My father has the emotional maturity of a five year old.
Title: The Nine Rings of Vos: War
A Transformers G1 Fanfic
Author: Sanjuno Shori Niko
Summary: He wakes up, and everyone in the world is a stranger, but strangers are only strangers before you meet them, afterwards, they just might be friends.
Timeline: More fic here.
=/=
(In which Bluestreak starts talking.)
When he wakes up he has no idea where he is. His life has been fear and pain and fire. This clean, sterile place with its white, white walls - other colours show up so well on white, glowing pink and sticky blue and clotted, clinging black - it is like nothing he recognizes (except in his nightmares.) He is trapped, hemmed in by walls and ceiling (no holes to look up and see the sky through) and blinking, chirping monitors that track every twitch, record every flux. He wants the sky and his protectors, he does not feel safe without seeing their swift figures darting just-out-of-sight from the edge of his vision.
He is panicking. He knows he is panicking but that only makes it worse. He is not safe here. Trapped, locked away, forgotten…
“Easy. Calm yourself. You are safe now.” Graceful movement spied out of the corner of his optic, white and black and wings (wings meant safe. Wings meant home.) Only they were not really wings, instead there were back panels and a chevron, a build only available to mechs from Praxus (other home) but it was (safe) familiar.
“You feelin’ better now, younglin’?” Black and white again but flipped, motion still graceful but looser, visor and sensor horns and back panels smaller than what fragmented, unreliable memory said they should be. Not kin but (adopted, kin-by-choice) still comforting.
“… Hi.” His voice is small as he feels next to two such strong, confidant presences. Weak, shaky - he feels shame for the first time in memory and dislikes it.
“Hi there yourself, sparklet. We were startin’ t’ wonder if you were ever gonna wake up.” The visored mech grinned, banished shame with warmth and kindness. “I’m Jazz, and this here’s Prowl. We’re th’ ones who pulled you outta Praxus, so we felt a bit responsible and decided t’ hang around ‘til you felt like wakin’ up.”
“Um, thank you.” He feels shy and looks down at his knees. His colour is a slate grey with red, and it is strange that he did not know that before he looked. He wants to say more, the silence feels wrong, but the words go missing when he looks for them, hiding just out of sight.
“Do you remember your designation?” Prowl asks - gently, gently like touching the still-soft armour of a new sparkling - the care taken makes him warm.
“Um?” Does he remember his name? Of course he does, it was his name. Such a strange, strange question to ask, even if the words are gone he is still himself, still a rush of sound and colour, energy and motion. He still is. It does not occur to him to wonder why they are asking questions about his memory, he is too busy hunting for the right pattern, noises and symbols and a glyph glowing with sparklight, sparkright. He still is. “Bluestreak. My name’s Bluestreak.”
“Nice t’ meetcha, Bluestreak.” Jazz grins easily and does not comment about how long it took Bluestreak to answer Prowl’s question.
Prowl and Jazz are Autobots, Bluestreak learns, they are officers and they are busy fighting the war, and Bluestreak owes them, owes them so much, but they do not want to be repaid, not in any concrete way, and that only makes Bluestreak more determined to find a way to show his gratitude. He stays with them for over a vorn after being released from the medical bay, and they help him get back on his pedes, to find his place. Prowl and Jazz open their home to Bluestreak, they help him through his final upgrade. Prowl lets Bluestreak see him happy and sad and angry. Jazz lets Bluestreak see him without a smile, without his visor, with his back panels out from under their protective plating. So of course Bluestreak wants to help them any way he can, so of course he joins the Autobots. Bluestreak manages to surprise even himself with his marksmanship skills. Prowl is pleased when Bluestreak becomes a sniper - one of the best - Jazz teases Prowl about being an overprotective caregiver, and Prowl looks longsuffering and embarrassed but it makes Bluestreak happy to know that they are proud of him, to know that they worry about him, to know that they care about him, to know that they are his family. Truthfully Bluestreak knows that Jazz is just as happy as Prowl is to hear that Bluestreak is mostly kept away from the danger zone of the front lines, tucked away from the thick of the fighting (screaming, dying) in an out-of-the-way spot where he can pick off enemies from a distance, from hiding. Bluestreak is backup, Bluestreak plays support, and he is just as happy not to have to go head-to-head with Decepticon front line fighters.
Bluestreak is quiet and shy and kind and the other Autobots he works with find him likable enough, and that would be fine, just fine, except his words are still missing and sometimes it is too much, too quiet, too lonely, too still and he is left scrabbling in the dark trying to trap a dervish with his bare hands. It locks him up, makes him freeze and sometimes it gets him hurt and then he is stuck looking at whitewhitewhite until he can escape from the medics who look at him with sad (pitying) optics and ask if he wants to talk.
He does want to talk, just… not with them. Not ever with them. They make the words hide deeper than usual until it is all he can do to call for Prowl and Jazz. Prowl understands. Jazz understands. They always make it better, make it okay, even if they cannot bring back what he is missing at least they can fill the void with something just as good, just as nice.
Only right now he is trapped in medical again and -
“You aft-headed moron! What did you do? Stand still to make yourself an easier target?” The roared words made the pressure building up in Bluestreak’s processor disappear, nattering worries shocked into stillness as the world flipped upside down. A wrench whizzed across the triage line and slammed into the head of a mech who had just turned to walk out the door. The stricken mech collapsed in a heap, and the medic who had thrown the wrench descended on his victim like the wrath of Primus made metal, dragging the fallen mech to a vacant medical berth with more efficiency than gentleness, all the while growling an ill-tempered refrain. “And you! Does it look like I have nothing better to do than to save you glitching idiots from your own stupidity! You think I can’t tell when you’ve got internal damages? What, do I look blind?”
Blinking as his optics rebooted in shock, Bluestreak watched the unfamiliar medic (must be new if Bluestreak had never seen him before) took complete control of the medical bay with the tyrannical arrogance of someone who was really, really, really good at his job.
Bluestreak found himself smiling. Maybe it was the chevron, maybe it was the white armour, but as the snarling medic terrorized the staff and wounded into quaking obedience, Bluestreak felt a sense of calm certainty creep over him. Things were going to be all right. He did not know how, he did not know why, but he knew things would work out.
But the words were still locked away, locked inside and runningrunningrunning in circles with no way out and it was driving Bluestreak crazy because if he could just find the right method, find the right key, find the right code he knows, he knows that he could free his words and things would be so much better.
“All right then, you’re next up.” The flashing lights startle Bluestreak for a moment, but no that was not laser fire the light just came from the strangest helm modification he has ever seen and the distraction is almost but not quite enough to keep him from noticing the back panels this stranger has, only a little smaller than Jazz’s but thicker, denser sensor clusters needing more armour. Bluestreak does not know how but he knows that the mech is smiling at the scrutiny even though Bluestreak cannot see the other mech’s face. The grey and white stranger keeps a polite hold on his emission energy, almost as tight as a surgeon, and Bluestreak cannot read more than pleasant good nature, but still there is something about him that is trustworthy. “My name’s Wheeljack, let’s get you taken care of, hm? C’mon over here, good mech. Now, tell me what your damage is.”
“Um, my side… and my leg?” Bluestreak ducked his head as Wheeljack chuckled and helped him up onto one of the berths. The gunner watched the other mech curiously as Wheeljack gathered a few tools. “You don’t seem like a medic.”
It was hard to tell who was more surprised by the blurted comment, Wheeljack or Bluestreak himself. After a moment, Wheeljack laughed, helmlights flashing merrily.
“No, I suppose not.” Wheeljack answered good-humouredly. “I’m an engineer actually. Ratchet’s the medic, but he knows that I know enough about basic repairs to fix the minor stuff so that the real medics can focus on the big stuff. So! Let’s get you fixed up, hey?”
And just like that…
“Okay.” Bluestreak nodded, feeling strange and giddy and warm.
Just… like that.
“Excellent!” Wheeljack hummed happily as he set to work. “We’ll have you fixed up in no time at all.”
Just like that… the words came back.
“It was an accident you know, me getting hurt like this, since I don’t usually get shot at much because I’m usually hidden away somewhere I can back the others up. I was paying too much attention to my sights and not enough to where I was standing I guess.” Bluestreak laughed a little in rueful embarrassment. “That’s probably why I ended up falling down two levels of this old apartment complex that I was stationed in, but it turned out to be a good thing for me because the Decepticons bombed the roof in right after I got back on my pedes. I nearly got crushed when the rubble fell down, but better to be dodging debris than getting exploded, that probably would have hurt. Now that I think about it I was really lucky to get away with only a few dings, and the gash on my leg turned out to be a good thing in the end since otherwise I would have been able to climb back up to the top floor and if I had done that the missiles would have got me for sure and I’m a lot easier to break than a building, so it’s a really good thing I had cover. Jazz says that Praxians like me and Prowl are built for speed tactics, so I should make sure I dodge things like that. Oh, Prowl and Jazz are kind of my caretakers, they’re really nice and they took me in after Praxus - well, after Praxus. Prowl is a Praxian model like me but Jazz is so modified he says that even he doesn’t remember what his original frame model was, isn’t that funny? Prowl always looks like he wants to argue when Jazz says stuff like that, I think it’s because Prowl knows Jazz is exaggerating.”
He has the words but they are missing something, lacking some essential component. There is not music, no song, no movement, and he does not know why he thinks that there should be. The words keep spilling out of him, fast and free but somehow subtly wrong, in a way he just cannot describe, cannot quantify even to himself. Maybe if he just keeps talking things will get better.
“And you’re all done.” Wheeljack said, merriment dancing in his optics as he drew away from Bluestreak’s side.
“Oh. Really?” Bluestreak looked down at fresh weld lines and dull grey patches what were slowly shifting to match the more blue tone of his grey. “That was fast, and it didn’t hurt at all!”
“So need to sound so surprised, youngling.” Wheeljack said with a laughing huff, clapping Bluestreak on the shoulder. “Now it should only take a cycle or two for the repairs to integrate with your systems. I’m sure you know the drill, so report back to medical if you feel any pain or the discolouration doesn’t fade. Off you go now.”
Youngling? Bluestreak refused to pout. Wheeljack took his kind hands and soft voice and happy feelings away, walking over to the next mech in line who was in need of his skills. Just because Wheeljack had set the words free (awkward and lacking as they were) was no reason to make more of their meeting than what it was. Just a coincidence, and not anything like Fate at all. (Damn Jazz for putting the idea in his head by taking such glee in telling Bluestreak all about how he had met Prowl.) Bluestreak was just going to get up off the berth and leave the medical bay and he would not think about how he wanted Wheeljack’s hands back on his plating.
Because cheerful Wheeljack thought Bluestreak was a youngling, and younglings do not have those kinds of desires, younglings are not worth thinking twice about.
Oh screw it.
Bluestreak pouted.
“He’s bonded you know.” A smooth voice purred into Bluestreak’s audio, making him jump and squeak and whirl around to stare up at two tall forms that had somehow snuck up behind him. The red one snickered. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay - ah. You’re not apologising for scaring me.” Bluestreak realized, and the two warriors nodded in eerie synchronization. “So you’re really sorry about?”
“Wheeljack.” The gold one said - and Primus, Bluestreak was not so hung up on the first flush of infatuation that he failed to realize that the golden mech was intimidatingly beautiful. The gold warrior frowned, and even that was attractive. “He’s bonded.”
“To Ratchet.” The red one added helpfully, looking ruefully contrite. “We saw how you were looking at him and figured we’d let you know before you got in too deep.”
“Oh. Thank you, I guess.” Bluestreak felt disappointed, confused… still very much infatuated with Wheeljack-the-already-bonded. The gunner peered up at the two warriors quizzically. “Why bother warning me though?”
“Dunno. Usually we wouldn’t bother, but it’s too late for us.” The red mech shrugged charmingly, grinning madness and gleeful mischief. “Figured it wasn’t too late for you.”
“Oh.” Bluestreak frown as he realized that he had been saying that a lot lately. “I think it’s too late anyway. Sorry. I appreciate the thought though.”
“Well frag. You don’t waste time, do you?” The gold warrior sighed and clapped a hand to Bluestreak’s shoulder to turn the gunner around and propel him out of the medical bay and down the corridor. “Come on then. We’ll teach you how to handle it.”
“Handle what?” Bluestreak wondered aloud, absurdly comfortable around these two tall warriors and lacking even a twinge of the usual panic he felt around strangers.
“Handle being in love with a bonded mech, of course.” The red half of the pair said cheerfully, shamelessly, like it was a commonplace thing to tell someone you had just met, slinging a powerful arm around Bluestreak’s neck like he divulged personal secrets to complete strangers every cycle, comfortable as if they had known each other for vorns.
“I’m Bluestreak.” The gunner blurted without thinking, but it seemed like the thing to do, and it was important that they know. “I’m a sniper.”
“I’m Sunstreaker.” The gold mech looked reluctantly amused. “The moron invading your space is my twin, Sideswipe.”
“We’re front liners!” Sideswipe chimed in helpfully - like what they were built for, with those sleek, powerful frames was not obvious enough already. “And I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”
“You know what?” Bluestreak laughed, bright and joyous and flying free. “I think you’re right.”
Against all common sense and decency, it turns out he was very right indeed.
(Word Count: 2689)
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Yes children, Bluestreak was pulled out of the ruins of Praxus. Personal headcanon says that he was rescued from a lab and was being raised in Praxus by one of the many Flightless who lived there. As a Landskimmer, we know that Blue's formatter was a Skyborn Seeker who was forced to carry. Bluestreak's PoV was fun, since I got to do a lot of playing around with what he subconciously knows versus what he actually knows he knows. XP
Again, a big thanks a bunch to silver_bells13 for the gold dragon. I love him bunches and bunches. ♥
I now go to clean my betta bowls. That being said, if I posted pics, would anyone actually be interesting in seeing my pretty fishes?
Here there be dragons! ... Soooo~ I still need eggs for the Nebula, Red-Breasted Wyvern, Hellfire Wyvern and Silver dragons. Again, people who gimmie eggs get paid in fics/arts/eggs of their choice. So pretty please? *flutters*
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A Transformers G1 Fanfic
Author: Sanjuno Shori Niko
Summary: He wakes up, and everyone in the world is a stranger, but strangers are only strangers before you meet them, afterwards, they just might be friends.
Timeline: More fic here.
=/=
(In which Bluestreak starts talking.)
When he wakes up he has no idea where he is. His life has been fear and pain and fire. This clean, sterile place with its white, white walls - other colours show up so well on white, glowing pink and sticky blue and clotted, clinging black - it is like nothing he recognizes (except in his nightmares.) He is trapped, hemmed in by walls and ceiling (no holes to look up and see the sky through) and blinking, chirping monitors that track every twitch, record every flux. He wants the sky and his protectors, he does not feel safe without seeing their swift figures darting just-out-of-sight from the edge of his vision.
He is panicking. He knows he is panicking but that only makes it worse. He is not safe here. Trapped, locked away, forgotten…
“Easy. Calm yourself. You are safe now.” Graceful movement spied out of the corner of his optic, white and black and wings (wings meant safe. Wings meant home.) Only they were not really wings, instead there were back panels and a chevron, a build only available to mechs from Praxus (other home) but it was (safe) familiar.
“You feelin’ better now, younglin’?” Black and white again but flipped, motion still graceful but looser, visor and sensor horns and back panels smaller than what fragmented, unreliable memory said they should be. Not kin but (adopted, kin-by-choice) still comforting.
“… Hi.” His voice is small as he feels next to two such strong, confidant presences. Weak, shaky - he feels shame for the first time in memory and dislikes it.
“Hi there yourself, sparklet. We were startin’ t’ wonder if you were ever gonna wake up.” The visored mech grinned, banished shame with warmth and kindness. “I’m Jazz, and this here’s Prowl. We’re th’ ones who pulled you outta Praxus, so we felt a bit responsible and decided t’ hang around ‘til you felt like wakin’ up.”
“Um, thank you.” He feels shy and looks down at his knees. His colour is a slate grey with red, and it is strange that he did not know that before he looked. He wants to say more, the silence feels wrong, but the words go missing when he looks for them, hiding just out of sight.
“Do you remember your designation?” Prowl asks - gently, gently like touching the still-soft armour of a new sparkling - the care taken makes him warm.
“Um?” Does he remember his name? Of course he does, it was his name. Such a strange, strange question to ask, even if the words are gone he is still himself, still a rush of sound and colour, energy and motion. He still is. It does not occur to him to wonder why they are asking questions about his memory, he is too busy hunting for the right pattern, noises and symbols and a glyph glowing with sparklight, sparkright. He still is. “Bluestreak. My name’s Bluestreak.”
“Nice t’ meetcha, Bluestreak.” Jazz grins easily and does not comment about how long it took Bluestreak to answer Prowl’s question.
Prowl and Jazz are Autobots, Bluestreak learns, they are officers and they are busy fighting the war, and Bluestreak owes them, owes them so much, but they do not want to be repaid, not in any concrete way, and that only makes Bluestreak more determined to find a way to show his gratitude. He stays with them for over a vorn after being released from the medical bay, and they help him get back on his pedes, to find his place. Prowl and Jazz open their home to Bluestreak, they help him through his final upgrade. Prowl lets Bluestreak see him happy and sad and angry. Jazz lets Bluestreak see him without a smile, without his visor, with his back panels out from under their protective plating. So of course Bluestreak wants to help them any way he can, so of course he joins the Autobots. Bluestreak manages to surprise even himself with his marksmanship skills. Prowl is pleased when Bluestreak becomes a sniper - one of the best - Jazz teases Prowl about being an overprotective caregiver, and Prowl looks longsuffering and embarrassed but it makes Bluestreak happy to know that they are proud of him, to know that they worry about him, to know that they care about him, to know that they are his family. Truthfully Bluestreak knows that Jazz is just as happy as Prowl is to hear that Bluestreak is mostly kept away from the danger zone of the front lines, tucked away from the thick of the fighting (screaming, dying) in an out-of-the-way spot where he can pick off enemies from a distance, from hiding. Bluestreak is backup, Bluestreak plays support, and he is just as happy not to have to go head-to-head with Decepticon front line fighters.
Bluestreak is quiet and shy and kind and the other Autobots he works with find him likable enough, and that would be fine, just fine, except his words are still missing and sometimes it is too much, too quiet, too lonely, too still and he is left scrabbling in the dark trying to trap a dervish with his bare hands. It locks him up, makes him freeze and sometimes it gets him hurt and then he is stuck looking at whitewhitewhite until he can escape from the medics who look at him with sad (pitying) optics and ask if he wants to talk.
He does want to talk, just… not with them. Not ever with them. They make the words hide deeper than usual until it is all he can do to call for Prowl and Jazz. Prowl understands. Jazz understands. They always make it better, make it okay, even if they cannot bring back what he is missing at least they can fill the void with something just as good, just as nice.
Only right now he is trapped in medical again and -
“You aft-headed moron! What did you do? Stand still to make yourself an easier target?” The roared words made the pressure building up in Bluestreak’s processor disappear, nattering worries shocked into stillness as the world flipped upside down. A wrench whizzed across the triage line and slammed into the head of a mech who had just turned to walk out the door. The stricken mech collapsed in a heap, and the medic who had thrown the wrench descended on his victim like the wrath of Primus made metal, dragging the fallen mech to a vacant medical berth with more efficiency than gentleness, all the while growling an ill-tempered refrain. “And you! Does it look like I have nothing better to do than to save you glitching idiots from your own stupidity! You think I can’t tell when you’ve got internal damages? What, do I look blind?”
Blinking as his optics rebooted in shock, Bluestreak watched the unfamiliar medic (must be new if Bluestreak had never seen him before) took complete control of the medical bay with the tyrannical arrogance of someone who was really, really, really good at his job.
Bluestreak found himself smiling. Maybe it was the chevron, maybe it was the white armour, but as the snarling medic terrorized the staff and wounded into quaking obedience, Bluestreak felt a sense of calm certainty creep over him. Things were going to be all right. He did not know how, he did not know why, but he knew things would work out.
But the words were still locked away, locked inside and runningrunningrunning in circles with no way out and it was driving Bluestreak crazy because if he could just find the right method, find the right key, find the right code he knows, he knows that he could free his words and things would be so much better.
“All right then, you’re next up.” The flashing lights startle Bluestreak for a moment, but no that was not laser fire the light just came from the strangest helm modification he has ever seen and the distraction is almost but not quite enough to keep him from noticing the back panels this stranger has, only a little smaller than Jazz’s but thicker, denser sensor clusters needing more armour. Bluestreak does not know how but he knows that the mech is smiling at the scrutiny even though Bluestreak cannot see the other mech’s face. The grey and white stranger keeps a polite hold on his emission energy, almost as tight as a surgeon, and Bluestreak cannot read more than pleasant good nature, but still there is something about him that is trustworthy. “My name’s Wheeljack, let’s get you taken care of, hm? C’mon over here, good mech. Now, tell me what your damage is.”
“Um, my side… and my leg?” Bluestreak ducked his head as Wheeljack chuckled and helped him up onto one of the berths. The gunner watched the other mech curiously as Wheeljack gathered a few tools. “You don’t seem like a medic.”
It was hard to tell who was more surprised by the blurted comment, Wheeljack or Bluestreak himself. After a moment, Wheeljack laughed, helmlights flashing merrily.
“No, I suppose not.” Wheeljack answered good-humouredly. “I’m an engineer actually. Ratchet’s the medic, but he knows that I know enough about basic repairs to fix the minor stuff so that the real medics can focus on the big stuff. So! Let’s get you fixed up, hey?”
And just like that…
“Okay.” Bluestreak nodded, feeling strange and giddy and warm.
Just… like that.
“Excellent!” Wheeljack hummed happily as he set to work. “We’ll have you fixed up in no time at all.”
Just like that… the words came back.
“It was an accident you know, me getting hurt like this, since I don’t usually get shot at much because I’m usually hidden away somewhere I can back the others up. I was paying too much attention to my sights and not enough to where I was standing I guess.” Bluestreak laughed a little in rueful embarrassment. “That’s probably why I ended up falling down two levels of this old apartment complex that I was stationed in, but it turned out to be a good thing for me because the Decepticons bombed the roof in right after I got back on my pedes. I nearly got crushed when the rubble fell down, but better to be dodging debris than getting exploded, that probably would have hurt. Now that I think about it I was really lucky to get away with only a few dings, and the gash on my leg turned out to be a good thing in the end since otherwise I would have been able to climb back up to the top floor and if I had done that the missiles would have got me for sure and I’m a lot easier to break than a building, so it’s a really good thing I had cover. Jazz says that Praxians like me and Prowl are built for speed tactics, so I should make sure I dodge things like that. Oh, Prowl and Jazz are kind of my caretakers, they’re really nice and they took me in after Praxus - well, after Praxus. Prowl is a Praxian model like me but Jazz is so modified he says that even he doesn’t remember what his original frame model was, isn’t that funny? Prowl always looks like he wants to argue when Jazz says stuff like that, I think it’s because Prowl knows Jazz is exaggerating.”
He has the words but they are missing something, lacking some essential component. There is not music, no song, no movement, and he does not know why he thinks that there should be. The words keep spilling out of him, fast and free but somehow subtly wrong, in a way he just cannot describe, cannot quantify even to himself. Maybe if he just keeps talking things will get better.
“And you’re all done.” Wheeljack said, merriment dancing in his optics as he drew away from Bluestreak’s side.
“Oh. Really?” Bluestreak looked down at fresh weld lines and dull grey patches what were slowly shifting to match the more blue tone of his grey. “That was fast, and it didn’t hurt at all!”
“So need to sound so surprised, youngling.” Wheeljack said with a laughing huff, clapping Bluestreak on the shoulder. “Now it should only take a cycle or two for the repairs to integrate with your systems. I’m sure you know the drill, so report back to medical if you feel any pain or the discolouration doesn’t fade. Off you go now.”
Youngling? Bluestreak refused to pout. Wheeljack took his kind hands and soft voice and happy feelings away, walking over to the next mech in line who was in need of his skills. Just because Wheeljack had set the words free (awkward and lacking as they were) was no reason to make more of their meeting than what it was. Just a coincidence, and not anything like Fate at all. (Damn Jazz for putting the idea in his head by taking such glee in telling Bluestreak all about how he had met Prowl.) Bluestreak was just going to get up off the berth and leave the medical bay and he would not think about how he wanted Wheeljack’s hands back on his plating.
Because cheerful Wheeljack thought Bluestreak was a youngling, and younglings do not have those kinds of desires, younglings are not worth thinking twice about.
Oh screw it.
Bluestreak pouted.
“He’s bonded you know.” A smooth voice purred into Bluestreak’s audio, making him jump and squeak and whirl around to stare up at two tall forms that had somehow snuck up behind him. The red one snickered. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay - ah. You’re not apologising for scaring me.” Bluestreak realized, and the two warriors nodded in eerie synchronization. “So you’re really sorry about?”
“Wheeljack.” The gold one said - and Primus, Bluestreak was not so hung up on the first flush of infatuation that he failed to realize that the golden mech was intimidatingly beautiful. The gold warrior frowned, and even that was attractive. “He’s bonded.”
“To Ratchet.” The red one added helpfully, looking ruefully contrite. “We saw how you were looking at him and figured we’d let you know before you got in too deep.”
“Oh. Thank you, I guess.” Bluestreak felt disappointed, confused… still very much infatuated with Wheeljack-the-already-bonded. The gunner peered up at the two warriors quizzically. “Why bother warning me though?”
“Dunno. Usually we wouldn’t bother, but it’s too late for us.” The red mech shrugged charmingly, grinning madness and gleeful mischief. “Figured it wasn’t too late for you.”
“Oh.” Bluestreak frown as he realized that he had been saying that a lot lately. “I think it’s too late anyway. Sorry. I appreciate the thought though.”
“Well frag. You don’t waste time, do you?” The gold warrior sighed and clapped a hand to Bluestreak’s shoulder to turn the gunner around and propel him out of the medical bay and down the corridor. “Come on then. We’ll teach you how to handle it.”
“Handle what?” Bluestreak wondered aloud, absurdly comfortable around these two tall warriors and lacking even a twinge of the usual panic he felt around strangers.
“Handle being in love with a bonded mech, of course.” The red half of the pair said cheerfully, shamelessly, like it was a commonplace thing to tell someone you had just met, slinging a powerful arm around Bluestreak’s neck like he divulged personal secrets to complete strangers every cycle, comfortable as if they had known each other for vorns.
“I’m Bluestreak.” The gunner blurted without thinking, but it seemed like the thing to do, and it was important that they know. “I’m a sniper.”
“I’m Sunstreaker.” The gold mech looked reluctantly amused. “The moron invading your space is my twin, Sideswipe.”
“We’re front liners!” Sideswipe chimed in helpfully - like what they were built for, with those sleek, powerful frames was not obvious enough already. “And I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”
“You know what?” Bluestreak laughed, bright and joyous and flying free. “I think you’re right.”
Against all common sense and decency, it turns out he was very right indeed.
(Word Count: 2689)
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Yes children, Bluestreak was pulled out of the ruins of Praxus. Personal headcanon says that he was rescued from a lab and was being raised in Praxus by one of the many Flightless who lived there. As a Landskimmer, we know that Blue's formatter was a Skyborn Seeker who was forced to carry. Bluestreak's PoV was fun, since I got to do a lot of playing around with what he subconciously knows versus what he actually knows he knows. XP
Again, a big thanks a bunch to silver_bells13 for the gold dragon. I love him bunches and bunches. ♥
I now go to clean my betta bowls. That being said, if I posted pics, would anyone actually be interesting in seeing my pretty fishes?
Here there be dragons! ... Soooo~ I still need eggs for the Nebula, Red-Breasted Wyvern, Hellfire Wyvern and Silver dragons. Again, people who gimmie eggs get paid in fics/arts/eggs of their choice. So pretty please? *flutters*
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