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Chapter Text

As the smoke in the cutter's cockpit cleared, Smokescreen scanned the control board in front of him. It didn't look good: main engine was out, right rear thruster was damaged, and their shielding was wavering somewhere between 'barely working' and 'inoperable.' Never mind the long-range sensors that were throwing up ghosts, and the communication systems that were only connecting to static.

"Well, that got unexpectedly messy," Devcon said, working his own side of the controls with the focus Smokescreen had come to expect of him. "We were set up, you know."

Smokescreen shook his helm immediately. "No way. The plan came straight from Prowl, and I helped with the analysis. It was a straight in-and-out, with no complicating factors or expected issues. Prowl gave it a 91% chance of success, I calculated it to be 98%." He glowered at the controls as he tried to stabilize the ship's lazy spin with their remaining thrusters. "Something must have changed between when we collected the intelligence and now."

Devcon's non-committal grunt was almost worse than an angry retort.

The asteroid and its previously hidden base drifted into view as the craft continued its spin. Smokescreen peered through the front window, watching for any sign of pursuit. But the only lights he could see were the faint glow of flames in one of the asteroid's craters, all that was left of the Decepticon communication post. "Why would they rig their own base to explode?" he asked, gesturing towards the crater. "That doesn't make sense."

"It makes sense if the base was meant as bait for a couple of Autobots intent on stealing some Decepticon ciphers," Devcon said. Smokescreen didn't know Devcon very well, but the firm stabs of his fingers into the control panel were evidence of his simmering anger. "Ciphers which weren't even in the base's systems, I might add."

"Something must have changed," Smokescreen muttered again, turning his attention back to the controls.

A full minute passed before Devcon spoke again. "I've seen this before." When Smokescreen looked over at him, the other Autobot was still focused on the controls. "They leak a rumour that some high-value information is available at a specific location, knowing that Autobot High Command is desperate enough for that info that they send a team to collect it. Then the Decepticons spring the trap when the team arrives." Devcon finally threw Smokescreen a glance. "You said yourself the base's systems were wiped practically clean. There wasn't nearly enough crew for a base that size, and the 'Cons who were staffing it looked like they hadn't seen maintenance in ages. Not to mention that the equipment was running on backup systems. It had already been stripped for parts." He looked back down at the controls. "It was a trap, and we walked right into it."

"Well, the trap didn't catch us," Smokescreen said. He ran his fingers across his board one more time, then smiled. "And good news... I think I can reroute some things to get the main engine working again. We won't be gate-capable, but we should be able to limp our way to the Rotan Trade Station in a month or so." He spun around to the engineering console. "Give me a minute or so, and-"

"Wait." Devcon snapped out a warning, freezing Smokescreen's fingers in place. When Smokescreen looked back at him, he saw that the blue bot was frowning at the sensor readings.

"What is it?" Smokescreen asked, leaning over to peer at the readings. Wisps of data flashed across the screen, showing something that might have been a ship, before it vanished into a fog of sensor ghosts again. 

"I'm not sure. It looked like..." Devcon tapped again on the control panel, refining and clarifying the readings, but the shreds of information would not resolve into anything more coherent.

"It looked like what?" Smokescreen said, disquiet making his haptic net tingle.

The cutter's spin had finally turned it so that the front window now looked out into the blackness of space, away from the asteroid and the system's distant star. Devcon stared out the window intently, his optics narrowing and his frown deepening.

Smokescreen stared, too, trying to see what Devcon was looking for. He thought he caught a flicker as something passed between them and a couple of distant stars, but it might have been his imagination. However, he knew that Devcon had much more acute visual sensors than he did. "What do you see?" he asked.

Devcon didn't reply. Instead, he launched himself from his seat and flew across the cockpit, pulling open the panel to access the cutter's main relays. Without a word, he started indiscriminately ripping connections out, stretching wires and snapping delicate relays in his haste.

"Hey!" Smokescreen yelled, jumping up to grab at Devcon's shoulder. When the larger bot shook him off, Smokescreen's engine snarled in frustration. "What are you doing? We don't have enough spare parts to fix all that! Stop, or-" The lights in the cockpit flickered and then went out. The low hum of the cutter's systems faded and went silent, and everything that was not clamped down started slowly floating into the air, including the two mechs. Smokescreen threw his hands in the air with an exclamation, causing him to list to the side as he floated upwards. "Or that will happen. Great. Fragging great. Now will you tell me what you're-"

Devcon turned and grabbed Smokescreen, pulling him close and clamping a hand over his mouth. "Be quiet," Devcon said softly. "Stay away from the window. They might see our biolights and optics." He gestured towards the front window of the cutter. "That was the fastest way to shut everything down. We need to play dead. We need them to think we're just debris from the base."

Smokescreen stared into Devcon's blue optics, but the only thing he could see in them was an echo of the warning he'd just given. Smokescreen nodded to show his obedience. When Devcon removed his hand from Smokescreen's mouth, Smokescreen quietly asked, "Who is it?"

They'd floated further back in the cockpit, away from the window. Devcon stole a quick glance at the front window of the cutter, then pushed himself off of the ceiling. They floated towards the floor together, and Devcon nestled them both behind one of the passenger seats.

"I've seen that ship once before," Devcon said in a whisper. "It's the Peaceful Tyranny."

Smokescreen's engine made a squeal before he could stop it. "The DJD is here?" he asked. Smokescreen had read enough reports of the aftermath of attacks from the Decepticon Justice Division that he'd prayed he'd never encounter them in person. So far, he'd been lucky.

Smokescreen closed his optics and prayed that his luck had not just run out.

Chapter Text

"Did you want to play a game of Primes and Drones?"

With a sigh, Devcon looked up from the work he was doing, trying to piece together another set of relays from odds and ends he'd scavenged. It wasn't going well. He was missing some key components he needed to make the parts required to cobble together a fix for the cutter's electrical systems. Devcon wasn't an engineer, and been struggling with one particular set of relays for over a month. Smokescreen was a little better at this sort of thing than Devcon was, but Smokescreen had declared it a lost cause months ago and had given up on the project. Devcon had stuck with it, mostly for something to do with his time.

After spending a tense few days watching the Decepticon Justice Division scour the ruins of the Decepticon base and the surrounding debris, they had been relieved when the Peaceful Tyranny had finally maneuvered its way back towards the edge of the system and vanished into jump space. Devcon was pretty sure that Smokescreen had actually murmured a prayer of thanks to Primus. The poor bot had been a nervous wreck the whole time they'd been hiding, drifting in the dark with the rest of the wreckage.

Only when they were sure the DJD was gone did they start trying to figure out how to get in touch with the Autobots.

The first thing they'd done was check out the remains of the base to see if there was anything they could salvage, with Smokescreen hanging on to Devcon's alt mode for a ride. However, practically everything from the base had been launched into space during the explosion. What little they did find in the cloud of debris now loosely orbiting the asteroid was of little use, but they collected anything they could find, just in case.

They used some of those the bits and pieces to construct a replacement communication array. Smokescreen had made fairly quick work of that project, much to Devcon's grudging admiration. The antenna he made was inelegant, but it gave them very short range communications. Wiring it in with the automated distress beacon boosted the beacon's range a bit more, but ships would have to be within a few light days of them to even pick up the signal.

So their next step was to get out of the system, or at least into comms range of the trade route that passed near the system. Devcon only had a shuttle engine; he wasn't rated for towing, and he wasn't equipped with a jump drive. The best he was able to do was transform and push the cutter towards the edge of the system, but that sort of exertion ran down his fuel levels at an alarming rate. So much so, in fact, that they decided that the few pushes he'd managed were the best they could do without risking putting him in stasis. Smokescreen had actually insisted that Devcon not do more strenuous activity. "I don't want to risk damaging your systems," the Praxian had said. "And besides, if you're in stasis, who would I have to talk to?"

Devcon agreed, of course. He didn't want to risk permanent damage either.

So now they drifted, moving very slowly towards the outer rim of the system, in a darkened, barely operating ship. They were on strict rations, since their energon supplies were limited, and they couldn't do anything that required a lot of power. They'd spent the last year trying not to totally get on each other's nerves, and attempting to find ways to make the days pass more quickly. But mostly they hoped that some ship passing this way might happen to see them and might happen to stop and offer assistance. Bonus points if the ship wasn't filled with Decepticons.

Hah. Bonus points. Devcon almost laughed. Smokescreen was obviously rubbing off on him, after being in such close proximity for so long.

When they'd been assigned to the mission a year before, Devcon had chafed at being saddled with a partner. He had always worked alone, even after joining Special Operations. Working with someone else meant having to coordinate with them, and worry about their safety as well as his own. But Command insisted that this was a two-mech mission, and Jazz had agreed with Command, so Devcon had no choice.

Then, after he'd found out how little field experience Smokescreen really had, Devcon had given serious thought to tricking the Praxian into getting off the ship at the last station inside Autobot territory, and just leaving him behind. Sure, he'd get reprimanded, but then he wouldn't have to worry about Smokescreen and could just focus on the mission.

After spending a year stuck inside a chilly, dark box with Smokescreen, though, Devcon had come to appreciate the Praxian's company. He had a quick wit, he was very good at looking at a problem and figuring out a solution (or that a solution was impossible), and was smarter than Devcon had initially given him credit for. Their conversations had been wide-ranging, and they'd almost always held Devcon's interest.

All right. Maybe Devcon was happy that he hadn't left Smokescreen behind, after all.

Smokescreen was still staring up at Devcon, his unanswered question still hanging in the air, just like Devcon's tools were. "So... Is that a no to Primes and Drones?" Smokescreen asked.

Devcon shrugged, shaking himself out of his reverie, and grabbed the splicing tool hanging in the air next to his helm before it drifted too far away. "We can, if you really want to. But it's frustrating to play without gravity." Devcon focused back on the wires he was attempting to braid together. "The pieces kept floating away the last time we played."

"I have a plan for that," Smokescreen said, his tone bright, and Devcon looked up at him again. The Praxian was smiling at Devcon from the pilot seat he was strapped into. His pretty wings flicked up and down behind him. "The main engine's cowling has magnetic resonators in it, right? Well, we could pull off one of the plates and punch out one of the resonator caps, then break that into pieces, and then use some of the medical adhesive in the repair kit to attach the magnets to the bottoms of the pieces." His smile widened. "Then we can just draw the board on the wall or something and play that way. The magnets would stick to the decking with no issue." He tapped his pede on the floor of the cockpit as if to demonstrate that it was made out of metal. "Problem solved."

After thinking for a moment, Devcon shook his helm. "No. We might need those resonators later," he said. He finished the last twist of the wire for the improvised relay he was working on, and grabbed two new wires to start the next one. "Working magnetic resonators are sought after by some species as trade goods, and Cybertronian resonators are considered some of the best. If our signal gets picked up by an organic ship, we might need them to barter for a ride."

"Ugh. You're right. Again. Of course." Smokescreen made a disgruntled noise and slumped in the seat, or at least slumped as much as he could in microgravity. He seemed to prefer seeing the inside of the cutter the "right side up," and always arranged himself so that he was oriented as if the cutter's grav generators were working. Devcon assumed it was the grounder in him that felt more comfortable that way. Devcon, on the other hand, was quite happy floating "upside down" in relation to Smokescreen, near the ceiling of the cockpit, where he had more room to work. Devcon watched as Smokescreen tipped his helm back to stare out the front window of the cutter with half-closed optics. "I'm starting to think Command's forgotten about us."

"It's only been a year," Devcon said.

"I know! A whole year!" Smokescreen looked up at Devcon again, his optics flashing bright. "They must have picked up the explosion at one of our listening posts, but they haven't sent anyone to see if we made it out in one piece."

"They will. Eventually." Devcon picked at the end of the wire he was working on before twisting to grab the blade he was using to strip insulation off the wires. The tool had floated behind him as he'd worked. "I was stranded on Galadria for forty-seven years before Command sent someone to check on me. And Kup-"

"Yeah, yeah, I've heard Kup's story first-hand enough times. Three-hundred and twenty-seven years alone on Tsiehshi. It's no wonder he went a little weird." Smokescreen leaned his helm back on the seat and looked out the window again. "But I just thought... I thought that Prowl might..." His voice trailed off.

Devcon paused in his work and watched the Praxian silently, a little spark of sympathy flickering in him. Since getting stuck out here, they'd had a lot of time to just talk (there wasn't much else to do), and it was very clear that Smokescreen idolized his brother Prowl. They had both joined the Autobots around the same time, and Smokescreen had followed his brother to High Command, getting a position alongside him in Tactical. Smokescreen was occasionally loaned out to other departments, but as far as Devcon could tell Smokescreen had spent most of the war in offices and near the Autobots' main bases.

As it turned out, Smokescreen hadn't been a liability on the mission. He was smart and quick, thought well on his wheels, was a good shot, and actually listened when someone told him to do something (unlike some other partners Devcon had been saddled with). But while he was well-trained, this had been his first operation away from a major Autobot base. 'Sheltered' was one word Devcon might use to describe Smokescreen's experience of the war so far. And it was plain that Smokescreen craved his brother's approval.

With a little sigh, Devcon pushed himself away from the ceiling and floated down until his helm was even with Smokescreen's. Then he pulled himself around until he was oriented the same way as the Praxian, who continued to stare out the window. "High Command will send someone eventually, I'm sure. You don't know what else has gone on since we left." Devcon hesitated, uncertain about what to do next. Then he awkwardly patted Smokescreen on the shoulder. "But you should be prepared that it might be a really long time before we hear from anyone."

Smokescreen's optics flicked towards Devcon, and he nodded. "I know," he said, and a tiny smile flickered across his lips. "At least I'm not alone. I think that would drive me just as batty as it did Kup."

Something in Smokescreen's tone made Devcon's spark do a funny little flip. Devcon ran a light diagnostic, but there didn't seem to be anything immediately wrong with him.

Must have been a glitch, or his imagination.

Assured that his systems were still operating correctly, Devcon was just about to reply to Smokescreen when there was a chime from the mostly dark control console.

They both stared at the panel.

"Was that-" Smokescreen started to say.

The console chimed again, and this time the sound was followed by a bored-sounding voice. "Unidentified vessel, this is the Azure Dawn, responding to your distress signal. Please advise if you are still in need of assistance and the number of sentient beings on board, and I will render any aid I am able, per existing regulations, at a reasonable price," the voice said in the pidgin Tradespeak common in this sector of the galaxy. "If you do not respond, be advised I am authorized by Trade Consortium Law to claim your ship as salvage and-"

Before Devcon could stop him, Smokescreen lurched towards the control console and slammed his hand against the transmitter. "Azure Dawn, this is Autobot craft 113-0205. We appreciate your offer for assistance! There are two of us on board."

As soon as Smokescreen lifted his hand from the transmitter, Devcon crossed his arms and stared at the Praxian. "That could be a Decepticon ship. Or worse."

"They'd already picked up our beacon, and it's not like we can run away. Besides, we can deal with Decepticons," Smokescreen said impatiently. "There's two of us."

Devcon just shook his helm. Smokescreen might work with some of the most critical intelligence in the Autobots, but he was still very green. Devcon just hoped that he wasn't about to get them killed.

There was a long pause, and for a moment Devcon thought that perhaps the other ship had decided that a Cybertronian ship was too much trouble. But then the voice crackled over the speakers again, this time in Cybertronian. "Smokey, is that you?" The voice laughed as if its owner had just heard a great joke. "It sure is a small fragging galaxy, isn't it?"

Upon hearing his name, Smokescreen's optics widened in shock, then he fell forward in the straps of the pilot's seat to bury his face in his hands. "Oh, no..." he muttered. Before Devcon could ask what the problem was, Smokescreen sat up again and reached forward to key the transmitter. "Swindle. Long time no see." Smokescreen's tone was anything but excited.

"So what sort of predicament have you gotten yourself into, Smokey?" Swindle asked with a dangerous-sounding laugh. Devcon glanced out of the front window to see a small salvage ship maneuvering close to the cutter. "And more importantly, what are you willing to do for me to get out of it?"

"You said you'd offer aid," Smokescreen said, his voice sharp.

"For a reasonable price, yes," Swindle said. "And that was before I knew this was an Autobot ship. Can you imagine the favours I'd get for coming back with the downloads from your ship's systems? Who knows what kind of interesting things you have in there." He laughed again. "Your ship is in pretty bad shape. It isn't even running any shields. I could just clamp onto your ship, magnetize the hull, disable you both with a localized stasis field, and bring you both back as prisoners." Swindle sounded practically gleeful. "Just think about the bounty I could collect, on top of the salvage rewards!"

Devcon didn't know whether he should glare out the front window of the cutter, or at Smokescreen. They both seemed equally worth of a glare.

A Decepticon. Of course it was a Decepticon.

"Swindle-" Smokescreen started to say.

"But because it's you, Smokey, I'll give you a choice." Swindle's suave voice took on an edge. "Option one: I take your ship and space you both, rather than taking you prisoner. I'll even give you a portable beacon so you stand a chance of being recovered. It might take a really long time for someone to pick you up, though. Did you know that the Trade Consortium is closing the station at Rotan pretty soon? Not many ships are going to be coming this way anymore." As Swindle spoke, Devcon watched Smokescreen's wings sink lower and lower on his back. "Option two: I take your ship, but in exchange for graciously giving you a ride to the nearest active trade station, you do a favour for me."

"What is this favour?" Devcon asked, his haptic net prickling.

"Hello, Smokey's friend," Swindle said. "I'm looking forward to meeting you. Oh, it's just an errand. I need someone to complete a transaction for me at the Rotan Trade Station. Once I have my payment, I'll give you a ride to a trade station further spinward where you can call the Autobots. I think that's a really good deal for you: you don't end up as prisoners, and you get out of this backwater corner of the galaxy. So... What'll it be? Option one, or option two?"

Smokescreen tapped the transmitter with an air of defeat. "Give us a minute to talk about it." Then he muted the channel and buried his face in his hands again. "Of course it's him," he muttered.

"So who is Swindle?" Devcon asked. He was already mentally compiling the list of weapons they had on board. It turned out to be very short, since they'd taken most of them apart for their electrical components. "I take it he's a Decepticon, but you obviously know him."

"Yeah. I know him." Smokescreen lifted his face from his hands and looked up at the salvage ship hovering just off their bow, his optics dim. "He's my ex."

Chapter Text

"He's your ex? As in... ex-lover?" Devcon asked. When Smokescreen nodded, Devcon's face shifted from surprise to... to something that looked suspiciously like disappointment. Or maybe it was disgust. Either way, Devcon's expression made Smokescreen's spark shrink into itself a bit. "You dated a Decepticon?"

"No! I mean, yes, but... It was a long time ago, before the war," Smokescreen said, scrambling to explain. He unbuckled himself from the pilot's seat and pushed himself away, floating across the cockpit and away from Devcon's strange little frown. "He was good-looking, in a rough sort of way. I was lonely. And... And it was kind of fun for a while." He crossed his arms as he stared at the ruined access panel in the back of the cockpit, half-repaired circuits and relays still spilling from its interior. "Then things... Things became less fun, and we broke up. I found out after the war started that he'd joined the 'Cons." Smokescreen shrugged and tried to glare over his shoulder, but the effect was ruined as he floated sideways instead. He never had gotten the hang of zero gravity. "It's not like I dated a Decepticon after the war started. I'm not a traitor."

The sound of Swindle's voice had tripped all sorts of Smokescreen's memory files, and his processor helpfully queued them for review. Long dinners together during which they talked about trade strategy and market theory. Swindle's habit of always buying whatever little trinket had caught Smokescreen's attention the day before. The little smile on Swindle's face and the contented rumble his engine always made when they were curled up together, watching one of Smokescreen's movies from his collection.

Their relationship had been like a flare, brilliant in comparison to Smokescreen's regular life. It burned so bright that everything else in his life was washed out and felt less important. But like a flare, whatever they had faded just as quickly as it had burst into life. Within a year, they'd both decided that the relationship wasn't giving either of them what they wanted. Smokescreen had finally seen Swindle's selfish side for what it really was, and Swindle had grown snappy and bored with Smokescreen once the Praxian stopped being so easy to manipulate.

After a firestorm of a shouting match outside Smokescreen's flat, they went their separate ways.

Swindle's voice brought all of the feelings back: that surge of excitement of a new love, the thrill of thinking someone cares about you and what you think, the giddy sensation of slotting your data cable into your lover's connector for the very first time. But it also brought back the disillusionment of realizing you've been used, and the feeling that you'd lost something intangible that had made you feel whole.

Even though he desperately wanted to get back to Command (and desperately wanted to know that Prowl hadn't abandoned him and/or wasn't crushingly disappointed in him), Smokescreen had been enjoying his time on the cutter, as much as he could. If he had to be trapped with someone, he was glad it was Devcon. Smokescreen enjoyed Devcon's dry sense of humour, and he appreciated his methodical way of prioritizing exactly what they needed to do first. Devcon was quiet, seemingly happy to listen to Smokescreen talk about anything and everything, but he was also filled with interesting stories of his job before the war, when he tracked down wanted criminals and brought them to justice. Smokescreen could listen to Devcon talk for days.

Having the bounty hunter stuck in this situation alongside him had made the past year far more bearable than it would have been otherwise.

But the expression he'd seen on Devcon's face...

Smokescreen twitched when Devcon spoke. "I don't think you're a traitor," Devcon said gently. He floated into Smokescreen's field of view. "I was just... surprised. I'm sorry."

Something inside Smokescreen relaxed, like a tension cable being released. Pressing his lips together, Smokescreen nodded. "Ok," he said. Then: "Thanks."

"So... Can we trust him?" Devcon asked. He was looking out the front window again, where Swindle's ship was holding position just a few hundred meters away. 

Smokescreen shook his helm emphatically. "No," he said, remembering the tiny manipulations and half-truths that Swindle had always used to get his way. "No, we can't trust him in the slightest. But he's cocky, and if he's sure he's going to come out top on a deal he gets careless." He bit his lower lip in thought. "We need to stay alert, and be ready to take advantage of any opportunities we get."

Devcon vented, then nodded. "Right. I guess we should find out what this 'errand' involves, then."

Chapter Text

Devcon decided that this 'errand' of Swindle's was a load of scrap. It was probably a trap, too, just to add insult to injury.

On the surface it seemed easy. Swindle had an order of two-hundred and fifty bars of compressed cossarian root that he was supposed to deliver to a contact on the Rotan Trade Station. Devcon had heard of the stuff: Cybertronians had little use for it, but it was apparently sought after by several organic species as some kind of mating aid. Swindle had given Devcon the crate of root and an ID tag. In theory, all Devcon had to do was go to the station, meet Swindle's contact, give them the crate, and come back with the payment.

But Devcon had a sinking feeling it wasn't going to be that simple.

"This ID tag isn't yours," Devcon said when he scanned the chip. He glowered at the blocky little grounder. "Why are you pretending to be someone else?"

With a shrug, Swindle gave Devcon an unworried smile. "I have a lot of competing business contacts. It just makes everything easier if everyone thinks I'm only working with them," he said smoothly. He tapped the crate of cossarian root sitting on the counter. "Now, make sure you don't give them the goods until you have the payment in hand. It needs to be a full 100 kilos of iridium. Make sure they aren't shorting me on the payment," Swindle said with a warning tone, "or our agreement is off."

Smokescreen had finally stopped struggling in his bonds and was just listening to the instructions Swindle was giving Devcon. "Isn't cossarian root illegal in this sector?" Smokescreen asked, his pretty sensor wings flicking upwards.

Glancing at the Praxian, who was securely bound to a passenger seat in the salvage ship's cockpit, Swindle gave another uncaring shrug. However, he did not turn his weapon away from Devcon, nor his attention for more than a fleeting moment. "It depends on who you ask. Some species consider it a harmful and addictive substance and have banned its importation, while others don't really care one way or the other." Swindle rocked his helm to one side. "I'm of the latter opinion; I don't give a scrap."

"I'm more interested in whether the Trade Consortium considers it illegal," Devcon said. He wished he had a blaster of his own, but the Decepticon had confiscated all of their weaponry when he'd brought them on board his ship. "After all, this transaction is taking place on their station."

Another shrug, another smarmy smile. "Let's just say there's a reason I'm glad I stumbled across you two and your little predicament," Swindle said.

Great.

On the station, Devcon stood at the entrance of an area that probably used to serve food and fuel for the station's inhabitants and visitors, before all of the establishments on the station started to close up. All of the kiosks in this section of the station were dark and locked, the remnants of signage hanging above each one. The only businesses that still seemed to be operating on the entire station were three or four repair stalls for ships on the lower level, a tiny store that sold chipsets for navigational computers, and a seedy-looking 'personal services' longue with a lone, bored-looking organic sitting in the reception area behind the desk. This area, though, was completely empty of shops now.

Based on the warnings he'd received from the docking authority when he came on board, the station would only be operational for another month. No worries, he had no intention of staying that long.

The sooner he could get out of here, the better.

Devcon shifted the crate of cossarian root to his other arm as he visually scanned the deserted concourse again, looking for the contact he was supposed to meet. The crate was very heavy, but he didn't want to set it down and risk having it stolen. He didn't trust Swindle in any way, shape, or form, but Devcon was going to at least try to do this the way the Decepticon described the transaction. That meant hanging onto the crate until he received the payment. Smokescreen had said that Swindle would carry through with his side of the deal – to drop them off at Exton 9, where they could send a message to the Autobots – but only if Devcon returned with what Swindle had sent him here for.

Devcon didn't like any of this: the fact he was posing at someone else, the fact he was trading in goods illegal in this sector, the fact he was forced to come here unarmed... None of it was good. But he especially didn't like the fact that he had to leave Smokescreen on Swindle's ship. "For collateral," Swindle had said with an oily smile, which turned into a leer when he looked at Smokescreen.

Ugh. The thought of that creep even touching Smokescreen sent a shiver through Devcon's lines.

Devcon's processor stopped drifting as soon as he saw a bulky organic come into sight around the curve of the concourse. He stood up to his full height as the organic approached, but he realized that the creature was almost as tall as he was, and just as heavy. The greyish organic stopped a few meters away and grunted as it looked Devcon up and down. "You Makeshift?" the creature snorted in Tradespeak.

"I am," Devcon replied, and broadcasted the ID credentials Swindle had given him. Makeshift, he/him, private trader.

The creature held its hand up to receiver jammed into its ear and nodded, pinging its credentials back at Devcon. Gordash, they/them, trade representative. They tipped their head to the side and looked Devcon up and down once more. "Last trader, say you shorter. And yellow."

Devcon gave the organic what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "There's more to my kind than meets the eye, sometimes."

Gordash snorted again and clacked their tusks against their upper teeth. "This way," they said, and stomped back down the concourse, not looking to see if Devcon was following.

The station was designed very similarly to other Trade Consortium stations in this quadrant of the galaxy. Even though most of the businesses were closed and wide swaths of the station were cloaked in shadows, it felt somewhat familiar to Devcon. The concourse, which was built on three levels that interconnected every few hundred yards with utilitarian ramps, curved around the rim of the station. The upper concourse had held smaller shops and restaurants, while the middle concourse held larger services, and branched off towards spires that once housed hotels. The bottom concourse was where most of the large trades took places, in proximity to the station's largest docking berths. On this station, the bottom concourse was also remote, dark, and a great place for an ambush.

Devcon followed Gordash down to the bottom concourse as his threat assessment protocols scrolled warning after warning across his HUD.

It was a little distracting, having his processor pinging him constantly with threat assessment updates, but Devcon didn't disable the protocols. Of course he knew walking into this whole situation was a bad idea, and he didn't need his warning indicators to tell him what he already knew. But he'd been an excellent bounty hunter before the war partially because of those threat assessment protocols; they'd gotten him out of extremely bad situations before, often with his quarry in the process. And the protocols had kept him alive this long through the Great War. His threat assessment program could warn him of issues before he was consciously aware of them and help him react to the situation, something that had given him a reputation for being somewhat prescient.  

But he continued down the ramp, dismissing the less dire warnings he saw on his HUD. He was going to see this through because he sure as slag wasn't about to leave Smokescreen with Swindle as a prisoner.

The sooner he got this over with, the better... For both him and Smokescreen.

The organic led Devcon past several dark and empty docking berths before reaching one that was in use. As they approached, eight more organics of the same species as Gordash emerged from the boarding tunnel. All of them were armed. Devcon's threat assessment protocols updated the situation from 'bad idea' to 'terrible idea.'

Oh, he already knew what sort of idea this was.

Devcon nodded at the creatures filing off the ship and set the crate down with a solid thump. "Per our agreement," he said, and opened the top of the crate just slightly, enough to show the glistening ruby bars of organic material inside.

Two of the organics conferred by grunting at each other for a few seconds before one of them turned and gestured to a third. The third creature carried a similar crate and set it down just a meter away from Devcon, opening it enough to show the sheets of iridium inside.

Devcon slid the crate of root towards the organic and picked up the crate of iridium. He hefted it and figured it was at least 100 kilograms. Good enough. He nodded again and gave the organics another smile. "It's been a pleasure doing business with you," he said, and turned to go.

He'd barely gotten three steps when one of the organics shouted something in an unfamiliar language. Another yelled, "Wait!" in Tradespeak. But most importantly, Devcon heard the sound of a blaster warming up with the safety off, right next to his audial.

He lifted his free hand into the air and turned to look at the organics. "What's the problem?" he asked, pointedly not looking at the organic standing beside him, its weapon pointed directly at Devcon's helm.

Gordash was grunting something at the organic who seemed to be in charge. The leader reached deep into the case, deeper than the first layer of compressed roots, and pulled out something limp and green. "What this? Not product promised. Cheat!" The creature growled menacingly, and then barked out an order in their language.

Devcon's sensors passed the information they were collecting to his threat assessment software. The software alerted to the fact that the organic with its weapon held to Devcon's helm had tightened its finger on the trigger by a few microns, and was just shy of activating the firing relay and discharging a bolt.

Devcon relaxed, and let his training and software do what it was designed to do.

In a move faster than any organic could track, Devcon dropped the crate of iridium, and his hand snapped up and to grab the organic's wrist, right behind where it gripped its weapon. In a smooth motion, Devcon broke the organic's arm, turned the weapon towards the next closest organic and shot it in the leg. Then he threw the organic down onto the deck, grabbed its weapon, and started firing at the other organics, being as careful as he could be to injure and not to kill.

He dodged bolts from the other organics' blasters without thinking, letting his software direct his movements and prioritize his actions. But as he methodically disabled each of the organics in turn, he let his anger swirl and build in his spark.

So Swindle liked setting up crooked deals, huh? Well, Devcon was going to make the Decepticon pay for this one.

Chapter Text

Smokescreen figured he'd gone through all of the possible emotions during this whole disastrous mission. Pride at being selected for the mission, fear followed by relief at how close they'd come to getting captured by the DJD, disappointment that Prowl High Command didn't seem to be worried enough about them to send out a search party, frustration when it became clear they didn't have the right parts to repair their ship, fleeting excitement when they were first contacted by the salvage ship, and then horror when Smokescreen realized who was on the salvage ship. Not to mention whatever it was he'd felt when he saw Devcon's reaction when he told the bounty hunter who Swindle was.

In all the galaxy, in all the systems, of all the ships, the one that found them first wasn't just helmed by a Decepticon... It was helmed by Swindle.

Smokescreen was sure Primus had it out for him.

He'd been so excited to go on this mission. Finally, he had a chance to prove himself: both for his own knowledge, but also to show Prowl what he knew he was capable of. Every time an opportunity to go on a mission had come up, Prowl had found a reason to keep Smokescreen nearby: they needed his analysis skills, or they needed an escort for a low-risk cargo delivery, or he was required for some other menial task. But when Smokescreen volunteered for this mission, Prowl finally did not come up with a reason why Smokescreen could not go. Finally, Smokescreen had a chance to make his stoic brother proud.

And then the mission ended badly: there was no information for them to retrieve, and the whole thing had been a trap. They were stranded on a dead ship, with no way to call for help. And Command hadn't sent anyone to look for them.

Smokescreen thought that's what hurt the most: knowing that Prowl had the ability to arrange a search party, and apparently had not. The rational part of Smokescreen's processor echoed the words that he'd heard multiple times from Prowl's own mouth: "The needs of the Autobots as a whole must come before the needs of any one mech." He also knew that other mechs – including Devcon – had been stranded for far longer than one measly year. He knew that when resources were available, Prowl and Command would send someone to find out what had happened to them.

But the irrational part of Smokescreen's processor insisted that the reason there was no search party was because Prowl was disappointed in him.

Smokescreen pressed his lips together and tried to clear his thoughts. This wasn't any time to fall into self-recrimination and despair. He glared out the window of the salvage ship, staring at the tiny speck of light in the distance that was the Trade Consortium station that Devcon had flown to.

He hoped Devcon hadn't run into any problems. He hoped that Devcon would make it back safely.

Smokescreen sat up in the passenger seat as much as he was able when he heard Swindle's heavy step on the decking behind him. The yellow mech flopped down into the seat beside Smokescreen, a cube of fuel in one hand and his blaster in the other. Swindle took a noisy sip from the cube, smacking his lips dramatically, before smiling at Smokescreen. "When I did the inventory of your cutter I noticed how little energon you had in reserve. You must have been running on strict rations. Did you want some?" Swindle held up the cube and wiggled it back and forth slightly, and a bit of fuel spilled over onto his fingers.

Smokescreen's tanks were low. He had been running on near fumes for months, even though he'd been making sure to keep his fuel expenditures at a minimum. He hoped Swindle couldn't hear the low rumble of desire from his tanks at the sight of the fuel. Smokescreen shook his helm. "No, I'm good," he said.

But he must have stared longingly at the cube for just a split second too long, because Swindle's smile twisted into a smug grin. "You sure?" Swindle sucked the dribbled fuel off of his fingers, and then took another slurp from the cube.

Smokescreen shrugged, tugging on the cuffs around his wrists, which were bound behind the chair he sat in. "Not like I can drink it myself, anyway," he said. He glared at Swindle and added, "And I'm not really interested in having you line-feed it to me, thanks."

"I'm sure we could work something out," Swindle said. "I could get a fresh one for you. I'll even give you a straw." Swindle's voice had slipped into the smooth tone he used whenever he bartered. "In exchange, you could give me a little bit of information."

Of course. Everything with Swindle was transactional. Smokescreen shook his helm firmly and turned his gaze out the window of the ship, mostly so that his optics would stop drifting back to the cube in Swindle's hand. "I'm not telling you anything," Smokescreen said.

"I'm not looking for anything classified," Swindle said, in that 'I'm being perfectly reasonable' tone that always made Smokescreen grind his dentae together. "Just tiny details of little consequence. Like... Where you were dispatched from, for example. You've been out here a year, right? Information that's a year old has little value, but it might be worth a cube of fuel." He jiggled his cube again.

"Get fragged," Smokescreen snapped.

"Run empty, then," Swindle replied with a shrug, and took another drink from his cube.

They sat in silence for a while, with the thrum of the salvage ship's engines and the soft tapping of Swindle's fingers against the cube the only sounds in the cockpit. Smokescreen let his helm fall back onto the rest and stared out the window, wishing for Devcon to appear in the distance. Even the short time with Swindle had reminded him of all the reasons he'd ended things with him in the first place, and reinforced Smokescreen's feelings for friendship with Devcon.

He just hoped that Devcon hadn't been walking into a trap. He didn't want to calculate the odds on that, though.

"So, are you seeing anyone?" Swindle asked suddenly, interrupting Smokescreen's thoughts. "That shuttle, maybe?"

Smokescreen rolled his optics. "Primus, are we really doing this?" he asked.

Swindle had finished his cube and had set it on the console. His blaster was cradled in his arms, much more comfortably than Smokescreen had ever thought Swindle would be around a weapon. "I noticed the way you and him looked at each other," Swindle said. His smirk was back. "Did you two pass the time by crossing cables? Is he any good?"

"That's none of your business." Smokescreen's engine revved, anger sending a course of power through his lines. "And if I was crossing cables with him, I'm sure he'd be better than you ever were."

"So you didn't 'face him, then," Swindle said. He leaned back in his chair and propped his pedes up on the control console. "So, what, did he turn you down?"

Typical. Fragging typical. Swindle didn't get what he wanted from Smokescreen, so then the cruelty comes out.

Smokescreen wasn't even surprised. What he was, though, was angry. After all the other emotions he'd been through, anger was the only one left. And Swindle, of course, was managing to push his buttons just as if they were picking up exactly where they'd left off. Swindle had always seemed to know just where Smokescreen's limit was, and then stepped well past it just to show that he could.

"How about you, huh?" Smokescreen replied. The words came out of his vocalizer even though he knew he shouldn't give up this sort of information to a Decepticon. But hey, it had been a year... Like Swindle had said, anything Smokescreen knew was old news. "We heard you got hooked up with a bunch of thugs in a combiner team. I recognized some of the names from Iacon's prison records. How'd they talk you into that – binding your spark to a bunch of lowlifes? I mean, that shuttle on the team was pretty well-heeled, but the others were some real gutter trash. Or so we've heard." Smokescreen felt a glimmer of satisfaction as he saw Swindle's optics narrow. "It doesn't seem like the sort of thing you'd agree to voluntarily."

"You're going to want to shut your hole," Swindle said, his voice low and dangerous.

"It was voluntary, right?" Smokescreen flicked one of his wings upwards questioningly. When Swindle's engine growled, Smokescreen gloated internally. It looked like the intelligence they got was correct after all: the Decepticon combiner teams weren't all volunteers like the Autobot ones were. "What did you get out of it?" He tipped his helm to the side. "You did get something out of the deal, didn't you?"

Swindle's upper lip curled into a snarl and his hand tightened around the blaster. But before he could bring it to bear on Smokescreen, the comm chimed. "Devcon to Azure Dawn, I'm inbound. Please reply."

Swindle slapped the comm without taking his optics off of Smokescreen. "Acknowledged. Come around to the docking ring." Then he stood and gestured with his weapon again. "We'll finish this later." A slippery smile appeared on Swindle's face. "After I've dealt with your friend."

A moment later, the door to the cockpit shushed closed, and Smokescreen was alone again.

Frag. Smokescreen slumped in the seat. Maybe that wasn't such a great idea, riling up Swindle like that. But also – frag that was satisfying. It was rare seeing Swindle on the verge of losing his cool.

Smokescreen's satisfaction lasted until he saw an alert pop up on the ship's console. There had been energy discharges near the docking ring. Someone had fired a weapon. The sensors had picked up a few blaster shots, it looked like.

Fear ran through Smokescreen's lines like iced coolant.

He sat helplessly in the seat for several minutes before the cockpit door shushed open behind him. Smokescreen tried to twist around in his chair, but he was bound too tightly. "Devcon?" he asked frantically, craning his neck in an attempt to see the doorway. "Swindle, if you hurt him-"

Swindle's limp frame was thrown onto the floor near Smokescreen's pedes, a smoking hole in his right shoulder.

"Are you all right?" Devcon leaned down over the seat, peering into Smokescreen's face. "He didn't hurt you or anything, did he?"

Smokescreen gaped at Devcon for a moment, relief settling over him, before he was able to answer. "No. No, he didn't hurt me. I'm fine. But – how...?" Smokescreen trailed off as he saw Devcon set an unfamiliar weapon on the console before he started rifling through Swindle's compartments.

"He won't be out for long. I can already hear his engine restarting. I just have to find the key for your cuffs, then we'll put them on him," Devcon said in a clipped, business-like tone. "Then we have to get out of this sector as quick as we can."

Smokescreen felt himself relax just slightly. "I'm really glad you're all right," he said.

Devcon paused and looked up at Smokescreen with a smile. "I'm glad to see you're still in one piece, too." He pulled a keycard out of Swindle's compartments with a satisfied sound, and waved it at Smokescreen. "Now, let's get you out of these cuffs."

Chapter Text

Devcon didn't look up from the controls of the salvage ship as Smokescreen entered the cockpit and flopped down into the co-pilot's seat. "How does everything look back there?" Devcon asked, his optics focused on the reading from the right stabilizer, which was wobbling again. "The last thing we need is any surprises when I start our acceleration in this thing. It handles like an Andorean space slug."

"Everything's secure," Smokescreen said. "The salvage clamp is green all the way around, and the hoses are all securely attached to our cutter. The shielding looks good. And Swindle's still in stasis lock. I double checked the cuffs, the mode lock, his bindings, and the cameras, just in case." He pointed emphatically out the front window of the salvage ship. "We are a go for jump space."

Devcon huffed a tiny laugh. "Well, we'll be a go as soon as we get to the system's jump gate," he said. After one final check of the board, Devcon ran his hand up the throttle control. The ship's engines begin to throb in response with a deep, rumbling noise. The ship's speed didn't seem to increase at all, although the ship did start shuddering slightly. "These kinds of ships aren't built for speed. It'll probably take us at least another four hours to reach the gate."

Smokescreen nodded, but he kept glancing at the comm system distractedly. "Do you think we'll get a reply from Command before we get to the gate?" he asked.

"Command already acknowledged our situation when we contacted them," Devcon said, but when he saw Smokescreen's wings list downwards he knew that wasn't the reason the Praxian was asking. "We might hear something else. If not, I'm sure we'll have a message waiting for us when we exit jump space in a few days."

"Yeah, maybe," Smokescreen said, and stared out the window. The slump of his shoulders and wings said everything Devcon needed to know about Smokescreen's thoughts.

Devcon frowned and ran his attention across the control board one more time. Their encoded message to Command had adhered exactly to regulations for missions reporting in, regulations that Smokescreen had checked and double checked before sending the message. It had their status (both Autobots were alive and unharmed), a summary of the outcome of their mission (failed and their ship damaged), and a brief description of their current situation (returning on a captured ship with a Decepticon prisoner). And Command's response had been exactly what Devcon expected: an acknowledgement of their situation, and an additional note to hold position once they exited jump space to await inspection and an escort. Nothing more.

Smokescreen had seemed a bit deflated by the generic response, and had gone back to check on Swindle again. Devcon had watched him in the monitors as he stared at the offline Decepticon. Swindle was chained to a post in the ship's cargo hold. Smokescreen had stared at Swindle for several minutes, his face unreadable, before turning around and walking out of range of the camera.

Devcon glanced at Smokescreen again. "Are you having second thoughts?" he asked. It had been Devcon's idea to lock the Decepticon up after disabling him, and Smokescreen hadn't expressed an opinion one way or the other. Devcon wondered if maybe Smokescreen would have preferred to let Swindle go, or leave him on the near-deserted station.

"Second thoughts?" Smokescreen flashed a lopsided smile at Devcon, a smile that didn't reach his optics. "I guess. Just about... Well, just about some things I said to him."

"Oh," Devcon said. He worked his intake, both wanting to say more and wishing he hadn't asked the question. "I'm sorry." That seemed inadequate. Why was he putting so much thought into this? He tried again. "I'm sorry you weren't able to repair your relationship with him, and-"

"What? No." Smokescreen glanced up in confusion, and then laughed. "No! Frag him," he added emphatically. "He can rot in an Autobot prison for the rest of the war for all I care."

"Oh," Devcon said again, very aware of the strange sense of relief that cascaded through him. "Then... What did you say that you were having second thoughts about?"

Smokescreen tilted back in his seat and stared out the window. "I let slip some things we know about the 'Cons' combiner program. Technically that was privileged information, although maybe it's common knowledge now... But it doesn't matter. I still violated my oath." He blew a gust of air from his vents and picked at a scuff on his plating, just above his knee joint. "I'm going to have to tell them everything I said when I get my debrief." He looked up at Devcon, his optics dimming. "At the very least, it's a guaranteed reprimand on my record, and there's a possibility I'll lose my security clearance in the process." He looked back out the window. "I don't even want to think about what Prowl's going to say."

Devcon watched Smokescreen for a moment before making a split-second decision. "If you do lose your security clearance, send me a ping and let me know," he said firmly. "I'll put in a word for you with my commander."

Smokescreen's helm whipped around to look at Devcon again. "What?"

"This mission might not have gone according to plan, but you've got a really good processor that I think Commander Jazz would be interested in," Devcon said. "We could always use more Special Operations agents, if you're interested in something like that."

"But... If I get reprimanded..." Smokescreen's face was a mask of confusion.

With a shrug, Devcon said, "I don't know a single Special Ops agent with fewer than five reprimands, and probably a third of us have official sanctions on our records." He smiled. "But I honestly think you'd fit right in. You're a good mech, Smokescreen. I wouldn't mind having you at my side again on another mission."

Finally, a true smile returned to Smokescreen's face. "Thanks, Devcon," he said, and his pretty sensor wings fluttered behind him. "I really appreciate that."

Devcon scanned the control board again. The ship had reached what seemed to be its maximum velocity while towing a ship, and the decking beneath their pedes vibrated with the engines' effort. "Looks like we've got a while until we get to the gate," he said. "Why don't I hop over to the cutter right now and grab that game of Primes and Drones, so we've got something to do in jump space?"

Smokescreen's smile widened. "That sounds great. But just a warning... I am definitely going to beat you again." He waggled a finger at Devcon.

"We'll see. I have a new strategy I want to try out," Devcon said, and pushed his seat back from the console.

As he stood up, the communication system chimed with an extra tone indicating an encoded contact. "Autobot Command to Azure Dawn, on a secure channel. This is First Lieutenant Prowl for Corporal Smokescreen. Please respond."

Smokescreen looked at Devcon with wide optics, and Devcon gestured for Smokescreen to take the call. "I'll get that game," he said, jerking his thumb in the direction of the docking ring.

Nodding, Smokescreen accepted the comm. "Azure Dawn to Autobot Command, we read you. Prowl! It's so good to hear your voice finally!" Smokescreen's voice was bright, almost giddy.

"And I am extremely happy to hear yours, too, Smokescreen," Prowl replied. "I am glad you're safe. I was worried. I wish we'd had the resources to send someone after you; I hope you understand why we couldn't." As Devcon stepped out of the cockpit, he could hear the sincerity in Prowl's voice. "Believe me, the last thing I wanted to do was to leave you out there all alone."

He didn't want to eavesdrop, but Devcon stopped in his tracks when he heard Smokescreen's response. "It's all right, Prowl," Smokescreen said, his tone warm. "I wasn't alone at all. In fact, I think Devcon and I make a really good team."