Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“How would I describe C4M1NUX?”

The teen shifted in place, a fiery blue light stick in her hand flickering as she paused to think. Her friend jumped in, leaning towards the offered microphone with a wide grin.

“Uh, you mean other than the best girl group of all time?”

The first girl swatted her playfully, seeming to loosen up as she glanced at the camera. “C’mon, that’s obvious! But yeah, they’re the coolest.”

The scene shifted, now showing a twenty-something with brightly colored hair, her back to a waterfront. “The coolest member of C4M1NUX is Chromia, of course.”

She pointed to the woman emblazoned on her shirt, who stood near a motorcycle and crossed her arms. Her icy stare was only complemented by short, blue hair worked into waterfall braids and lipstick in a shade to match.

“She’s the main rapper, and I heard she handles most of the group’s choreo too. Have you seen how buff she is? I bet she could beat up anyone else in the industry! Ugh, she makes me want to learn how to drive a motorcycle…”

“Nautica’s my bias,” said a young man as the scene cut to a park at midday. He stood with three others, all grinning broadly. “They don’t have official roles, but she’s the stylist and the best dancer by far. A mechanical genius–”

“Not to mention a marine conservation advocate!” one of the others cut in. He held up a photocard to the camera, showing off his picture of the woman with light brown skin and purple curls pulled into puffs around her head. Her smile shone brighter than the reflected flash.

“Intelligent, kind, and beautiful!” said another. “What more could you want?”

The scene dissolved again, now showing a group of girls in matching C4M1NUX hats on the sidewalk of a busy street. A few gathered in front while the rest chatted amongst themselves in the background.

“If I had to pick a favorite?” one on the right said. “Probably Windblade. Vocals like that don’t grow on trees.”

“What do you mean ‘probably’?” said the girl in the middle. “Windblade’s the best! She writes most of the group’s music, too.”

“Well, yeah,” said a third girl, adjusting the brim of her cap, “but she’s so… weird. She’s always got her head in the clouds, it feels like she’s not even from this planet sometimes.”

The middle girl huffed. “Isn’t that part of her charm?”

She held out her phone to the camera. The lock screen showed a blurry photo of a pale woman standing onstage, dark hair pulled into an updo reminiscent of storm clouds. The woman had looked into the camera at that moment, and despite the grainy quality, her piercing cyan eyes, surrounded by ornamental red makeup, shone in perfect clarity.

“When she sings, it makes me feel—I don’t know how to describe it. Like everything’s at peace. Like she sees me. And everything."

“You’re so corny,” giggled the girl on the right, though she nodded in agreement.

The shot abruptly cut back to the girl with the lightstick and her friend, who now frowned in curiosity.

“It doesn’t take away from their awesomeness, obviously, but we don’t know anything about where they’re from or what their lives were like before debuting,” she said as her friend shook her head for emphasis. “Not for lack of trying, either. You should have seen Twitter when one of the Forge, er—one of their fans, tried to dox them and couldn’t. The C4M1NUX tag was trending for, like, two weeks.”

“Technically, we don’t even know if they’re Korean,” said one of the guys as the scene switched back to the park. One of his friends rolled his eyes.

“Most of the Forge tries to respect their privacy,” said the boy with the Nautica photocard. “They clearly want it with stage names like those. But there are bad actors in any fandom.”

“But even if we don’t know that much,” said a girl from the street scene, “we do know one thing!”

“We love you, C4M1NUX!” shouted the girls with matching hats in unison.

“We love you, C4M1NUX!” said the boys in the park.

“Love you, C4M1NUX!” said the woman with the Chromia T-shirt.

“We love you!” said the girl with the light stick and her friend. The screen faded to black as they struck a clearly practiced pose.

Windblade looked up from the recording as it shut off, her smile affectionate if a little puzzled. Leaning back on the stiff couch where she sat with Chromia and Nautica, she took a second to reacquaint herself with the distinctly beige office space. Her eyes eventually landed on the man across the desk, who straightened up and looked at the trio expectantly.

“So? What do you think?” he asked eagerly.

“It’s lovely,” Windblade said, “but it’s for… what, exactly?”

“It’s the intro for your new docu-series,” said the man, seizing upon her curiosity like a hyena spotting a bone. “Your fans are clearly starving for a behind-the-scenes look at C4M1NUX’s success, and what better way to give it to them than professionally produced interviews, each ranging from thirty to forty minutes in length?”

Nautica cut in, pushing up her blue-tinted glasses as she looked at the other two. “Wait, wait, hold on a second, sorry. I thought we were meeting to discuss a brand partnership?”

“We were,” responded Chromia through gritted teeth.

“It will be!” the man said brightly. “A collaboration with the production company, that is. Of course, you’d be assisting with the advertising, so that portion would be similar–”

“My apologies,” Windblade said gently, not feeling very gentle or very apologetic, “but C4M1NUX has always been very open about our desire for privacy. We want to keep our personal lives and our professional lives separate, as the Forge members mentioned in your video.”

“Yes, but–”

“We’re not interested,” Chromia cut in, very clearly resisting the urge to roll her eyes. In a quieter voice, she muttered, “I can’t believe we cut practice short for this…”

“That video you filmed is very sweet. Maybe you could release it on YouTube?” Nautica said with a calming smile.

“That’s not–” the man said, clearly caught off guard, “There’s an obvious market–”

“A market we don’t intend on tapping into,” Windblade said firmly. “Though even if we did, we wouldn’t work with a company that operates under false pretenses. I think we’re done here.”

She stood, readjusting her cap to cover her hair and brushing herself off. The other two followed shortly after, and they left the office before the startled businessman could even get a word out.

“It’s a shame about the Forge members… putting all that work into the interviews with nothing to show for it,” Nautica sighed as they crowded into the strangely small elevator.

“We saw it at least,” Chromia pointed out. A small smile warmed her face. “I’ll admit it was pretty nice. Never thought I’d inspire a human to get into motorcycles.”

“And did you see that picture of Windblade?” Nautica gushed. “She had it as her wallpaper! Absolutely adorable.”

“She took that during our last performance in Busan,” Windblade said. “I remember it well. She’s let her hair grow out, though. It was much shorter when I saw her.”

“Can always count on you to remember every fan encounter we’ve ever had,” Chromia said playfully.

“Don’t you?” asked Windblade.

“I try, but c’mon, that’s a lot of fans,” she snorted. “Our memory banks only have so much storage space.”

The elevator dinged, and within seconds, they exited into the streets of Seoul, the rapidly approaching sunset bathing buildings with a gold sheen. Nautica yawned and stretched.

“There’s no way we’ll be able to get in any more practice after the time we spent getting over here,” she said. “Wanna just grab some dinner and take a cab home?”

“Might as well,” Chromia shrugged as she pulled out her phone. “I think Bobby mentioned a good burger place around here…”

“I could always fly us back if you’re too tired to drive,” Windblade said as they headed in the direction their human manager texted.

“Wouldn’t want to put that pressure on you,” Nautica said cheerfully. “If two of us get to relax, then all of us should.”

They had nearly made it to the restaurant when Chromia slowed her pace, talking out of the corner of her mouth.

“Two unmarked motorcycles at our seven. Their drivers haven’t twitched.”

“Always on our breaks,” Nautica complained.

Windblade put a hand on her shoulder, taking a deep breath as she led them to the nearest alley. “At least it’s not during a show.”

“Small victories,” growled Chromia.

They stopped midway into the dead-end space, trying to ignore the smell of garbage. No windows on either building. Perfect.

The motorcycles pulled in behind them to block the entrance. Their headlights cast the trio in a harsh spotlight, and though none of them were unfamiliar, Windblade felt that she preferred the sensation while on a stage.

“Alright,” she said, turning into the blinding beams and crossing her arms. “You can come out now.”

They remained still.

“We don’t have all night!” Chromia called as she cracked her knuckles. “If you make us miss dinner, I’m forwarding our Uber bill to Megatron.”

Still, they didn’t so much as twitch. Nautica pulled a wrench from her subspace. “I’m sure you’ll hear us if I fiddle with your audial receptors a little–“

The mechanical whirr of identical transformations interrupted her, and in the wake, two Vehicons stood blocking their path. Not the largest Windblade had ever seen, but even short bots by Cybertronian standards still towered over the ladies.

“There we go,” she said.

“You’re not getting away this time, Autobots!” one of them said, his voice heavy with threat.

“That’s what the last three said,” Chromia responded. “Can we hurry up and get this over with?”

The pair charged. In an instant, Windblade leaned back and grabbed for Stormfall from her subspace, the sword mass shifting to fit her human-like hand. It activated with a crackle, and she ran to meet them.

The trio’s size gave them an advantage, the Vehicons overshooting and allowing Windblade to slide under one of their legs. She leapt up, dragging Stormfall's serrated edges along an important-looking piece of kibble as she landed on his shoulders. He yelled in surprise. Though he raised a blaster towards her, she sliced the tip off before he could aim.

After a few minutes of scrapping, she looked over to see Chromia and Nautica attacking the other in a similar fashion. She signaled, and they hopped back onto the ground to admire their handiwork.

The frame of Windblade’s opponent sparked with a generous multitude of slashes that almost resembled a beast’s claw marks. The other clutched a particularly nasty axe wound dripping with energon; he was missing an optic, too, no doubt Nautica’s handiwork.

“Look,” she started, “we’d rather not kill anyone if we don’t have to. So why don’t you run back to Megatron and tell him to leave us alone?”

“Bet you won’t be so confident if we bring some humans into the mix,” one sneered.

The other took a step backward, clearly gearing up to turn and head back onto the street. “Yeah, your puny little fans–“

Chromia’s axe pierced through his spark casing, thrown so hard that the head tore out the other side. He looked dumbly down at it, swayed, then collapsed as his frame began to go grey.

“No one messes with our fans,” she said coldly.

“Yeah!” Nautica chimed in, her usual sweetness tempered by biting disdain. “You mess with our fans, you mess with us!”

“Y-you won’t get away with this!” the remaining Vehicon shouted, though his voice suddenly sounded much shakier. Practically tripping over his pedes in a haste to back up, he transformed and zoomed out of the alley.

“Odds on him causing civilian casualties?” Chromia asked dryly.

“High,” Windblade sighed. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of him. You guys go get dinner.”

“I think I’ve lost my appetite,” Nautica said gloomily. “We’ll handle the clean-up and catch you once we're done, okay?”

Windblade nodded in acknowledgement, then, with a brief flicker of her holoform avatar, she transformed and flew after him. Her rudimentary cloaking device buzzed alight a second later. Seoul’s cool night air slid over her wings in a bracing caress, filling her with a giddy energy that almost distracted her from the target. The Vehicon hadn’t gotten far despite well exceeding the speed limit, and she swooped down to ram him as he passed a closed park.

He let out a squeal as they crashed through the foliage and came to a halt beneath a copse of trees. Windblade reactivated her holoform and held Stormfall against his neck cabling before he could so much as vent.

“Like I said,” she said calmly as he thrashed below her. “We don’t want to kill you. But I’ve gotten quite a good look at your serial number, and if we hear about even a single human casualty on your way back to the Decepticons, I’ll forward it to the rest of the Autobots. Soldiers aren’t nearly as forgiving as pop stars, you know.”

“Fine, fine, just let me go!” he hissed, red eyes flaring with panic beneath his mask.

Satisfied, Windblade deactivated Stormfall and stepped back to watch him dart back out onto the street. Listening to a startled honk as he pulled out into traffic at full speed, she let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. An odd, pointless gesture that came automatically after spending so much time around a species that needed things like that. She glanced towards the street, and after confirming a lack of passersby, she dropped to a knee and spread her palm out in the disturbed dirt.

It took barely a moment before she felt herself connect to the Earth’s current. Sounds, smells, tastes, threads of light connecting every life on the planet into a collective force solidified into being around her. Vague, difficult to read, yet enough to move her to awe each time she glimpsed it.

She felt the familiar warm light spiral around her arms and face as she created a shallow connection. Fleeting glimpses met her senses—the rosy scent of a couple reuniting, a sour taste from a tired commuter—but none carried the discordant tones of panic. She hadn’t been seen.

She allowed herself to sink into the sensations. Despite speaking so much, it had been so long since she last listened…

“Windblade!”

The woman shot back to her feet like a kid with a hand in the candy jar, brushing the dirt off her skirt. Her jacket slipped during the movement, sliding off her shoulders.

“Windblade, are you there?”

She froze as beams of light from Chromia’s alt-mode filtered through the branches. Nautica sat atop her, calling out in confusion.

“I– don’t worry, I’m here, just give me a second!” Windblade called back.

With trembling hands, she pulled her jacket back into its proper place. Fingers brushed over whorls of red inked permanently into artificial skin.

She grabbed her hat from where it had fallen and emerged from the trees onto the stark sidewalk. Nautica visibly brightened.

“Oh, good, we were starting to get worried.”

“Ready to go?” Chromia asked, keeping her voice down to avoid notice.

Windblade moved forward to get on (and presumably find another alley for Chromia to transform in so she wouldn’t have to carry them home), but a shy voice stopped her.

“Excuse– um, excuse me?”

A teenage girl with a backpack hovered at the corner of her vision, twisting a lock of hair nervously. “Are you… Sorry, are you Windblade?”

Windblade smiled. “Yes, I am. You’re Ji-an, aren’t you? From the fansign six months ago?”

“You remember me?!” the girl squeaked with a visible jolt.

“Of course I do,” she said. “You drew that lovely picture of us as the Powerpuff Girls. I still have it hanging on my wall.”

She left out the fact that she had never heard of the show before the picture and ended up binge-watching the original cartoon during her downtime. Not that it probably would have mattered to Ji-an, who looked at Windblade like she had just hung the moon.

“Wow…” she breathed. Fumbling with the zippers on her backpack, she stumbled over her next words. “I’m sorry, but if it’s not too much of a bother—I mean, you don’t have to–”

“I’d be happy to give you an autograph,” Windblade said warmly. “Hey, Nautica?”

“Oh, I’d love to!” she said, hopping off Chromia and hurrying over to them. The girl looked as though she might collapse.

After signing some notebook paper and taking a few selfies, they sent the barely coherent fangirl on her way. Chromia was still grumbling about it in the cab home.

“Of all the times to be stuck in alt-mode… You told her I would have given her an autograph if I could, right?”

Their apartment held a welcome respite from the evening’s chaos, the trio sinking into the living room’s large, fluffy couch and groaning. Windblade gazed out over the city skyline, wondering dimly if it would be inappropriate to have some potato chips with her energon ration.

“Honestly, as sore as I am,” Chromia mumbled, settling in, “I’ll take a couple ‘Cons over that ‘brand partnership’ any day.”

“Girls! Thought I’d heard you come in!”

Windblade hauled herself up to greet the smiling face of Bobby, who had clearly been relaxing in their apartment before their arrival (a fairly typical occurrence, since they never minded having him over). Clad in a fluffy bathrobe over casual clothes, he’d been using the apartment’s obscenely large bathtub, if she had to guess. More power to him, frankly. It’s not like they used it; their holoforms couldn’t be submerged like that, and their bot-modes were too large to fit.

“Hi, Bobby,” they said in unison, his presence causing them to brighten up a bit.

“How’d the meeting go?” he chirped.

“Terribly,” Chromia said bluntly. “They stretched the truth big time. Can you believe they wanted to make a documentary on us?”

If possible, he looked more outraged than Chromia had sitting in that office. “Are you kidding me?! I’ve always been very upfront about prioritizing your guys’ privacy, I can’t believe the audacity! No one messes with my girls, or I’ll–”

“We turned them down as best we could,” Windblade said.

“Good,” Bobby responded, “good, you’ve gotta be very firm about your boundaries. Give those sharks an inch, and they’ll take a mile.”

“Sharks are nicer than executives,” Nautica protested mildly.

He took a deep breath, smiling again as he did so. “Did you like the burgers?”

“Uh–” Windblade glanced away. “Yes, they tasted great. In fact, we want to go back soon, just to um– get a better opinion of them.”

“Great!” he said. “Maybe I’ll come with you next time. Well, I’m off for the night! Don’t forget you three are starting rehearsal for the Hawksbill Conservation Institute performance tomorrow.”

“You’ll be promoting the charity on our socials, right?” Nautica asked.

“Already on it. See you then!”

Though they slumped back down as soon as he left, Nautica soon straightened back up.

“Just got a comm from Ultra Magnus.”

“Something wrong?” Windblade asked.

Nautica squinted at the message on her HUD, the expression looking much stranger on a human face than on a Transformer’s. “The opposite, actually. He said they finally managed to get livestreaming set up on Teletraan I. They watched our last performance!”

“What’d he have to say about it?” Chromia asked as she curled up with her head on an armrest. “I swore I messed up some of the footwork in the opening, I doubt he liked that very much.”

“Seems like they all enjoyed it,” said Nautica as her eyes scanned the most recent message, "especially Ironhide. Huh, never struck him as a pop kind of guy.”

“Ironhide watched?!”

Chromia scrambled up. An embarrassed red bloomed on her cheeks, and Windblade took the opportunity to raise an interested eyebrow. She looked away, scowling with no real malice.

“Sounds like everyone on the Ark did. Optimus wants to know how our next song is coming, by the way.”

“Tell him we’re working on it,” Windblade said. “Oh, and make sure to mention that the Decepticon skirmishes have started getting more frequent.”

“Will do.”

If the other two exchanged any further words, Windblade didn’t hear. The couch’s softness, combined with her fatigue from the day's events, had her slipping into recharge before she even realized.

But if she knew about the events happening among the Decepticons that night, she wouldn’t have slept as soundly.

Chapter Text

The Decepticons’ ship, the Nemesis, was, more than anything, large. Winding corridors, generous arms stores, room for legions of foot soldiers, all scattered across the warship hovering just outside of Earth’s orbit. And one of the biggest advantages of its size, besides the obvious, was simple: privacy.

So even though the mess halls and bunks and wash racks rang with the laughter of off-duty soldiers, the swears of overeager card players, and the whispers of ambitious future officers, the Nemesis’s throne room contained only thick, tense silence.

Megatron sat with his cannon extended on his lap, peering at the trembling Vehicon by his pedes. Dark chassis sparking with multitudes of deep gashes, the thin cut on his neck cables screamed of failure louder than any voice could. When enough kliks had passed to determine that the faceless soldier had no intention of breaking the silence, Megatron spoke.

“They got away?”

The Vehicon jerked in surprise, his trembling growing more intense. “Y-yes, my lord.”

“Your ally went offline?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“The two of you couldn’t handle three human femmes?”

“They… they are crafty, my lord. Quick. Strong.”

Megatron shook his helm disdainfully. “Tell me, soldier, what is your designation?”

“Razortrack, sir.”

The end of Megatron’s cannon blossomed with fire. Falling to the ground, the soldier's frame made a loud clang, helm echoing the sound as it hit a far wall.

“Soundwave,” said the warlord, “tell Razortrack’s commanding officer that he will no longer be reporting for duty.”

The communications specialist stirred from his silent spot at Megatron’s right servo, twitching slightly as though to refamiliarize his joints with movement. His visor flashed.

“The message: has been sent, Lord Megatron.”

Slumping on his throne, Megatron let out a deep groan and pinched the bridge of his olfactory sensor.

“This is getting ridiculous,” he said. “How hard can it be to capture three Autobots in human disguises?!”

“Femmes: could be utilizing support from the Ark.”

“No, no, the reports have consistently emphasized they’re on their own.”

Megatron sighed. “Entertainers. Human entertainers. What use could Prime possibly have for such an inane waste of resources?”

“Possibility: gathering human allies.”

“Perhaps,” he conceded. “But if we can’t capture the femmes for interrogation–”

The doors cut him off with a whirr, figure leaning in the frame making Megatron groan.

“Starscream,” he ground out.

“Good to see you too,” the Seeker said. Moving into the room, afterburners softly clicking against the metal floor, he glanced at the still steaming helm of Razortrack. “Bad news?”

“None that concerns you.”

“On the contrary,” Starscream responded in a voice as greasy as the fresh polish adorning his frame, “I was informed that you failed at another attempt to capture—what do they call themselves? C4M1NUX?”

Megatron’s cannon rose swiftly, his faceplate twisted in a scowl. “Of all the insolent—“

“I’m here to propose an alternate strategy,” Starscream said, holding his servos up as the end of the cannon bumped a dark vent adorning his faceplate. They’d done this song and dance before, long enough for him to know exactly when he overstepped.

“Talk quickly,” said Megatron.

“We may not know what the Autobots are after, but we do know what they’re gaining: fans. Fame. Lucrative brand partnerships, if the pictures they’ve posted are any indication.”

“Decepticons: have no need for human currency,” Soundwave said in a colder monotone than usual.

Starscream waved a servo. “Not important. I’m trying to say that the Autobots are getting visible benefits from all this. Benefits that have—so far—been unchallenged.”

“Do you have a point, or are you talking to hear your own voice again?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Starscream said with a grin.

With a snap of his digits, four more Seekers shuffled into the room, lining up behind Starscream in a multicolored array. Yellow, blue, purple, and green, some faces smiling, others scowling.

Starscream struck a pose. The others followed suit.

Megatron squinted. “What am I looking at?”

“Korea’s newest hit boyband,” Starscream said confidently.

The warlord paused to process. Then he burst out laughing.

“You? By the Pits, Starscream, most of your ideas are terrible, but this beats them all!”

“Soundwave didn’t seem to agree,” Starscream said smugly.

Megatron twisted his helm around. “What?!”

Soundwave didn’t flinch, but something in his bearing seemed to sag. “Starscream: approached the cassettes first. Rumble and Frenzy: fans of Korean popular music. Soundwave: was forced to assist.”

“Ravage and Laserbeak liked it too,” Starscream added. “And with all their help, we were able to rig up what we think they’re using to disguise themselves.”

He snapped his digits again. This time, each of the five frames buzzed with electricity. Within kliks, the Seekers shrank, light fizzing about their frames until five young human men stood where the Cybertronians had been, each wearing immaculately beautiful streetwear that matched their hair colors and paint jobs. The one in the center, dark-haired with an unmistakable smirk, chuckled.

“The wonders of modern technology. Using devices affixed to our person, we’re able to mass-displace with very little effort—add on the holoforms projected on top, and we’re indistinguishable from humans. A debut song has already been produced, and the revenue from that should keep us from having to borrow Decepticon shanix,” Starscream said. His hands ran subtly over the new expanse of crimson shirt and sturdy pants, as though even the most experienced member hadn’t gotten used to the feel of fabric.

“If you’d asked for money, I would have ripped out your voice box,” Megatron growled. “I still might. What do the rest of your Seekers have to say about this?”

“Anything to help the Elite Trine!” Nova Storm chirped with a smile that didn’t reach his wide eyes.

“Most of the Trine, anyway,” Thundercracker said under his breath. “Some of us aren’t so enthusiastic.”

Skywarp threw an arm around his shoulders and laughed hard enough to show off glittering white canines. “C’mon, TC, don’t be such a spoilsport! It’ll be fun!”

Megatron looked to the last Seeker, whose frown hadn’t moved even through the transformation.

“Acid Storm?”

“Starscream is very… persuasive,” the green-haired man said curtly.

Megatron nodded. “And Ion Storm is…?”

“Not interested,” Nova answered. “Besides, he’s never been able to keep his trap shut, he would have been a PR nightmare.”

“That’s disrespectful,” Acid chided, “but not wrong. He’s content with his position in the ranks and threatened to reveal us if he had been forced.”

Starscream rolled his eyes. “Ion Storm doesn’t matter. Another blue one would have messed up the color coordination, anyway.”

“Five-person groups aren’t uncommon,” Thundercracker added. “And we’ve all done enough research on human culture to blend, so that won’t be an issue.”

“Won’t be an issue,” Megatron scoffed. “You’re proposing to compete with the Autobot femmes without knowing what the true prize is.”

“Not much of an ask, it’s not like we’ll be putting our lives in danger,” Starscream snorted.

“And you—“ Megatron turned his helm to the man, patience visibly draining by the klik. “Let me see if I have this straight. You want to take four of my best Seekers, three of whom have valuable Outlier abilities, and start a human band with them, which has no guarantee of success, no visible benefits for the war effort, and a very good chance of revealing our existence to humanity!”

“Not to mention we’ll get ripped apart on Twitter if Sky can’t get our choreo down,” Thundercracker interjected. Skywarp reached over to swat him lightly.

As he leaned forward, Megatron’s cannon warmed with warning. “Give me one good reason why I should refrain from sending you to the medibay for your audacity.”

“Well…” Starscream murmured, smirk freezing on his face. Almost human muscles tensed imperceptibly beneath his clothes. “It’ll keep me out of HQ for at least a few astrocycles. I’ll be radio silent. And with all of my energy focused on being a popstar, I probably won’t have much time to advance my newest fifteen usurpation plots…”

Megatron paused. Thought it out. Sighed.

“Fine.”

Silently, Acid Storm handed Nova Storm five shanix. The Seeker commander clasped his hands together and took a step backward. “You’re wise to see the advantages of my proposition. Now–”

“I’m not finished.”

“What?”

“What do you get out of this?” he asked, derma curling. “Your positions on humanity aren’t exactly a secret.”

“Yes, um—” Starscream said, “I’ve turned over a new sheet, as it were, about the flesh– about the humans. What’s more appealing than the worship of thousands of lesser– thousands of itty-bitty organic lifeforms?”

“Very well,” said Megatron, who didn’t sound like he believed him. “But know that I have the authority to end this little gallivant at any time, and the cassettes will report on your behavior when necessary. You still answer to me, Starscream. Do not forget your place.”

Dropping into a deep bow, Starscream looked up at the now-gigantic warlord with a small grin. For the briefest of moments, his dark eyes flashed Decepticon red.

“As you wish, Lord Megatron.”

Chapter Text

The Hawksbill Conservation Institute was Nautica’s current favorite charity, and so when Bobby approached the ladies with the idea of hosting a one-night-only performance of their latest album for a good cause, she pretty much strong-armed the other two into working with the group. Not that it was a bad idea; the Institute accepted their offer almost immediately, and Nautica had befriended at least two human members during the planning phase. Still, the performance date loomed ever closer, and Windblade couldn’t help the wisps of anxiety that always popped up during these exclusive events, especially since it involved new tech elements they hadn't ever used during their live shows.

“Ack! Don’t worry, don’t worry, I’ve got it!” Nautica shouted as one of Jamsil Arena’s new projectors popped and started to smoke midway through their first rehearsal. “I know exactly what’s wrong, don’t touch it!”

“Guess we’re taking five,” Chromia muttered dryly to Windblade, who laughed rather breathlessly. They’d been in the middle of the hardest segment in the outline, and she’d never understand how Nautica could have enough energy to sprint to the tech booth.

“Nothing wrong with a break.”

Approaching the edge of the stage, they hopped off to find Bobby brandishing large water bottles at them. “You girls are doing amazing so far! But make sure to stay hydrated, I don’t want anyone blacking out and hurting themselves.”

“Thank you,” Windblade said warmly. “Go ahead and take a break, too. We’ll call you when Nautica’s done.”

After he nodded and most of the other techs wandered off, Chromia slouched into one of the stadium’s seats and promptly emptied half the bottle over her head. She groaned.

“What’s that human myth about flying too close to the sun?”

“Icarus?” Windblade offered as she sat down and took a drink. A pop-up that had activated on her HUD about overheating finally cleared, causing her to give a small, contented sigh.

“That’s the one,” Chromia said. “Call me Icarus ‘cause I got way too ambitious choreographing that dance. If I ever suggest it again, you have permission to run me through with Stormfall.”

“Nautica seems to have it down.”

“What I wouldn’t give to have some classical training right now…” Chromia remarked in agreement.

The woman in question rushed back up to them a moment later with curls askew and a stain on her turtle-themed stage outfit. “Knew it was just the laser. Got it all fixed up, and I noticed a way to improve the LCoS chips, so I think I may stick around after rehearsal to fiddle with them.”

“Great work,” Windblade called, patting the seat next to her. “Take five with us.”

Near collapsing into it, Nautica’s vents finally kicked in loud enough to hear even through the holoform. Windblade patted her shoulder sympathetically while Chromia worked on rebraiding a strand of hair that had come loose from her widow’s peak. She stilled after getting it situated, casting a confused glance at Nautica.

“Why’s Firestar trying to comm me?”

Squeaking in surprise, Nautica hid her face behind her hands. “Oh! Just tell her I’m not here!”

Chromia’s brows furrowed, but shrugging, she took the call anyway. Windblade passed her a phone to talk into in case of any stray techs.

“Hello? Hey, Firestar, yeah, it’s been a while… Nautica? She’s not around right now, but I can take a message if you—five solar cycles?!”

Chromia shot a startled glance at Nautica, who cringed weakly. “Yeah, you’re right, that’s really weird. I’ll ask her if her systems are working, maybe she just dinged them or something… Got it, if that’s all… Hm? No, yeah, I’m kind of busy right now, sorry… Good talking to you. Bye.”

“Thank Solus,” Nautica sighed, slumping back into her seat.

“Going to explain why you’ve been ghosting your Amica Endura for nearly a week?” Chromia asked, though she didn’t sound particularly put off.

“I guess she’s joined the Autobots if she’s close enough to comm,” she sighed. “Probably wants to see me again.”

Windblade frowned. “What’s wrong with taking a trip up to the Ark? She’s your Amica, after all.”

“You don’t know Firestar very well, do you?” Chromia interjected with a roll of her eyes.

“Never met her.”

“She’s not that bad,” Nautica protested mildly. “Very talented, in fact. We were roommates in the same sorority. She’s just… a lot.”

“That’s putting it kindly,” muttered Chromia.

“If she’s not a good fit with you, why not break it off?” Windblade asked. “It’s not like there are any Camiens around to shun you for Platonic Severance.”

“Aside from you two,” Nautica said with a weak laugh.

Scoffing good-naturedly, Chromia shook her head. “I doubt the opinions of a bot without an Amica exactly hold weight there.”

Nautica’s eyes widened. “What?! But you’re so–”

“Aggressive?”

“Cool,” Windblade said as she crossed her arms. “Don’t talk badly about yourself. Any bot would be lucky to have you.”

“Does that make all three of us chronically lonely?” Chromia asked, unsubtly trying to change the subject. “I’ve never heard you talk about your Amica, Windblade.”

“Uh–” Windblade started as a layer of shocking ice seemed to coat her spark.

“Ooh, let me guess,” Nautica said eagerly. “You… were dedicated to your Amica until you walked in on them sharing an illicit milkshake with a secret other best friend!”

“No–”

“I always thought they went offline,” Chromia shrugged.

“Kind of.”

“Wait, kind of? How can a bot be ‘kind of’ offline?”

“My Amica Endura is Hot Shot,” Windblade mumbled.

The two women froze in their tracks, Chromia’s mouth still open as though to speak. A horribly awkward moment passed before Nautica could clear her throat and break the silence.

“Hot Shot like… like the Cityspeaker Hot Shot?” she asked in a hushed voice.

“Yes,” Windblade said heavily.

Chromia ran a hand over her eyes and sighed. “Sweet Solus, Windblade, I’m sorry. Wouldn’t have said that if I had known.”

“It’s fine, there’s no way you could have,” Windblade assured. “It’s not as though I talk about him much.”

“How’d you two meet?” asked Nautica, biting her lip as though walking on eggshells.

She shrugged uncomfortably. “School.”

“Did you know he was, um–”

“A Cityspeaker? Yes, I did.” Windblade felt her shoulders hunch.

“Hard not to know with the tattoos and all, I’m sure,” Chromia said with a stilted chuckle.

“Oh, is that why you paint your faceplate?” Nautica asked, looking like she couldn’t help herself.

Windblade’s fingers brushed over the concealer around her eyes without thinking. Solus bless whoever invented setting spray.

“It’s complicated,” she answered and left it at that. She didn’t want to lie. “And we’re still Amica, since he isn’t dead. Legally, anyway. I haven’t really thought about it, but I don’t think we could go through Platonic Severance even if I wanted to, either, since that requires the consent of both participants, and…”

She trailed off, and Chromia put a steadying hand on her shoulder.

“He’s with Caminus now. I’m sure he considered it a great honor to become a part of the Titan he had worked with for so long.”

“I know,” Windblade sighed.

She did know. She knew better and deeper than Chromia—or anyone else—could possibly imagine. The thought made her feel small.

Pulling her sparkling jacket closer over her shoulders, Windblade cleared her throat and stood. “We’ve been on break long enough. Those turtles aren’t going to fundraise for themselves.”

Surprisingly, the rest of the run almost went off without a hitch. Sure, Windblade felt close to evacuating her insides, but that always happened when she thought of Hot Shot, and it didn’t matter anyway so long as her footwork stayed precise. The stadium faded in and out of focus as instinct took over—her own voice sounded foreign in her ears.

A few more songs elapsed, and she found herself singing the final number without realizing. Lyrics of hope and truth spilled from her mouth as they danced, a perfect closer even if she didn’t feel any of them.

What she did feel was the hum of the arena’s electrical systems, beating in time with the music. A slight fried scent met her nose, and she filed it away for later since the other two didn’t react. It must have been from the lighting, which had been uncomfortably warm for a while.

A nearby tech slipped past the stage, his stress visible even from her spot up above. That wouldn’t do. Her voice shifted towards it, a bit of extra comfort imbued into the notes, and his shoulders eased.

“Windblade–”

Actually, a perennial aura of stress had been hanging over the theater this whole time. How hadn’t she noticed it before? Threads of light darkened by soot ran overhead, and if she could stretch out just a little…

“Windblade!”

The threads snapped. It left her cold.

She stumbled and just barely caught herself on one knee, beads of perspiration dripping from her forehead. The world sharpened into too big a focus that made her forget to breathe. Chromia’s strong hand pressed into her shoulder as she crouched beside with a face full of concern.

“What happened?” Windblade’s mouth felt full of cotton.

Chromia didn’t answer, instead opting for an “Are you okay?”

“I– I’m fine,” she stuttered. “Just need to catch my breath.

Before anyone could protest, Windblade jumped up and rushed off stage, silence trailing in her wake. Cords and cables that usually tripped her up now lay stiff on the ground, her feet passing over them as if used to a larger size.

The green room’s doors slammed behind her, and she finally felt herself able to vent air. It came quickly, naturally, almost as though she were human after all. With jerky servos, she pulled off the now-stifling jacket, which fell and lay in a crumpled heap on the ground. Windblade stared at her arms in the mirror, then down to confirm with rising panic.

Sloping crimson patterns spiraled around her arms and chest in thorny points, each centimeter different from the last. Every curve and angle, every whorl and pit mapped the Titan she’d spent cycles learning to talk to in abstract artistry.

Cityspeaker tattoos.

Caminus’s honor glowed faintly in the harsh lighting, shimmer lingering at the edges like an unwanted houseguest. She knew that if she wiped away the makeup hiding her facial tattoos from the rest of the world, they’d be shining in kind. The physical manifestation of her abilities. Abilities that she hadn’t intentionally tapped into.

Pointed nails suddenly felt foreign on her digits, pressing into skin as artificial as the rest of her life. Her optics squeezed painfully closed. This body felt too limiting all of a sudden, too small for the emotions she felt.

Fortunately, the Green Room was big enough for a Camien in a fetal position. The transformation took only a second. When it finished, Windblade put her head between metal knees and screamed from closed derma.

A memory file rose to the surface of her processor. If it had physical form, she knew it would have been creased with time, the same as old human letters she saw in movies. A message transported across vast distances.

The light blue and gold femme fizzled into view in Windblade’s HUD, as crisp as the day she first received the message. Her caller’s gaze focused at some point in the middle distance.

“Hm? Alright, I understand,” she said, melodious voice politely distant. “You’re sure that this will—yes, it’s important. Official Cityspeaker business. Now off you pop, tell your Conjux I said hello.”

A faint rustling came through the recording, then silence. The femme sighed, then turned her attention to the camera.

“Hi, Windblade,” Lightbright said, her detached smile fading to a frown. “No, no, that isn’t right. Too casual.”

She cleared her throat. “The Cityspeaker Lightbright, representative of the Titan Caminus and the Mistress of Flame, greets—scrap, is it strange to evoke the Mistress’s name if she doesn’t know I’m here?”

Despite herself, Windblade smiled softly as her old friend continued to speak.

“Nonetheless, you understand. Sorry if I’m catching you at a bad time. It’s not every solar cycle I can sneak over to the long-distance comms, but I’ve been trying my best. Hopefully, I can send some more in a lunar cycle or two.”

Lightbright smiled uncertainly. She didn’t know that this would be the last message she sent, at least for a long time; Windblade knew she wasn’t dead, would have felt it if she went offline, but in all probability the Mistress of Flame had found out and formally forbade contact.

“Things are good here. On Caminus, I mean. We’re still not taking a side in the Cybertronian civil war, since the Mistress says it goes against the teachings of the Primes. Though one of their leaders is a Prime, right? How does that work? Well, anyway, I suppose it doesn’t really matter for the Cityspeakers.”

The mention of their shared profession caused something in her expression to soften.

“Caminus still talks about you, sometimes. He says he misses his ‘Wind Voice.’ I… I miss you too. But I’m managing pretty well on my own. He’s been recovering his strength ever since the fusion happened, and— and you can really see it in the way he’s been repairing himself. One of the streets on the surface has a trick ramp now. I think that’s from Hot Shot.”

Something in Lightbright’s expression fractured. “Do you think he can still hear me?”

Her voice faded, replaced by a sniffle that Windblade knew too well meant she was trying to resist crying. The memory always got difficult at this point—Windblade had come close to tears herself the first time she watched the comm, and even now, the sight always made her spark ache.

“I know why you left, Windblade,” Lightbright continued in a warbling voice. “At least I think I do. I can’t say I blame you. Just… make sure you’re content with yourself, wherever you are. And if we don’t meet till we return to the Allspark, know you’ll always be my friend. Hot Shot’s too.”

The recording shut off, and the memory dissipated. It didn’t help. It never did. All Windblade could think of was Lightbright working alone in Caminus’s brain chamber. And of Hot Shot, patterns forever alight, babbling the words of a Titan in a wiry grave.

Windblade swore abstinence from her abilities when she left Caminus. When that proved not to be an option, she promised herself dominance over them. Nothing wrong with tapping into the currents surrounding her occasionally, not when the return was so much greater than the risk. Earth held possibilities she’d never even considered back on her homeworld.

But not when she used them without realizing. What options were left to her? Risk her mind for what, a song? A performance?

Or revealing the truth. Eliminating the lie of Windblade, the popstar, for her own safety. Letting down more fans than she could picture. Destroying the trust she’d built up with the Autobots, her friends.

Not that there had been much trust to begin with, said a voice in the back of her mind that she hoped wasn’t her own. Not when you can’t be honest with them.

A soft knock at the door brought her back down to the green room. “Windblade?”

“Nautica?” she called back. With nary but a shifting of air from the reactivation of her holoform, Windblade rose to her feet and restored the jacket to its rightful place on her body.

“We’re just checking in on you,” her friend said nervously, and a shuffling footstep indicated Chromia agreed. “You rushed off pretty suddenly.”

Windblade couldn’t help the shame bubbling close to her spark. She’d made her friends worry for her. Some leader.

“I’m not feeling well,” she said honestly. Opening the door to see her companions’ stricken faces hurt. “I think… I think there’s something wrong with my voice.”

“Do we have to cancel–”

“No!” she said quickly. “No, nothing like that. But I wouldn’t mind any advice, if you have it.”

Nautica popped up and began to rummage around for her phone, but Chromia didn’t look convinced. She crossed her arms, squinting at Windblade in a gesture that might have been almost intimidating to someone else.

“At least let yourself off the hook for the rest of the day,” she sternly suggested. “And tomorrow. Don’t give me that look, we have plenty of time before the performance date.”

“You know, I heard about this physician on TikTok,” Nautica said, tapping furiously away at her screen. “They say he’s a whiz at curing metaphysical-physical ailments, do you think that could help?”

Windblade peered at the offered phone screen and the image of a shaded storefront above some directions. Looking back up into her friends’ faces, she smiled uncertainly.

“Can’t hurt, right?”

Nautica beamed, and the lines in Chromia’s face eased. Meanwhile, Bobby rounded the corner and lit up at the sight of Windblade.

“You’re okay!”

His hug nearly knocked her off her feet, but she laughed and patted his head. “Temporary setback. Are you good with us calling off tomorrow’s practice?”

“Yes, of course!” he gushed. “Anything you need, let me know. Just as long as you’re taking care of yourself.”

“Thanks, Bobby,” she said as he let go. His smile seemed to warm her in a way unique from the burning lights of the stage. More like a hot cube of energon on a winter’s day.

The three linked arms on the way back to their apartment, Nautica proclaiming her desire to sleep for seventeen cycles as soon as they stepped past the threshold. The whole thing felt normal, or at least, what was normal for them.

But as Windblade tried to slip into recharge that night, her mind brought back the image of her frame in the green room, patterns glowing. She didn’t sleep much at all.