direction of the Iaconian ship. They were still far enough away that avoiding a confrontation was possible, however, the Drunken Praxian's coffers were decidedly low on shanix.

"Orders, Captain?" Sunstreaker asked, coming up beside him.

Bluestreak sighed and dropped his gaze toward the roiling oxide granules in their light oil solution, the rust several hands deep on the surface. It was a constant accumulation, replacing that which sank to eventually settle on the seabed so far below. Looking back to the far off ship after a shorter span of consideration than he might usually, Bluestreak set his shoulders and hiked his doorwings before dropping them into an alert hold. It was a risk, but a risk they needed to take. "Onward to glory, Sunny," he announced. Then to the rest of his crew, "Get us to that ship! We're taking what booty she offers!"

A rousing cry went up from bow to stern, his crew as ready as ever. From his other side, another mech approached. Smokescreen, his brother. "What if it's Prowl's?"

With a deep sigh, Bluestreak tightened his grip on the rail again, this time feeling the steel dent under his fingers. "If it is, we deal with it when we see him," he said. "I'm not going to keep my bots from a good payday because it might be Prowl at the helm."

Smokescreen huffed a quiet laugh and slapped a hand on his shoulder, tapping an encouraging edge of one doorwing against his. "Glad to hear that, Cap'n," he said with a grin. "Let's take the aft down a good few pegs if it is him, send him a good rough message if it isn't."

A grunt of dismay later, Bluestreak shook his helm. "Get in your position, sailor," he told Smokescreen, giving him a quick shove. "We're gaining on that ship faster than you're getting ready for it."

Smokescreen flashed him a crooked grin and a flippant salute. "Aye, Cap'n."

It wasn't Prowl's ship. It was, however, the ship commanded by one of Prowl's most trusted—the mech called Streetwise. If judging on his name alone, he didn't belong on the Rust Sea, but the sleek white mech held himself with steady gyros. He was no neophyte to the waves. He also looked entirely ready to hold his glossa on any secrets he might have. Bluestreak knew him well, knew he never traveled without at least one of his brothers and that he hadn't seen any of them in the crowd of bots taken captive. It didn't feel at all right, tension hidden deep enough in Streetwise's field Bluestreak was quite certain he was the only one that could feel it.

"So, Streetwise," Bluestreak started, standing in front of the bound mech, meeting his angry blue optics with an ease that had taken vorns to learn, "how are your brothers?" His only response was the narrowing of Streetwise's optics and a tightening of his broad shoulders. Bluestreak hummed quietly, intent on teasing an answer out of him. "Come on, Streetwise," he said, stepping a little nearer the mech, "it's not like we weren't close once."

That startled loose an answer, giving his audials a deeply missed splash of that smooth voice. "We should probably keep it past tense," Streetwise said, stiff and formal, "all things considered."

Lifting a hand, Bluestreak barely kept himself from brushing his fingers over the red Autobot face that sat centered over Streetwise's spark. A small grimace flashed over his mouth, but he quickly smoothed it away and dropped his hand back to his side. Instead, he offered his former love a smile softer than any he'd managed since before leaving Iacon, tilting his helm a bit. "So be it," he acquiesced. Then, to the mech holding a blaster to Streetwise's back, he said, "Take him to my hab, Jazz. Make sure he's not going to get away, if you please."

"Right on, Cap'n Blue," Jazz replied, lowering his blaster a bit. He grabbed hold of Streetwise and pulled him along perhaps a bit more roughly than Bluestreak thought appropriate, but didn't say anything. It wouldn't do to reprimand one of his bots in front of the prisoner, after all. Considering Streetwise's position under Prowl's command, he was more than crafty enough to use such a thing against Bluestreak and his crew. More worrying, however, was the lack of Streetwise taking the opportunity to give him a vociferous upbraiding in front of his entire contingent of rowdy mechs and femmes, letting himself be led away with little protest, instead. Streetwise never missed a chance to let someone know when they'd done something very wrong—it was one of his less savory quirks. The empty space beside him that should have been First Aid, Blades, Groove, or Hot Spot was a glaring sign of something more important being very decidedly wrong.

Jazz did a better job than he needed to, honestly, making up for his unnecessary roughness. He'd situated Streetwise at Bluestreak's private dining table rather than chaining him to the bed—something Bluestreak feared the joker would do.

The light in his cabin was dim, due to the small size of the portholes, making it simply a part of the routine to change the settings of his optics. In the soft, golden light that did manage to fill the cabin during the daylight joors, Bluestreak found his guest staring rather fixedly at small chest he kept on a side table. Streetwise had gifted it and most of the precious contents to him when they were much younger. He took a seat on the far side of the table, putting himself directly in Streetwise's line of sight. "Did you think I wouldn't keep it?"

Streetwise didn't answer, merely lowering his gaze and turning his face away. Leaning forward, resting his elbows on the edge of the table, Bluestreak set his chin in his hands and watched him in silence for a short while.

"I'm surprised you didn't have more cargo on that ship of yours," Bluestreak finally said. "It can't be that Iacon is facing hard times. Did you lose favor? Or is it some sort of mission that doesn't involve shanix or trade goods?"

A tight grimace passed over Streetwise's face, causing Bluestreak increased concern.

"What is it?" he asked. "What's going on?"

Streetwise seemed to sink in on himself, a sure sign he didn't want to speak on whatever was eating at him. An even surer sign that he needed to.

"Streetwise, I know you don't have much reason to trust or even like me very much, anymore, but please. I want to know what's wrong," Bluestreak murmured, shifting from his seat to kneel in front of the other mech. He lifted a hand and turned Streetwise's chin back until the mech looked him in the optic. "Tell me."

His face twisted in a scowl. "Get your hands off me," he demanded. "I won't tell you anything. I don't cooperate with pirates."

Bluestreak sighed, but let his chin loose. He pushed back to his feet and looked down on Streetwise. It was time to bring out the big gun. "This has to do with your gestalt, doesn't it?" he asked. The tight clamp of that smooth white armor proved how very correct he was. "You can't tell me otherwise. None of your brothers were on the ship with you. I know none of you travels anywhere alone. What has Prowl done now?"

Streetwise deflated under the question, but still didn't meet him optic to optic. "It's not your brother," he said, voice quiet. "It's Kaon."

Bluestreak's internals chilled, his doorwings fell low. He slapped a hand to his comm. "I take it you were listening, Jazz?"

::Bet your aft I was,:: the mech replied. ::Orders, Cap'n?::

He looked to Streetwise and made a point of lifting his doorwings high, putting on at least the appearance of being unaffected by the very thought of Kaon's vicious lord. "Turn sail to Iacon. I've got a brother I need to talk to before we take things up with Megatron."

He barely managed to catch Streetwise in his arms as his former love suddenly slumped in lonely defeat, letting the Protectobot wrap around him for whatever comfort it might give him.

Chapter Text

Whatever the mech that stood in front of him wanted, so full of mirth and smiling optics, Streetwise could only wonder why he had chosen him to bother. He ignored the mech through sheer principle, bending down over the datapads on his desk again. If he got behind, he'd never catch up—his supervisor didn't believe in cutting a bot any slack.

"Oh, come on, that can't be any fun," the mech said. He leaned down on the desk as if mocking Streetwise and dipping into a ridiculous position to lock optics with him. He curled a silvery gray hand around Streetwise's, easing the point of his stylus away from the screen of the pad he used. "Put the stylus down. Come join me outside. We'll have a picnic in the park."

Streetwise frowned and shifted so that he could refocus on the datapad. "I'm sorry, but you'll have to find someone else. I'm far too busy. The number of reports I have to make to my supervisor is overwhelming already as it is." He yanked his hand free and set his stylus back to work filling out the details of the last mech he'd run a check on. The mech still leaning on his desk sighed and made no obvious attempt at leaving. Streetwise frowned and glared at him. "Your name, please?"

The mech looked suddenly infinitely sad, the emotion flooding his field like an unchecked storm. He stood back up and gazed down on Streetwise with mournful optics. "So, Jazz was right. You don't remember anything."

That… made no sense. He remembered everything quite perfectly, in his opinion. What he didn't remember was ever having met this particular mech at any point in his life. Streetwise set down his stylus and gave the mech a hard look. "I don't know who this Jazz is or who you are, but I'm very cognizant of the fact that my memory is entirely intact. Now, if you're not going to give me your name, I suggest you leave before I'm forced to learn it and put you on my list."

"Your list?" the mech asked. He sighed and shook his helm, vivid red chevron crest flashing in the light with the movement. "So you are a watchdog. How many people do you report on to your master?"

Streetwise met the impervious gaze of the silvery gray and black mech with a hard look of his own. He wasn't about to take this sort of treatment from an outsider and let it go unreported. "I don't know what you mean, sir, but I do most assuredly require your name now."

He grabbed up his stylus and gripped it in his hand, ready to take down anything the mech might reveal. Even if he didn’t give his designation, he would likely drop enough information that Streetwise could easily discover all he needed to know. "I'm sorry," the mech said, optics mournful. "I can't give you that. Unless…," he paused, a distant moment in his gaze telling Streetwise he was communicating with someone else. Then, he gave Streetwise an intent look. "If I walk out the office door right now, out of the whole building, will you come with me?"

That caught Streetwise off guard. None of his assignments had ever asked him such a thing. But, he thought, this mech wasn't an assignment, only a potential. It put him soundly within the realm of Streetwise's standing orders to add all suspicious bots and activity to his watch list. His supervisor would approve of his taking extra measures to assure all those needing observation were under watchful optics.

"Of course," Streetwise told him, carefully setting aside his datapads and stowing his stylus in the single desk drawer. The mech watched as he slipped around to stand beside him. "Please, lead the way, sir."

The look the mech gave him was inscrutable. Though unable to decode it, he felt a private comm line open—the mech was communicating with someone outside the office again. More likely outside the building, even, as he'd made a point of mentioning going so far. Streetwise narrowed his optics as he gave the mech a quick scan. Silver, black, and red. Praxian build. A few dents and dings that wouldn't stay around long, but useful for identification for at least an orn unless he could talk a medic into such minor repair work. He sent a copy of the scan to the one datapad still sitting open on his desk.

"All right," the mech said with a smile. He stretched out a hand and placed it on Streetwise's shoulder, turning him and guiding him toward the door. "Come this way, then."

They stepped out onto the sidewalk outside sooner than Streetwise estimated they would. The mech paused at the edge, hand still on Streetwise's shoulder. It slipped down around his middle as a small cargo transport appeared around the corner, slowing as it approached them.

Though it never came to a full stop, the side door opened as it passed and Streetwise was shoved forward. Behind him, the Praxian mech murmured apologies as another mech reached out to grab him by the collar faring and helped yank him inside. He struggled, but was wrestled to the floor as the transport peeled away from the sidewalk and headed somewhere into the city.

Laid out on the floor of the transport, held down by the first mech as well as the second, Streetwise stared up at a third, vaguely familiar bot. Sad optics stared down at him from behind a bright blue visor, the rest of the face hidden behind a mask. A hand stroked over his helm before a hypo was pressed against his neck and moments later, darkness descended.

Bluestreak gentled his hold on Streetwise and looked to First Aid. "How is he, Aid?"

The medic sighed, shoulders slumping as Hot Spot came around from his place beside Streetwise to comfort him. He leaned into the sideways embrace. "I'd have to give him a full diagnostic to really tell you, but physically, he seems fine."

"But that's not what we're worried about, is it?" Bluestreak asked, already knowing the answer. He placed his hand on Streetwise's chest, over his spark. "He didn't even recognize me, Aid. Just like Jazz said would happen."

It was Hot Spot that answered. "We'll get him back, Bluestreak. All of him."

Chapter Text

When the storms first started, no one had been ready. Cybertron didn't have storms, not outside a very few tightly defined regions. And those regions didn't have storms like these. The intense plunge of temperatures caused the corrosive vapors that haunted the upper atmosphere to collect into delicate crystalline structures that floated gently down to the planet's surface. Nowhere on the planet was safe from the ravages of a toxic winter.

From his perch atop the Iacon wall, Bluestreak watched for the return of the group of hunters that had gone out a full demi-cycle ago. Among the twenty bots, all five of the Protectobots had volunteered. Long range communications were nonexistent in the new climate, meaning once anyone traveled beyond a certain distance, they were entirely without contact with home.

Bluestreak never failed to worry himself sick every time Streetwise went out. The thought that Iacon would never know something had gone wrong until it was too late put his brain module into a recursive loop that threatened to glitch him like Red Alert. Even with his brothers beside him, it meant Streetwise might be deactivated and gray already, if not all them.

Bluestreak stopped himself before the thought could delve any deeper, shaking it out of his helm. He carefully tugged the hood of his simple longcoat farther forward as an acid snowflake sizzled on his cheek before he brushed it away from his derma. Made from the dark pelt stripped from a downed moosebot, the longcoat was resilient not only against the cold, but the acidified snow, as well. Many other items of clothing were made from the spun wire-wool of the well-tended sheepacron herds using skills learned from organic cultures Cybertronians had visited before space travel became impossible. How very much Bluestreak wished Streetwise had taken up knitting or weaving instead of hunting and long-range patrols.

Bluestreak sighed and rubbed one gloved hand over the sore spot on his cheek. His blaster rifle was slung over his shoulder, ready for quick use should he need it, as he returned to walking his portion of the wall. He watched the distance with intent optics, knowing the hunt should be back soon if all had gone well. Just seeing even one of the party would do his spark good.

And he swore right then, as he did every time, that he would ask Streetwise to conjunx him the moment he was within tackling distance.

Chapter Text

Sometimes, days at the lake happened. That particular day was one of them, most bots taking in the sun and dipping their pedes in the cool water, a few splashing and laughing like sparklings. It was the same as any other day at the lake really, other than a week had passed since the declaring of a ceasefire that seemed unusually likely to last. Nearly the whole base had come out, taking the time to relax while they could. Everyone hoped it morphed into a more substantial peace, but Bluestreak remained at the ready should violence break out around them. He knew he wasn't the only one, either. After spending so long at war, he'd be surprised if anyone could be caught off guard, anymore.

Sat on a sunwarmed, flat rock up one of the low hills that surrounded the western side of the lake, Bluestreak spent more time looking skyward than not. Perhaps it was unnecessary, but his spark just wasn't into the fun that day. His doorwings flicked a nervous pattern behind him, going unnoticed by most. Not even Prowl or Smokescreen, the two that would best understand what his sensor panels were giving away about his state of processor, appeared to be paying attention. He didn't blame them.

"Hey, Blue," murmured a voice from behind him, a warm frame curling up at his back. Streetwise stretched his legs one to either side of Bluestreak, arms sliding around his middle. His forehelm rested against the back of Bluestreak's neck for a moment before his chin hooked over a shoulder. "What are you doing all the way up here?"

Bluestreak laid his hands over Streetwise's, lowering his gaze to look at the way their hands folded together like second nature. "Just watching the sky."

"For Decepticons, right?" Of all the mechs that could have asked, Streetwise was the only one that could somehow make it come across neutral enough in tone to not seem teasing or eager. It left Bluestreak feeling neither silly nor hyped up for something that likely would not happen. Not yet, anyway.

"Yeah," he said, stroking his fingers along the back of Streetwise's hand. "It's just something I've done for so long, you know?"

"I do know," Streetwise replied, snuggling in closer along his back. It trapped his doorwings, but Bluestreak didn't particularly mind when it was this mech. Both Prowl and Smokescreen had told him something like that would eventually happen. He hadn't believed them, of course, until it actually did. Finding someone that just fit wasn't something he expected could be done with so few of them left.

Turning Streetwise's hands over so he could see both of their palms, Bluestreak softened into the mech's hold and his spark flickered with a joy he knew would never dampen. There was nothing like the traditional etchings spoken of in the stories of ancient cities or glyphs painted in magically glowing light. No, nothing more than the way their fingers wove together as if they were simply meant to be there.

"I love you," Bluestreak said, the words slipping soft from his glossa with an ease he'd never have thought himself capable of not so long ago.

Streetwise's engine was a gentle purr against his back, sending a quiver through his doorwings. "Love you, too, Blue," he answered, always having found those words easier than Bluestreak. "You're my best thing ever."

Laughter escaped Bluestreak as he shook his helm, curling their arms more closely around his middle again. "You spend too much time with Blades."

He could feel the grin on Streetwise's face as he replied, "Yeah, I probably do."

Chapter Text

Sitting center in the balcony, manning the main spotlight, Streetwise sighed and slumped to the right. He caught his cheek on his palm and watched the actors on the stage stop yet again as they quibbled over a line. When he'd grudgingly agreed to join the small start up theater group with Blades and Groove. They'd have dragged him along, anyway, honestly.

"Come on! It'll be fun!" they said. "We need more people involved!" He'd been excluded from the stage the moment he'd opened his mouth and proven his lack of acting ability. Still, he supposed being relegated to the grunt crew was better than spending his off joors loafing around the house doing nothing.

After a quick rundown on how the old fashioned hand run spotlight worked and briefed on how to read the production notes for those that related to his position, Streetwise had been left all on his lonesome in the darkened balcony. His much more theater-involved gestalt brothers ran hither and yon for the stage crew, pausing every now and then to stand in as an extra in a scene. With another, heavier sigh, Streetwise pondered whether to wander down and find something else they might need him for or to stretch out and take a nap.

Thus far, the nap was winning.

He slouched deep into his seat, already yawning. His optics dimmed, the shutters dipping closed. Then, a new voice from down on the stage touched his audials. Friendly and boisterous, it was met with a wide round of happy greetings from the rest of the bots down there. Shaking off the urge to recharge, Streetwise perked up and peered over the edge of the balcony—

—and felt his spark stutter in its casing.

Creeping up to the barrier, Streetwise stared at the new mech with a slack jaw and wide optics. Silver and black and red, the Praxian build mech laughed and talked and shared hugs all around with everyone. He was obviously well-liked by both cast and crew. He crouched low and leaned on the barrier, chin rested on his folded hands, just watching the way the mech moved. He dipped a bit lower when Blades and Groove approached the mech.

"Hey, guys," the mech said, greeting both Streetwise's brothers with a wide smile and quick hugs. "You said you had someone you wanted me to meet tonight?"

Blade and Groove both wore devious grins and nodded toward the balcony. "Right up there," Groove said, directing the new mech's attention. "Hey, Streetwise, come on down and meet Bluestreak, why don't ya?"

Streetwise's engine sputtered to a brief stall and he dropped behind the barrier as the now introduced Bluestreak met his optics with a curious smile. His cheeks were hot with the flush of sudden embarrassment. He was going to kill both of his brothers.

"Streetwise?" Blades called up to him, rotor blades no doubt fluttering with a touch of concern. "You all right up there?"

He rolled his optics and climbed back up to look back at them, doing his best to avoid meeting the gaze of that pretty Praxian. "Yeah, I'm fine. I'll be down, just gimme a klik."

Chapter Text

In the Golden Age of Cybertron, science was king. The planet's scientists were revered as unto deities. Among the likes of Wheeljack and Shockwave, Perceptor and Brainstorm, the respect given to purveyors of science and that which it propagated was unto the level of celebrity. Even Tarantulas with his wild theories and decidedly more outlandish approaches to method was viewed by the people with awe.

What the fabric of this accepted reality denied, however, lay in those considered the lesser bots of society. Among the ranks of these could be found skills that lay outside the realm of science and all things provable. In the lower levels where these bots were most likely to reside, a young Praxian wandered the dimly lit roads and pathways against the wishes of his eldest brother. He'd talked his middle brother into taking him along when Smokescreen made his per demi-cycle trip down from the surface to obtain things he was deeply secretive about.

"Don't go too far," Smokescreen warned him, lingering in the open doorway of a shop that smelled of sweetly fragrant smoke and things Bluestreak couldn't name (and probably didn't want to). His doorwings flicked with nervousness. "Stay where it's lit, okay?"

"I will," Bluestreak said, trying not to roll his optics. Smokescreen wasn't as bad as Prowl, but still treated him like he wasn't fully grown. Sure, he'd only recently attained the age, it didn't mean he was a sparkling, though. He perked up his doorwings and waved a quick goodbye to his brother before turning to head farther down the street. He knew this was the street he needed to be on, it was the one all his friends had mentioned by name.

The shops that lined the street ranged a wide selection of goods they sold. Most held no interest for him. Then, near the end of the working streetlights, Bluestreak's optics zeroed in on a storefront that stood out from the others. He frowned, thoughtful as he walked toward the shop. Glyphs and patterns Bluestreak couldn't decipher were spray painted across the face of it. The windows were blocked up with sheets of rusty durasteel and bedecked with bundles of more kinds of cyber-flora than Bluestreak had ever seen in one place before—including many he'd never seen.

He stepped closer, curious if this was the place he needed. The one he'd heard rumors of among his former classmates. As he reached out a hand to touch a hanging display of multicolored crystals, the front door opened and a mech stepped out.

"Good morning," the mech greeted, shaking out a rug that he'd brought out with him. "Did you need some help?"

Bluestreak's doorwings jerked in surprise and he swung around wide-opticked to stare. The mech was on the smaller side, red and white, and bearing medic's decals on his boxy shoulders. Even with the mask and visor, Bluestreak could tell he was smiling. A happy field reached out, sweeping calmness over him. "Um, yeah, maybe," Bluestreak said, moving toward the mech. "Is this the…," he lowered his voice, leaning closer, "the magic shop?"

The mech blinked behind his visor, helm tilting a little to one side. "The magic shop?"

"Yeah," Bluestreak said, nodding. "Like, real magic."

The mech scratched at the side of his helm and hummed, rug dangling from the other hand. "Real magic, huh? Where'd you hear something like that?"

Before Bluestreak could respond, another mech peeked out of the shop. This one was bigger than the first, though not by a huge amount, putting him around Bluestreak's size. His colors weren't much different than the medic's, but his frame was much sleeker, speaking of being made for that combination of speed and power deemed crucial for a certain build of Enforcers. He bore decals, scraped and only recognizable because of Bluestreak's long familiarity with them, that claimed him as such, even.

"Are you harassing a possible customer again, Aid?" the mech asked with a crooked grin. He flashed Bluestreak a wink as the medic waved a flustered hand at him.

"He's looking for a magic shop, Streets," the medic—Aid?—told him, rolling up the rug again. His field brushed good humor over Bluestreak. "A real magic shop."

"That so?" The mech leaning in the doorway eyed Bluestreak a little more closely before jerking his chin toward the inside of the building. "Come on in," he invited. "Groove's not busy and he's the best of us with new pathwalkers. Maybe we can talk him into a palm reading."

"Okay?" Bluestreak wasn't quite sure what he was doing, but he wasn't going to pass this chance up. He needed to see this. His spark ached for it. The Enforcer-framed mech waved him in, watching him with intent optics. For what Bluestreak had no clue. Then, a shiver of… something… passed over him as he crossed the threshold. He gasped and turned back to stare at the mech. "What was that?"

The mech's grin widened and he set a hand on Bluestreak's shoulder, easing him deeper into the shop. "Proof that you've come to the right place, my young friend."

Bluestreak gave him a narrow-opticked look.  "I'm not that young."

"Sure, sure," the mech said, agreeable and with hands held up. "Didn't mean anything by it." He smiled and stepped away, farther into the shop. "Let me go grab Groove real quick. Feel free to take a look around." Then he slipped through the jingling shower of a beaded curtain into what Bluestreak could only assume was the back room.

Fluttering his doorwings to shake off the strange tingle of unknown energy that clung to them, Bluestreak took in the interior of the shop. His olfactory sensors were alive with the scent of burning flora and minerals, his vision lit by amber colored lanterns and the open flame of candles—a rare sight anywhere on Cybertron. Datapads and real books sat tucked onto shelves. Statues of mostly small sizes depicted deities from more belief systems than he could name. More candles, unburned, and sticks of incense crowded a corner, with several styles of divinatory tools set nearby. Crystals and herbs and… This was definitely what he was looking for, Bluestreak decided, suddenly nervous.

As he continued to look without moving from where he stood, the medic came up beside him. "Wow," the medic started, looking between Bluestreak and the swinging strings of beads. "He likes you. Streetwise doesn't really ever like anyone."

Bluestreak gave the medic an unsure look. "How can you tell?"

"Oh, he's letting you wander the shop by yourself. He hovers over most people," Aid answered quite matter-of-factly. "Says he can't trust them. But he was an Enforcer for vorns—just kind of comes with the job title, you know? And hard to leave behind."

"Oh, mech," Bluestreak said with a gusty sigh, "do I ever know that."

The mech looked at him and hummed soft amusement. "Let me set this rug back where it's supposed to be and I can show you around while we wait for Streets to get back with Groove. What's your name? I'm First Aid."

"O-okay," Bluestreak said. "I'm Bluestreak."

Chapter Text

How he'd gotten pulled into the situation he was in, Streetwise wasn't entirely certain. Things had been going down precisely as Prowl predicted they would until, suddenly, they weren't. Bleeding heavily from a slug that punched right through his shoulder pauldron, he pressed his back tight against the side of a private transport. He held his blaster at the ready, waiting for a chance to get off a shot or three of his own.

Several holes littered the vehicle, many coming distressingly close to Streetwise's position. Laying on the ground next to him was the graying frame of a lesser-known member of the Decepticons, the contact he'd been sent to meet, fallen to the same spray of bullets that had injured him. Any civilians had long since vacated the area.

His internal comm pinged, the ident tag showing it to be the one mech that could contact him at all times—something not even his gestalt brothers were allowed. "Blue, where are you?" he asked, grunting as he dropped lower to avoid another hail of projectiles coming his way. "I'm taking heavy fire! Why did we not know Soundblaster's crew was coming!"

::I don't know,:: Bluestreak responded, ::but Prowl has Jazz on it. Are you all right?:: He was calm, voice not even slightly wavering. No doubt he was at the ready, rifle trained on the main target. Streetwise held his glossa, not wanting to put the sniper off his game.

"I'm good, just getting rained on," he said. With luck, Bluestreak wouldn't pick up on the fact he was leaving something out. They didn't need their best shot distracted by the knowledge his conjunx-to-be was not only in the path of danger, but already injured. He threw himself to ground as yet another clip was emptied in his general direction. Slugs ricocheted off the paving, sending up sparks in a spray. "Whatever Prowl is up to, though, I'd really appreciate a little help."

::It's coming, sweetspark,:: Bluestreak said, the sound of his rifle readying in the background, ::even if I have to bring it myself.::

"Oh, you must be feeling good," Streetwise joked, because there was little reason not to in his situation. "You haven't called me something like that in ages."

::That's because I know better now,:: Bluestreak replied, finally letting a hint of humor into his voice.

"Come out, come out, little Enforcer!" called one of Soundblaster's mechs. Someone took a length of pipe to vehicles and poles and trash cans, sounding a loud ruckus that made its way closer to Streetwise. "The boss wants to see you."

"Frag," Streetwise hissed. "Blue!" There was nowhere he could go, no escape that wouldn't leave him entirely in the open as he ran.

::I'm coming, Streetwise!:: Bluestreak commed, a surge of desperate worry rising in his voice. ::Stay under cover!::

Shots rang out shortly thereafter, both distant and near. His comm lit up with incoming messages, the street grew loud with the influx of bots and rising violence. Streetwise risked a glance through the shot out windows of the transport, relieved to see Jazz and a handful of his finest—he didn't need more than that—come to the rescue. He nearly leapt out of his plating, though, as arms wrapped around him and pulled him against a frame gone hot from exertion.

"You didn’t say you got hit," Bluestreak chastised, mouth against Streetwise's audial.

While he couldn't quite relax into the embrace with the mayhem around them, Streetwise let himself absorb the feel of Bluestreak pressed against him. A corner of his mouth quirked upward. "Sorry?"

Bluestreak sighed and let his forehelm against the back Streetwise's neck. "You'd better be. Now, let's give Jazz a little help, huh?"

"Don't mind if we do."

Chapter Text

The anomaly swept across the Lost Light before it could be more than only just noticed by the bridge crew on duty. Even in the science labs, the approach went without prior knowledge. As it went, the only members of the crew aware of the event in full ended up being those actually affected by it—namely, Brainstorm and Bluestreak. Perhaps there were more, but Bluestreak hadn't run into any others just yet.

Sitting on a stool in the portion of the lab dedicated to Brainstorm's projects, Bluestreak watched as patiently as he could while the scientist rambled his way through a pile of calculations and jotted down notes Bluestreak knew he himself would have no chance of understanding. Which is to say, not very patiently at all.

"Come on, Brainstorm," Bluestreak started, giving him a dirty look. "Aren't you supposed to be better at science than this? It's been what? Three hours and you haven't solved the problem yet?" He sat slumped and annoyed as he glared at the mech.

Said mech paused long enough in his work to flick his wings with all the disdain of Starscream at his worst. He huffed and peeked over his shoulder. "Do you mind? This is an entirely new phenomenon—"

"Maybe if you haven't watched Star Trek," Bluestreak muttered, barely resisting the urge to kick his feet like a petulant sparkling.

Brainstorm just… stopped. He was silent and not moving at all for a good half-klik before setting down whatever devices he was holding and turning around. It was obvious from the narrowing of his optics that Bluestreak had touched a nerve. "Excuse me, what was that?"

"You heard me," Bluestreak replied, not backing down. He hadn't made it through the war and not learned to stick up for himself. "Star Trek."

The scientist frowned in a much more thoughtful fashion, tilting his helm. He crossed one arm over his middle, resting the elbow of the other in a spot that allowed him to stroke his chin with the free hand. "Ah… an interesting suggestion! One worthy of study, definitely. Perhaps we are dealing with a time discrepancy, something that sets us just far enough ahead in time to make our shipmates appear as if they are hardly moving, if at a—"

"Brainstorm," Bluestreak interrupted, waving for the mech to settle down before he really got started on conjecture. "Can we please just solve the problem as quickly as possible?"

A smirk not at all hidden by that mask of Brainstorm's mask came Bluestreak's way. "Oooh, why the rush? Got a hot date?"

"As a matter of fact, yes," Bluestreak said. He leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees, and a sharp grin on his mouth. "And don't make me disappoint Streetwise. His brothers don't like it when he's disappointed."

Brainstorm quieted and turned somewhat contrite. "Ah, yes, let's not test the good will of the Protectobots." He turned back to his work and started flicking through programs on a datapad. "Say, you wouldn't happen to recall exactly which episodes those were?"

Bluestreak smirked and slipped off the stool, heading across the room to help as best he could. "Yeah, there's a couple of them. Some other franchises tackled it, too."

Chapter Text

He wasn't really the best of teachers, but Streetwise turned out to be the only one that knew what their new pathwalker sought to learn. Thus, Streetwise found himself meeting with the younger—but not that young, as he was quick to point out—Bluestreak on a weekly basis. His brothers certainly took full advantage of his trips to the surface, too, stuffing his hands with lists each time he headed for the door. Those always waited until after the lesson, not even being looked at until then.

Sitting in the park, hidden away from the prying optics of any random passersby, Streetwise waited for his student to arrive. He sat near the edge of a well-maintained pond watching the synth-ducks paddle around the calm surface, quiet quacks of duckish conversation passing between them. Streetwise had a moment of wishing he had Groove's ability to speak to the mechanimals. He watched them swim and pluck small cyber-fish from the pond beneath them with a soft smile until tin-grass muffled pedesteps caught his audials.

"Sorry I'm late," Bluestreak apologized, sitting himself on the soft grass beside Streetwise. The doorwings that usually floated with an air of excitement and eagerness were held high and stiff behind him. His field was held close to his frame and reeked of anxious despair—this was not the right frame of mind or spark to continue his learning. "Prowl needed to speak to me before I could leave this morning."

Not taking his gaze off the pond, Streetwise grabbed a handful of pebbles. One by one, he slowly started plinking them into the pond, avoiding the synth-ducks with an apt hand. He didn't want to tell the younger mech he couldn't teach him, not in his current condition. "What did he have to say that has your field so riled?"

Bluestreak's doorwings drooped as if the strings holding them had been cut, hanging low and sad. The hold on his field loosened enough that Streetwise could feel how deep the lack of hope went. His spark hurt for his student. Silver-gray fingers plucked at the tin-grass as Bluestreak sought out the right words. "He… he's set up a match for me, Streets," he said. "Our creators wanted it this way. If none of us found someone before a certain age, he was to make sure we didn't stay alone."

Streetwise frowned and shifted his gaze toward Bluestreak. "That's a very odd thing to decide for your creations."

"It's Praxian tradition," Bluestreak said with a heavy sigh, slumping over his pulled up knees. "If it wasn't Prowl doing it, it would have been my creators." He rested his chin on the forearm settled across them. A sad flutter of his doorwings signaled the full release of his previous tension. "Prowl was already bonded when they passed so he never had to deal with it. And Smokescreen found someone before Prowl had to force it."

The air between them went quiet as Bluestreak finished and Streetwise gave him a long, deep look. This was Streetwise's Talent, this emotion-based thing. Reading Bluestreak was easier than he usually found reading any bot, almost uncomfortably so. "This is why you want to learn the ways?" he asked, honestly curious. "To what? Find someone before Prowl goes through with this match? Or just stop it from having to happen at all?"

Soft blue optics flashed a glance toward him, fingers splayed deeper through the tin-grass. His voice was tiny when he finally spoke again. "Can magic do that? Can it help me with this?"

Rubbing a hand over his chest, Streetwise felt his spark flicker at the roil of unhappy emotions coming off the younger mech. He scooted closer and slipped an arm around him, tugging him into a gentle embrace. "It can," he answered with a murmur, "but not without a hefty price. Working with what amounts to love spells is asking for trouble and I don't want you to have to pay something like that. Not as someone so new to your path. And wouldn't Prowl just find another if this match doesn't happen?"

The look Bluestreak gave him, the desperate twist of his mouth and the too-bright glow of his optics, read just as clearly as his field. "Then what am I supposed to do, Streetwise?"

Oh, how he wished he had an answer for that. "Don't worry, Blue," he said, putting on his best confident facade. "We'll figure something out."

Chapter Text

It wasn't every day someone came knocking at Streetwise's habsuite door. Not even the rest of his team did so, not with the bond they shared as gestalt. For them, it was a simple matter of bombarding him with comm requests until he gave in. And others? Well, normally, they used the chime, as it did sit right there beside the door. This, however, was very much a knock.

Frowning, Streetwise set down his controller and excused himself from the next round of the game. Not waiting for his teammates to reply, he got to his pedes and headed over to take a peek out into the hall. Knocking was so unusual that he simply couldn't just call out for the bot on the other side to come in. It was as if it required him to answer it himself. Oddly, in his knowledge of door knocking, Streetwise had always assumed the person seeking admittance would knock a second and even third time if the visited didn't respond quickly enough. A second knock never came, however, leaving him to wonder as he stood at the door if he'd perhaps had an audial hallucination. Still, he'd taken the time to step away from his game and all the way to the door….

Streetwise sighed and pulled the door open, fully expecting to find absolutely nothing outside it in the dim evening lighting. He stilled and blinked when, instead, he discovered himself faced with the biggest pair of miscreants on the entirety of the Lost Light: Misfire and Swerve. Well, one of the biggest pairs. The Lost Light had far more than its fair share of them. The grins this particular pair favored him with set off all sorts of warning flags in his brain module, flooding his HUD with a continuous scroll of ominous foreshadowing. The way they held their hands so discreetly behind their backs indicated they were carrying something he probably didn't want to be involved with. Streetwise grunted. "What are you two up to?"

"Oh, nothing much," Swerve started, rocking on his pedes and his grin impossibly widening. "We just heard a rumor of sorts, is all."

Streetwise narrowed his optics. "A rumor?"

The garishly colored flyer took up the conversation, wings aflutter. "Yeah, a rumor. Like, a big rumor. An important one."

"A very important one," Swerve agreed, nodding along.

Great. Streetwise could only imagine what had gotten into their goofy helms this time. He grimaced and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. "You're not dragging Blades into whatever you two are doing this time, are you?"

Both had the nerve to look offended. They talked over each other as they denied the accusation. "I can't believe—" "Of all the things—"

A familiar pair of hands came down on them, one on the shoulder of each. Both of the troublemakers jerked and went silent. Bluestreak leaned forward and gave them each a look, first Misfire, then Swerve. "Just what are you two up to?"

Swerve and Misfire groaned in unison and tossed their hands in disbelief, dropping whatever they'd been holding on the floor behind them in a rustle and small crash. "I can't understand why everybody always thinks we're up to something," Swerve groused. His visor flashed bright as he looked from Bluestreak to Streetwise and back. "Seriously, what kind of mechs do you take us for? How have we earned this lousy reputation?"

"Yeah, what he said!" Misfire chimed in, standing tall and flicking his wings as he tried to look innocent.

"Not good enough. What were you up to?" Streetwise asked, crossing his arms and sharing a smirk with Bluestreak.

It was Misfire's turn to bluster and he did so with gusto, setting up a small draft as his wings flittered in a sure sign of him not being quite entirely truthful. "We were just gonna ask a question!"

"Yeah," Swerve agreed. "Just a simple question, nothing major."

"Uh huh," Streetwise said. He nodded toward the items they'd dropped. "Then what are those things?"

Both Swerve and Misfire looked down at the items, nervous laughter quickly following as they kicked the items as far away from them as they could manage. Obviously, there was little weight to them as they didn’t go very far. In fact, one item caught on Misfire's pede and held on for dear life. "Oh, those?" Swerve asked, sounding as if he sought complete innocence. "Don't know what any of that is."

"Yeah," Misfire chimed in. "Never seen any of this junk in my life!"

Behind them, Bluestreak rolled his optics and squeezed their shoulders a little harder. "Forget those things for a moment," he suggested. "How about we hear this innocent question of yours. What could you possibly need to bother my boyfriend with at this time of night?"

Streetwise held a laugh at the audible gulps that escaped the two. "Well?" he prompted, leaning against the side of his open door frame. "Let's hear it."

Misfire and Swerve exchanged twisty mouthed looks before finally slumping in defeat. "Okay," Swerve said, holding up his hands as if to ward off any incoming blows—not that Streetwise or Bluestreak would do such without proper cause to do so. The minibot sighed in defeat. "We were just minding our own business—"

"As you do," Bluestreak said, one optical ridge raised, earning a stifled snort from Streetwise. A quick wink from the Praxian sent a happy wobble through his spark—Bluestreak really needed to stop doing things like that to him.

"Exactly!" Misfire agreed, wagging a finger in the air and looking pleased. "As we do."

Swerve, on the other hand, had the decency to cringe a bit as he smiled and nodded. "Yes, as we do." He paused to glance this way and that, as if looking for an escape, but none presented themselves. "Anyway," he sighed, shoulders slumping for all of a moment before a touch of curious excitement came back. "We heard a rumor, is all. Wanted to check how true it was, you know? Come to the source and all that."

Streetwise shared a look with his other half, giving him a nod when he caught the sparkle of mischief in his optics. "And what would that rumor be that it includes," he paused to glance at the incriminating objects, "some reference to crowns and fancy capes?"

Misfire and Swerve glanced down, as well, both going a bit sheepacronish. Then, they talked right over each other. "Well, you see—" "We can explain—"

They both went quiet as Bluestreak caught them by the scruff and gave a little squeeze. "Come on, guys," he said. "Just spill it already. Does it have anything to do with the scrap Smokescreen was talking last night?"

Streetwise arched an orbital ridge and gave all three of them a curious optic. He'd been on duty and been unable to meet Bluestreak at the bar. "What was Smokescreen saying last night?"

Misfire and Swerve shared another look, then Swerve leaned forward to whisper, "He said you were about to marry into royalty, thus implying Bluestreak is some high and mighty prince or something."

Beside him, Misfire nodded, red optics wide as he waited for the response.

Bluestreak's hands moved back to rest on the shoulders of the mechs and Streetwise sighed. "I thought we told him to stop that."

"We did," Bluestreak answered. "The words flow like the engex when he drinks, though. By the time I realized he was on it again, it was too late."

"Okay," Streetwise said, giving the two mechs between himself and Bluestreak a tired look. "The only thing royal on this ship is Smokescreen being a royal pain in the aft. No more of this," he waved a hand toward the dropped items, "unless you're giving it to him, all right?"

The look Misfire and Swerve shared next spoke of more mischief taking foot. "Yes, sir, Streetwise, sir," Misfire said with a sloppy salute and flick of wings. He grinned at Swerve, then the two of them scrambled down the hall, collecting their props as they went.

When they were gone from view, Bluestreak stepped close and slipped his arms around Streetwise's middle. Pressing their forehelms together, he met Streetwise's gaze with amused optics. "You know it's gonna become common knowledge eventually, right? I'm used to it. You'll get there, too."

Streetwise groaned and curled his hands around Bluestreak's upper arms. He wasn't sure he'd actually signed on for something like that, but he wasn't backing out either. "I don't want people acting weird around me. Us. Can we stop that from happening, at least?"

A soft laugh and a softer kiss preceded Bluestreak's reply. "It's just a matter of time. They'll get over it."

"They better," Streetwise grumped.

"Besides," Bluestreak continued, teasing good humor flooding his field, "do you really think most of them don't already know?"

Streetwise frowned in annoyance and swatted at his chest. "Shut up."

Bluestreak only laughed and kissed him again.

Chapter Text

"So why are we watching this again?" Streetwise asked as he favored Bluestreak with an amused look. He sat on one of the seats in the one-time souvenir room now ship's theater, Bluestreak's legs stretched across his thighs.

"We are watching this because I am still trying to find the thing that scares the kibble off you," Bluestreak said, wiggling his pedes a bit. He grinned and lifted the remote, flipping through the menu to find the movie he was after. "Hand me the bowl of potassium puffs?"

Streetwise complied, stealing a few as he set it on Bluestreak's lap. Crunching through them a few at a time, he gestured toward the screen. "We starting or do you need more snacks first?"

The narrowed look Bluestreak gave him had Streetwise biting back a smirk. "Are you saying something?"

Streetwise softened and curled his hand over the shape of Bluestreak's knee, knowing that softness filtered right into his field and washed over his favorite bot watching the way he shifted into the touch. "Nope," Streetwise said, thumb rubbing gently at his plating. "Not saying anything at all." Then he grinned, helm tilting Bluestreak's way. "So what monster is it this time?"

The answering grin on Bluestreak's face sent his spark dancing. He waved the remote toward the screen. "Tonight, the monster of choice is werewolves!"

"Werewolves?" Streetwise asked, eyeing him thoughtfully. "You do know luponoids are like my favorite mechanimals ever, right? Earth wolves a close second? Have I not ever mentioned this to you?"

Bluestreak's enthusiasm dampened quite suddenly on hearing that, then he whacked Streetwise good on the arm with the remote. Streetwise stifled a little yelp as Bluestreak scowled playfully at him. "Don't ruin my fun. I'll tell First Aid."

That was nearly enough to gain an actual real cringe out of Streetwise. "Uh, yeah, please don't do that." He patted Bluestreak's knee. "I'll be good and act scared of the werewolves."

"Good," Bluestreak said with a swiftly returned grin. "Now, since you were offering, go get me more snacks. You know what I like." He lifted his legs and waved Streetwise off toward the snack filled cabinets shared by the entire ship—it was a group effort to keep them stocked. "Off! Bring me snacks!"

"Yes, dear," Streetwise deadpanned before laughing and ducking out of his seat as Bluestreak swatted at him again. He had snacks to get before he really got himself in trouble—it would be incredibly difficult not to laugh his aft off at all the inaccuracies the movie was bound to include. It was either that or be offended his kind were so badly represented.

Chapter Text

He'd never expected Streetwise to agree when the idea struck him. The fact that his mentor took only a moment of thought before agreeing to the absurd plot shocked Bluestreak to his core, really. Convincing Prowl that it was the real thing, though, was going to be a much bigger task.

"And you're sure your brother won't have objections to Streetwise serious enough to simply toss him out of the house and never let you see him again?" Hot Spot asked for probably the third time since they'd sat down in the backroom of the shop. Streetwise had dragged them here the moment Bluestreak had brought up his idea while sitting in their usual spot in the park.

Bluestreak shrugged, doorwings following the movement, and offered an only half-confident smile. "Honestly, I can't see him being bothered by anything more than the fact that Streetwise left the Enforcers the way he did."

"And you're all right with this, Streets?" Blades asked from where he sat grading feldspar chunks and separating the different levels of quality into piles on the table in front of him. His rotor blades fluttered as he considered his words. "I mean, this Prowl guy is pretty high up the ladder, isn't he?"

"He is," Streetwise said, glancing over at Bluestreak. They sat on a ragged couch scavenged from a higher level, making Streetwise and his brothers perhaps the fifth owners of it, much like the rest of the furniture. "Prowl was already well into working his way toward becoming Chief Enforcer of Praxus when I first joined the academy."

First Aid looked back and forth between them, his field a riot of poorly hidden concern. "Are you sure he's going to believe this? What if he decides to look deeper into who you are? He's going to find us and the shop," First Aid told them, following the logic. His hands were clenching so tightly at the herbs he held they were probably bruised beyond saving for anything more than powder or salve. "And then what happens?"

"What can he do?" Blades asked, setting down his newest handfuls of feldspar. "He can't put you in jail or anything, can he?"

Finally, from his spot on the floor, divinitory cards laid out in a pattern Bluestreak didn't know in front of him, Groove spoke up. "It doesn't matter what Prowl will do if he finds out if the two of you can't fake it well enough to begin with." He looked up from the cards and met Bluestreak's gaze, then Streetwise's. "Have you two put any effort into that or just thought maybe you'd wing it?"

On the other end of the couch, Streetwise froze. Bluestreak peeked over at him, not quite sure how to feel about that. He looked to Groove. "Just to make certain I'm understanding you… What kind of effort?"

Groove's expressive mouth stretched in a grin. Blades laughed while First Aid set down his bruised herbs and watched closely. Hot Spot merely continued pouring new candles while the paraffin was still hot, giving the scene a look when he could. "You just ran down here the moment whoever came up with it mentioned it, didn't you?" Groove asked, deeply humored by the prospect. "Not even the slightest bit more thought's been put into it, huh?"

"Bet they haven't thought about kissing," Blades snickered, rotors aflutter, "to see if they can even do it!" First Aid slapped a hand over his mask as if it would muffle his giggles and Hot Spot snorted, giving a quick roll of his optics.

Bluestreak felt his cheeks flush with heat and Streetwise suddenly wouldn't meet his optics. Doorwings giving a nervous flick, Bluestreak wondered what he'd been thinking, making the suggestion of pretending he'd entered into an affair with Streetwise. Fake dating, as it were, like in the silliest of romance stories.

"Very astute observation, Blades," Groove said, grin turning sly. "Why don't we test how good they are at it?"

"What?" Streetwise snapped at him, as if shocked at the idea.

"You heard me, brother mine," Groove replied, gesturing toward Bluestreak with the cards he still held in his hand. "Kiss the mech and make me believe it. Make us believe it. If you can't fool us, you'll never fool a guy like Prowl."

Streetwise glared at the two-wheeler before taking a deep vent and turning to Bluestreak. The look on Streetwise's face was like that Bluestreak recalled from his very sternest teachers throughout his schooling. His spark dipped. Maybe it was a bad idea, after all.

Then, Streetwise scooted close, caught his face in warm hands, and leaned close. The touch of Streetwise's mouth against his wasn't even remotely inspiring, rough and ungiving.

"Oh Primus, that sucks!" Blades decried from the table. "I've seen better kisses between Hot Spot and that petrorabbit of his!"

"Hey, you leave Lucky out of this," Hot Spot reprimanded, obviously amused.

Bluestreak sighed as Streetwise pulled back, rolling his optics. His hands didn't fall away, though. "I don't do well with an audience, you dipsticks," he groused at his brothers. "I'm not exactly into exhibitionism."

A snicker escaped Bluestreak, his cheeks heating again as he reached out to take hold of Streetwise's face this time. "Let me lead."

"Kiss him!" Blades hollered as First Aid whooped in solidarity. Groove watched, serene. Hot Spot… well, he smirked and continued pouring his candles.

Bluestreak gazed into Streetwise's optics and murmured, "This is how it's done," before gently pressing his mouth against his mentor's. His doorwings dipped low, like unto a photovoltaic cat purring, as Streetwise softened into him.

"Very nice!" Groove's voice broke in from far too close, a hand coming down on Bluestreak's shoulder. He pulled away from Streetwise to blink at the diviner as he smiled down on them, a hand also placed on Streetwise's shoulder. "Keep that up and certain people might actually believe it."

As Streetwise went from slightly dazed to scowling at Groove, Bluestreak watched and laughed, mostly because he wasn't sure how else to react. Because… um. "Yeah, maybe."

Chapter Text

Solus skimmed through the information the small bot—Rewind by name, she believed—had given her. The rest of her companions showed little interest learning what their home had become in the here and now. Even Megatronus preferred spending his time among the bots that called the ship home, despite the wariness and sometimes great displeasure they treated him—all of them—with. He didn't particularly care that the world, their world was no more. A copy existed because of course it did, but that was not truly home. Not as she considered it.

Setting the datapad aside on the berthside table, Solus crawled out of the berth and made her way toward the mirror she'd placed on the wall. She'd put it there shortly after the habsuite was gifted to herself and Megatronus. The face she saw reflected remained as odd to her optics as it had the first time she'd gazed on it. Not that it was a bad face by any means. No, the form she now wore was quite attractive. Her nights with Megatronus proved the sentiment went beyond her own, even. (It was a shame their hosts hadn't been together before the Code activated. Their frames fit together in ways that made one think they might have been forged for it.)

The mirror, though, was for more than viewing herself. It also gave her the best way to speak with the spark that first wore the frame. Solus scratched a shallow cut into a tiny energon hose that traveled along her forearm. Soaking the tip of one finger in the energon that leaked from the small hole, Solus used the cooling fluid to scribe a glyph on the surface of the mirror. She swiped her glossa across the wound and it closed in the wake with a soft sizzle of Primely power.

Gazing at her new face in the reflection, Solus called out, "Will you speak with me, Streetwise?"

Within moments, her reflection took on its own life. The mech that looked back at her continued to look utterly unimpressed with her existence. "What do you want now?" he asked. "I haven't changed my mind, in case that's what you're after. I don't like this any better than I did the first time you asked me."

Solus shook her helm. "No, I'm not asking that of you again," she assured him. "I've been reading."

"I know," he said, crossing his arms and giving her a hard look. "I also know you've got a whole lot of doubts that have shown up because of it. What do you want me to do about any of it?"

He was understandably angry. The first week, as he'd named the passage of time, Streetwise had done nothing but rail against her in their shared brain module, sending hard and painful flickers through their shared spark. Megatronus reported nearly the same from his own host, though he seemed to bear it better, less apt to listen to the mech he shared a frame with. She knew if she talked to the others, they would likely tell her they experienced less than pleased reactions from theirs, as well. The bots of the current age were very independent, honestly, and not very interested in sharing the life of a Prime.

"You've seen the duplicate Cybertron, haven't you?" she asked, her voice nearly the same as his for use of the same vocalizer, deeper than she was used to. "Tell me, how does it compare to ours?"

Streetwise gazed at her in silence. She could feel him buzzing around the reaches of their brain module that she wasn't using. Solus could have easily forced her way in, read the things he didn't want her to see, but she understood the value of privacy. It couldn't hurt to allow him some in a situation he hadn't asked for.

When he finally met her gaze again, she knew he'd formulated a plan of some sort. Streetwise was definitely the sort to never go along when he thought there was a better answer. It touched a small amount of pride in her that she'd downloaded into a frame shared with such an excellent spark. She smirked. "You have a deal for me?"

He flinched, obviously not expecting to be sussed out quite that easily. Fortunately, it didn't put him off whatever game he had planned. "Yes, I do," he said. "I'll answer your questions if you do something for me."

"I can do many things for you, Streetwise," she replied, stroking a hand over their chest, "if you'd let me. But tell me what you need now since that's the way you want to do it. We'll trade favors, one for one?"

He was alone, having sent everyone off to do whatever. Quiet shifts in the medibay on his own soothed his worries, let him think. First Aid didn't expect this one to be any different. And then it was.

"What do you want?" First Aid asked as the ancient Prime wearing his teammate's frame stepped into his medibay. He tried not to sound too angry, but he couldn't really help himself. No one wanted to risk upsetting a Prime that wore the frame of a friend or loved one. Even Rodimus and Ratchet were cautious in ways he'd never seen them be.

"It's me, Aid," the bot said, sounding very much like the mech he remembered, not the ancient femme he'd been listening to for the past month. He was stopped right inside the medibay doors. "She's letting me talk to you, but I don't have much time."

First Aid dropped the tools he was sorting and cautiously stretched his field across the medibay. The field that tangled with his was all Streetwise, leaving First Aid with no doubt it was real. Darting across the medibay, he outright flung himself at Streetwise, wrapping around him like robo-monkey. "Streets," he murmured into the cables of his neck. "It's really you. I thought you were gone! I watched those glyphs overwrite everything!"

Strong arms wrapped around First Aid's middle, holding him close. "Yeah, it's me," Streetwise said. "Let's get into your office, huh? I gotta tell you something and it's gotta be quick."

Chapter Text

Streetwise had not the faintest clue where he was when he onlined his optics, standing in the middle of what tried very hard to be his habsuite on the Lost Light. He knew better, though. While he didn't put much stock into most of what Drift said and taught, Streetwise had picked up on cementing a trigger object into his subconscious mind that would tell him when he was in the midst of a dream. Seeing that object—a miniature of Defensor—sitting on his desk? He was no doubt in the middle of dream time. Only, he didn't recall going to sleep. He hadn't even finished his first drink at Swerve's, last he knew.

He immediately set to checking himself from tip of his audial horns down to the tips of his pedes for injuries. If something had happened and put him in the medibay, his dream frame always showed some sort of mark. However, a thorough search turned up nothing.

With no injuries and a sure sign that he was dreaming, Streetwise made his way to the figure on his desk. He reached out and grabbed it, then began the careful process of disengaging the components. His chosen path to climb out of sleep and any dream he didn't want was to uncombine Defensor into his separate parts, miniatures of himself and his team. The effort of shifting the parts correctly through their transformations brought his mind ever closer to wakefulness, letting him rise out of even the worst terror-fluxes.

As he set the last bot down—himself—Streetwise waited for the familiar feel of waking. When nothing happened, he frowned. "What the frag?" he muttered, reaching out to shift the figures a bit, as if it might help. "What is going on here?"

Then he heard it. His own voice, echoing at him from… somewhere. Streetwise felt his first flutter of fear. This was not right. Biting it back, he followed the voice as it called out to him again. He found the origin when he approached a mirror that he didn't recall ever having. Had it been there earlier? Streetwise couldn't recall, but it shouldn't have been there at all.

Standing in front of it, he saw himself, but not himself. The him in the mirror moved to his own calling. "Ah, there you are," the other him said, tone kind and not quite normal for him. "I knew you were awake. I could feel you moving through our thoughts."

Streetwise blinked, his frown deepening. "Who are you?"

"So direct," the other said with a growing smile. "I knew there must be a reason the coding chose you for me."

"That wasn't an answer," Streetwise shot back. He crossed his arms and gave the mech his very best unimpressed look. "Again, who are you? And, while we're at it, what the frag is going on?"

"You know who I am, Streetwise," the other said, looking on him with a gentle gaze that looked entirely wrong on his face. The other forward and looked down as if to suggest Streetwise do the same. "I've not hidden my name from you."

If this was a dream he couldn't get out of, Streetwise was very much not amused. He did, however, glance down and find a small table set under the mirror—another item that shouldn't be there. On top of the table sat a datapad. "This is still not an answer," he replied, grabbing up the datapad and jerking it in the direction of the mirror.

"No, it's not," the other said, helm tilting a bit to one side. "It is, however, more information than I have time to impart to you through the mirror. Our time to converse like this is limited, the Code won't allow for more."

And that didn't sound good at all. Streetwise flipped the datapad over in his hand, looking for anything that wasn't right, but found nothing. "Code?"

"Read the datapad, Streetwise," the other said, an odd fuzziness forming around the edges of his form. "I'll contact you again when I can." Then the vision cut off, leaving Streetwise glaring at a reflection of what was most definitely himself.

He grunted and sighed as he turned away, giving the datapad another good looking over. Tapping it on, he found it contained only one file. Arching a brow ridge, he opened it and took in the first line.

My name is Solus Prime and you, Streetwise of Altihex, are my avatar.

That was more than enough for the datapad to end up flung across the room with a sigh of disgust. It bounced off the wall and slid under the berth with a clatter where it would stay until it ran out of power. "That is the biggest load of scrap I've ever seen," he muttered, not sure what to do with himself. "I mean, what the frag? Seriously? Do I look like Drift?"

A quick tapping sounded at the mirror. Expecting to see himself, again, Streetwise glanced over and blinked when instead he saw Bluestreak. He blinked a second time and the image didn't change. On the other side of the mirror, tapping frantically and mouthing something Streetwise couldn't hear, was definitely the silver and black Praxian.

Narrowing his gaze curiously as he approached the mirror again, Streetwise called out, "Blue?"