Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Bluestreak knew he didn’t live a normal life.

- - - - - - - - - -

“Let’s go over it one more time.”

“Ri-”

“No, no. It’s best to practice.” 

- - - - - - - - - -

The first thing to clue him in was his different frame type. Now, Iacon was a smelting pool of different types of frames. Yet out of all the unique mechanisms that surrounded him, none of them had had a chevron as sharp as his, nor did they sport the light bar that he had in alt mode. 

Well, maybe that wasn’t entirely true. But when he asked mechanisms that had them, they claimed them to be “mods.” For the longest time, Bluestreak didn’t know what those were, but he did know they weren’t natural. Not like his.

- - - - - - - - - -

“I don’t want to talk about it anymore, Riri. It’s scary, and you said it’s likely not to come true anyway, so-”

“Just because something’s not likely, Bitty Blue, doesn’t mean it won’t happen. We don’t want to gamble with this type of thing.”

“…”

- - - - - - - - - -

But besides his light bar and chevron, the most distinct feature on Bluestreak was his wings. 

Only a quarter of Cybertron’s population had wings. The most common frametype to have wings were shuttles, rotaries, and Seekers. Their wings weren’t like Bluestreak’s. For one, they were huge. And sharp. They were made for cutting through the air, helping aerials soar.

Bluestreak’s wings weren’t made for that. His were more rounded and had multiple panels. They were smaller, too, not meant to fly. Instead, they gave Bluestreak senses that other mechs didn’t have, not even other winged mechs could sense what Bluestreak could. They were special, Riri claimed. He was special.

- - - - - - - - - -

“... I know it’s scary, Blue. But it’s necessary. It’s to make sure we’re safe. So-”

“No! It’s not to make sure we’re safe. It’s to make sure I’m safe. In case-”

“Shhh, Bitlet mine.” Riri soothed. Suddenly, Bluestreak was in Riri’s embrace. He hugged back, little vents working overtime. He laid his helm against Riri’s chassis. With his wings, he could sense his carrier’s spark whirling underneath. It always soothed him.

- - - - - - - - - -

For as long as Bluestreak could remember, Iacon had been home. He knew he came from somewhere else. Or at least, Riri came from somewhere else. When they were having a good day, Bluestreak could get Riri to talk about the different city-states that made up Cybertron. He used to be an explorer. Bluestreak’s pretty sure he’s been everywhere.

Yet he settled in Iacon for Bluestreak, so he could have a stable life. Bluestreak liked Iacon, even though he knew it came with its problems. He knew the ins and outs of it. He probably knew it better than native Iaconians, since his carrier was…

- - - - - - - - - -

Sighing, Riri rubbed around his wings’ hinges. Bluestreak leaned into the sensation.

“...you understand why this plan is important? Right, Bitty Blue? My job…”

Bluestreak vents hitched. He burrowed his faceplates against his carrier’s chassis seams. “It’s because… you’re fighting against the government. Against the Pretender.” 

- - - - - - - - - -

Iacon was the homeland of the Thirteen, as legend had it. It’s where they made their final stand against Unicron. Afterward, they spread out. But the Covenant of Primus depicted Iacon as the closest region on Cybertron to Primus. That’s why so many immigrants came, to be closer to their god and connect to him spiritually.

So, it made sense that Iacon became a theocracy. The Prime was both a spiritual and government leader. He was chosen, not by the people, but by the Matrix of Leadership. His word was the law, enforced by the Prime’s Guard. 

- - - - - - - - - -

“That’s right, love. I’m sorry I dragged you into this fight, but if Sentinel ever got ahold of you…”

“I understand, Riri.”

Riri ex-vented deeply. “No, you don’t, Blue, and I hope you never do.”

Bluestreak squirmed in his carrier’s lap, not liking the tone he used. Sighing, Bluestreak felt his wings droop. “Okay… let’s go over it again.”

- - - - - - - - - -

When Bluestreak was just a sparkling, Iacon was ruled over by Zeta Prime. He was an old mech. Bluestreak remembered him using a cane. Although some of his policies were a little outdated, he had been a just ruler. Throughout his reign, Iacon had blossomed. In fact, he had widened its domain. 

Many city-states were moved by him, seeing him as the first “true” Prime since the Thirteen. They had forfeited their government power to him. Crystal City, Nova Cronum, and Harmonex became a part of Zeta’s Empire. There hadn’t been this many followers of the Covenant of Primus since the First Golden Age. Zeta Prime’s rule was filled with expanding wisdom and philosophies.

It ended with a shot to his spark chamber.

- - - - - - - - - -

“Thank you, Bitty Blue,” Riri said, relief flowing through his field. “Now, you should only follow the plan if…”

Bluestreak gulped, already feeling sick to his tanks. “If you don’t come back from a raid, and I can’t reach you over comms…or anyone over comms. Optimus. Ultra Magnus. Kup… I-If the Prime’s Guard- the bad ones, not Ironhide and his crew- storm our hideout. Just… any of the bad scenarios where-”

“It’s okay, Bluestreak. You can stop.” Riri assured, “You did well.”

- - - - - - - - - -

Zeta’s death was violent and chaotic. Anarchists shot him during a speech. It sent his empire into a tizzy. Although there were tentative plans to search for a new prime, the Priests of the Covenant were suddenly frantic. A power vacuum threatened to destroy everything Zeta had built.

That’s when he came in. Sentinel Prime. The Pretender. 

- - - - - - - - - -

“When you can’t reach the others or me, where do you go?”

“T-the train station.” 

“Right, and what do you do when you get there?”

“Go to the ticket master and tell them our account number.”

“Which is?”

Bluestreak rattled off the number.

“And the passglyph?”

Bluestreak obediently repeated the passglyph. Usually, only high-profile or regular travelers have an account number with the Cybertron Transportation Agency. This allows mechs to swiftly travel between city-states, foregoing usual security checks. Having an account also allows Bluestreak to leave Iacon even if the Pretender shuts down the borders.

- - - - - - - - - -

At first, nothing was amiss with Sentinel’s reign. Although there was a shaky period where mechs wondered if Sentinel would keep control over Zeta’s Empire, it soon became clear that the Prime would continue to govern four city-states.

Sentinel was very different from Zeta. He was more demanding. Although the Prime’s glyph had always been law, Sentinel gave no leeway. Prime’s Guard officers increased, patrolling throughout the empire. Priests and Bishops who were licensed to the Covenant also increased. 

Public opinion was split on Sentinel. The people did not like the Prime’s Guard constantly sniffing in their business. The Primacy owned the land, so the Guard could go into anyone’s home when they pleased. However, with more clergy members being licensed, more temples and sanctuaries were being made. Even though he was strict, Sentinel seemed to genuinely care. 

- - - - - - - - - -

“After you give the ticket master our account number, what do you do?”

“Ask for a seat on the earliest train heading out to Praxus, preferably on The Emperium.” 

“Good, bitlet.”

- - - - - - - - - -

What many mechs didn’t know- what they still didn’t know- was that Sentinel was way worse than any of his dissenters thought. Behind the Primal Basilica lurked dark truths. 

The Matrix of Leadership claimed its host, wrapping around their very spark. They always had a connection to past Primes and Primus itself. The Matrix had its very own field, and it was interwoven with every Prime’s EMF.

Sentinel’s field stayed singular.

Whispers spread, but it didn’t evolve further than that.

There was a reason why the Pretender ruled with such an iron fist.

Deep within the Basilica, a mech sat in chains, the Matrix’s field connected with his own. 

That mech’s name was Optimus. He was the true Prime. Bluestreak’s carrier and a couple of other brave sparks were able to free him from the Pretender’s clutches. And since then, they’ve been trying to fight back against the tyrant. 

- - - - - - - - - -

“Once you get on the train and it leaves Iacon’s borders, you can relax a little, Blue. You’re out of Sentinel’s jurisdiction. But once you reach Praxus, what should you do?”

“Go to the Foreign Frame Gateway of Praxus.”

“That’s right, Bitty Blue. Your wings and chevron will grant you automatic citizenship.” Riri soothed, stroking his wings. “Now, what if someone tries to stop you when you get off the train?”

“If they’re Enforcers or have the Lord of Law’s symbol, do as they say. If not: run.”

- - - - - - - - - -

Thankfully, the Pretender didn’t have complete control over Cybertron. There were other empires outside of the Covenant. Such as the Fallacia Empire ruled by Lord High Protector Megatronus. He ruled from Kaon, and his reach went from Helex to Polyhex. 

Besides the world powers, there were other kingdoms. One of the strongest was Praxus. It was led by the Lord of Law, known for his winding roads, glinting crystal gardens, and the most peaceful city-state on Cybertron.

Bluestreak was a Praxian frame. His progenitor was Praxian. When he was little, he had asked Riri about his other creator. However, he didn’t like to talk about him much. Riri wasn’t Praxian. Instead of a chevron, he had audial horns. His most distinct feature wasn’t wings, but a gleaming blue visor. 

- - - - - - - - - -

“If no one stops you, where do you go?”

“To the safehouse in the 49th District.” Bluestreak recited. “Once it's secure, I make an appointment at PsychScreen with a preference of seeing Smokescreen.”

Whenever Bluestreak said that name, Riri tensed. Bluestreak wasn’t exactly sure who Smokescreen was, but he was pretty sure he was related to him somehow. Riri had shown him a picture of the psychologist, so he knew who he should see.

Although Praxians had both wings and chevrons in common, the frametype could look widely different. Bluestreak read about his homeland and learned that family members could tell each other apart from the rest of their society by comparing chevrons.

Bluestreak and Smokescreen’s chevrons were identical, only the color separating them.

- - - - - - - - - -

Outsiders would think that Praxus was a city of rules and regulations, especially after hearing the title of their leader. However, Riri had drilled it into Bluestreak that not everything was black and white. While Praxus seemed to gleam, there was actually a whole lot of rust underneath it. 

- - - - - - - - - -

Bluestreak snuggled up to his carrier. Being a part of the rebel force didn’t come with a lot of perks. They were all forced underground, in the old war tunnels (some turned waste disposal). Bluestreak was fascinated with their history. Some parts of the tunnels had entire rooms. They had recreated the cities where they used to live when the Quintessons attacked. When things were quiet, Bluestreak would get Kup to tell the stories of the tunnels. The veteran was really good at telling them.

“Bitty Blue,” Riri exclaimed, brushing his digits over his chevron. They shared a berth in a room with twenty other mechs. Technically, Bluestreak should be weaning away from his carrier. However, small was scarce, and Bluestreak would stay by his carrier as long as he could. 

Bluestreak squirmed, looking up at his lone creator. “Yes, Riri?”

Riri took a deep vent, seemingly conflicted. “I love you, bitlet mine, never doubt that. I might not always be there for you, but know I’ll always be here.” Riri put a servo over Bluestreak’s chassis; it engulfed Bluestreak’s abdomen, reminding the first-frame youngling of how small he was. 

“I know,” Bluestreak said softly. “I’ll always know.” He snuggled up to his carrier. “I love you too.”

Riri wrapped his arms around Bluestreak, holding him close. “My good little spark. I know I haven’t given you the best life, but I’m glad you’re here with me.”

Bluestreak wanted to protest. He knew his sparklinghood was… different from other younglings, but it was all he knew. He loved his carrier, and the rebels he fought beside. Kup’s stories were soothing. Ironhide was gruff but kind, allowing Bluestreak to help with his gun maintenance. Ultra Magnus was awkward but gave the best snuggles (shhhhh, it’s a secret).

Then there was Optimus. Bluestreak knew he’d always be safe with him. Like the others, Bluestreak was drawn toward the True Prime. Although he was always busy, he would drop everything to listen to Bluestreak’s own youngling woes. 

Bluestreak might not have a sire. He might not ever know his progenitor or why Riri split up from him, but that was okay. Bluestreak had been raised by his community, and he wouldn’t have had it any other way.

- - - - - - - - - -

Officially, Praxus was ruled by the Lord of Law, but everyone knew that position was just a figurehead—the true ruler governed from the shadows.

If the Lord of Law didn’t rule, most mechs assumed his council did. But that was also false.

The real leader of Praxus was the Baron, aka the Lord of the Underworld. 

Praxus used to be a city of laws. Slowly but surely, however, the gangs took over. They corrupted everything they touched. Soon, Praxus was in anarchy, barely standing afloat. They maintained pretenses to prevent other city-states from attempting to take over the renowned grounder city.

That’s when one of the gang leaders took charge. He became a kingpin, taking over the city one district at a time. He climbed the social ladder until he got to the Lord of Law’s council. To this cycle, his descendants still ruled from the shadows, puppeting the Lord of Law. 

- - - - - - - - - -

After Riri’s declaration, Bluestreak started to fall asleep to his carrier stroking his wings. His processor felt fuzzy, barely on this side of conscious. 

“Bitty Blue,” Riri whispered, “tell me again: what do you say when you see Smokescreen? Or if the Enforcers ask for your designation?”

Bluestreak groaned, hating that Riri was rousing him from his almost slumber. Hating that he was asking him this.

“I know, bitlet mine, just one more time.”

With an exasperated sigh, Bluestreak onlined his vocalizer, keeping his optics closed. “My name is Bluestreak, creation of Jazz and Baron Prowl.” 

Bluestreak didn’t hear his carrier’s praise or see the reaction to his progenitor’s designation; he was tumbling down into recharge.

Chapter Text

“Sir!”

Bluestreak jolted, looking over to see the conductor giving him an annoyed look. For a moment, Bluestreak just stared at the mech’s sensor wings. He’d never seen another Praxian in person before. It was a culture shock to see others of his frame kin in Iacon.

He had been trying to prepare himself, going over Riri’s plan and the facts he knew of Praxus. He needed to take his processor off… current events, but it was hard. His struts ached, especially his wing. The Prime’s Guard had tried to yank him back by his left outer panel. It was only Ironhide’s interference that allowed Bluestreak to escape.

There had been a lot of screaming. And a lot of energon. He remembered Kup whispering into his comm, encouraging him to leave, even though…

“Sir,” the conductor growled again, his annoyance turning to suspicion, “I need to see your ticket. If you don’t have one, I will need you to exit the train. If you don’t comply, I’ll need to-”

“Oh, yes! So sorry, it’s… been a long cycle.” Bluestreak exclaimed, sensor panels expanding outward. He winced as they took in more information around the train car. 

He was still getting used to the amount of noise that his sensor wings picked up after his last youngling upgrade. He wasn’t used to all this feedback. It’d only get worse when he got his final upgrade. He was now in the awkward stage between youngling and adult. Depending on the city-state, he could be categorized as either.

Bluestreak shook out his wings, trying to ignore all the information he was receiving. He gave the conductor a sheepish smile, holding out his wrist. Right above the port in his forearm was a data chip used for registration. It had various uses, from holding ID info to shopping lists.

Or a newly purchased train ticket.

Still dubious, the conductor got out his reader and swiped at Bluestreak’s wrist. He looked over Bluestreak’s ticket with keen optics. Bluestreak bit his lower derma, feeling his fuel pump speed up. All the different, horrible scenarios went through his head. 

Although he had a master account, Bluestreak wondered if Sentinel did something to get it shut down. The Pretender had been clamping down hard on Iacon as Optimus’ forces gained more public traction. So much so that nowhere felt safe anymore… not even the bunkers. 

“Riri!”

“Blue, get out of here.”

“But-”

“Go! I’ll be right behind you as soon as I get Optimus. Get back to the bunker.”

“Knew it.” The conductor muttered, shaking Bluestreak out of his thoughts. He looked up at the conductor, his field turning cocky and smug. Bluestreak felt his spark drop.

Slowly, Bluestreak lowered his servo to the very illegal subspace positioned on his thigh. He took stock of the weapons in his subspace. He had an energon dagger his carrier gave him and a pistol Ironhide had gifted him for his second-to-last upgrade. Neither would do much if this mech called-

Resetting his vocalizer, the conductor gave Bluestreak a look. “Come with me, sir, it seems you-”

The machine the conductor held beeped suddenly, flashing red. Shock raced through the conductor’s field. With wide optics, he gave Bluestreak a terrified look. Shaking himself off, the conductor gestured for Bluestreak to stand. “It seems there’s been a terrible mistake, sir. You’re in the wrong car. Come with me, I’ll personally escort you to your seat.”

“Oh,” Bluestreak said, hastily standing up. He looked around, confused. The Emperium was one of the only trains that went through Praxus. It was also Praxian-owned. The ticket master had told Bluestreak that the train segregated mechs by citizens and non-citizens. Although Bluestreak could easily gain citizenship, he currently didn’t have it, thus making him board with the other foreigners.

“Um, thank you,” Bluestreak said, feeling embarrassed as he stood from his seat. At least there weren't a lot of other mechs on board to see his blunder. “I’m so sorry for the trouble. I wasn’t sure where I was supposed to go since- oh my!”

Bluestreak turned to see the conductor bowing to him, wings completely pinned to his back. Although Bluestreak had never been around his frame kin before, Riri made sure he learned wing speak. Completely flattening sensor wings to the back strut was a very submissive pose.

“The blame can only be put on our staff, my liege-”

My liege?! 

“If you follow me, we can quickly amend this mistake.” The mech continued, still bowing.

“Oh, erm- of course! Uh-” Bluestreak fumbled as the conductor didn’t rise. Trying to look back on the old-timey holovids he had giggled over as a sparkling, Bluestreak waved his servo. “Please, rise. The sooner I’m settled in, the better.”

“As you say!” The conductor amended. He rose and swept forward, his sensor wings (still canted down) flicked in a follow motion.

Not knowing what else to do, Bluestreak timidly followed. He became intensely aware of his wing placement. Riri had taught him to keep them high and proud. Bluestreak had always thought it was in silent defiance to Sentinel… but could it be for something else?

Bluestreak knew something had happened between Riri and his progenitor. Bluestreak suspected that the master account Riri had wasn’t his own. At least… not completely. 

The likely owner was his progenitor. Each master account had three groupings of numbers. The first set represented the city-state the mech’s permanent residence was, then it went by district, then a long number chain that represented personal identity.

The starting digits of Bluestreak’s master account aligned with Praxus, but Riri hadn’t been there long before Bluestreak was forged. 

The account being owned by Bluestreak’s progenitor would also explain why a common Polyhexian would have access to such an account. Bluestreak knew his progenitor was highly ranked. A baron on the Lord of Law’s council. 

If the account was owned by his progenitor, then he would be alerted that Bluestreak purchased a ticket. Wringing out his servos, Bluestreak felt his spark curl in anxiety. He knew very little about the mech that helped spark him. Did he even know Bluestreak existed?

Doubtful. Riri only talked about him when Bluestreak begged as a sparkling. Even then, Bluestreak got little information. The falling out with his creators must have been bad.

But… his progenitor must be a good mech. Somewhat. Riri wouldn’t have trusted him with Bluestreak’s safety if so. 

Then again, that was only if the worst scenario happened.

‘If’… hm, it wasn’t a hypothetical anymore. 

“Round them up!”

“Hello? Where’s… what’s-”

“Blue, get goin’.”

“Kup! What-”

“Run, sparklin’. Prime’s Guard’s ‘ere.”

“What?! How did they-”

“I don’t know, and I doubt we’ll find out at this rate. Now get. I don’t want you going down with us-”

“But-”

“Freeze!”

“Pardon me, sir.”

Bluestreak shuttered his optics, shaking his helm. He looked up to see the conductor looking back at me. 

“Oh, excuse me,” Bluestreak said. His sensor wings twitched with the want to lower, but he held him up. Although he was confused, Bluestreak knew his situation was… precautionary. Focusing back in, Bluestreak straightened out and waved a servo. “I’m sorry, it’s been a stressful orn. What did you say?”

The conductor gave him an indulgent look. “It’s quite all alright.” He opened a door leading to the next car. “I just wondered who had directed you to the back of the train. We who serve on the Emperium take our job seriously. So, such horrendous mistakes such as your predicament never happen again, my liege, it would be helpful if you could give the designation of the mech who-”

“Oh!” Bluestreak said, wincing a tad that he cut off the conductor. “Uh, it wasn’t any of the staff, actually. The station’s ticket master actually directed me.”

The conductor scoffed. “Of course, a native.” He muttered before shaking himself off. He flashed Bluestreak a dazzling smile. “No matter. It has been rectified. Come, we are almost there.”

“Wonderful,” Bluestreak exclaimed, looking around. He just now realized that the car there were passing through was filled with other Praxians.

It was hard not to gape. Praxians were gorgeous. Bluestreak was always on the receiving end, so he never really understood the appeal. He looked in the mirror, and although he thought he looked different, he wasn’t sure if pretty was the right word to describe his matte gray and red palette. 

However, looking around at his kin, Bluestreak could see the appeal. Their chevron and wings were sharp and prominent, drawing attention to their frames. Most of the Praxians in this car glistened like newly polished crystals. Their gazes were just as sharp, looking Bluestreak over. 

Bluestreak didn’t get much of a chance to contemplate their reaction. The conductor and he had already reached the end of the car. With another bow, the conductor held it open, allowing Bluestreak to step through the doorway. He scrambled after the younger Praxian, making sure the next door opened before Bluestreak could reach for it.

“And here we are, my liege!” The conductor exclaimed. With a flourish, he shows off the new car.

Bluestreak stepped inside, gasping. Fancy decor dripped from the ceiling and walls. A berth stood by one of the walls, silky curtains flowing from its frame. In the center of the room sat a dining table, set up and waiting for its occupants to take a seat. Multiple lounges and chairs were sprawled throughout the train car. 

Walking deeper into the grandeur, Bluestreak felt like he stepped into another world. A weird sensation crawled through his spark. He didn’t know how he felt about this.

It’s too much. Bluestreak thought. Too much, too soon. This-this-this… I-

Vent, bitty. Riri’s voice filled his mind. Keep venting. Don’t look at the whole picture, just focus on a piece of it. One step after another. Continue, and you’ll find you’ve reached the end in no time.

Focusing back in, Bluestreak vented, taking his carrier’s advice. 

He turned back to the conductor, who radiated a smugness. “The Emperium strives to make its guests comfortable and well cared for.” He declared.

 “It certainly seems to live up to its standards.” Bluestreak found himself saying, looking around in disbelief still.

Smiling, the conductor gave a nod. “We will set off from the station in a breem or two, my liege. Within a joor, a waiter will come by to take your order. I suggest taking a look over the menu. The sustenance forge onboard prepares a variety of dishes from all over Cybertron. There is a panel by your birth that also pings an assistant. They can help you refresh yourself.”

“Oh, that’s… that’s so generous, thank you.” Bluestreak ended up saying. He looked over at the panel the conductor gestured to, not really sure how he felt about having an assistant care for him. 

The conductor nodded, taking a step back. “Of course. I hope you enjoy your stay on the Emperium.” A nervous look crossed over the mech’s features. “Again, I am terribly sorry for the mix-up, sir. Have a great rest of your stay onboard.”

With that, the conductor turned away. A klik later, the door clicked shut.

After counting down from ten, making sure he was really alone, Bluestreak ex-vented heavily. His sensor wings drooped from where he had rigidly raised them. Rolling his shoulder pauldrons, Bluestreak turned around. One step at a time. The waiter will be arriving soon, so he prioritized looking over the menu.

Picking up the fancy datapad, Bluestreak scrolled through it. He was surprised to find food on the menu. Cybertronians didn’t need to eat like organics or technorganics did. Energon was their fuel source. Although it came in a crystal form, they usually synthesized it into a liquid form that was easily drinkable. 

However, energon was easily malleable. It had multiple different forms and mixed well with metals. This led to a whole culinary art form. Sustenance forgers could make dazzling arrays of foodstuffs by mixing energon with different metals. Although the art was tricky and wasn’t for the average mech, it was a popular way to intake fuel. 

When things were quiet, Riri would take Bluestreak to such restaurants that had these master forgers. It was a fun outing. One of Bluestreak’s favorite younglinghood memories was going to a restaurant with an open forge. They got to watch the forger make their food. It had been an interesting experience.

Smiling at the memory, Bluestreak looked up from the menu. With sore leg struts in mind, he looked around for a place to sit and froze.

Right outside the window, a Prime’s Guard officer stared at Bluestreak. He was heavily armored and had a black visor and face shield.

Before Bluestreak could assure himself that the officer wasn’t staring at him specifically, the mech shifted a little so that his visor met Bluestreak’s optics. They both stayed frozen, optics locked. Bluestreak didn’t know how long they stayed like that. The tense spell was only interrupted by a sharp whistle.

“All aboard!” The voice shouted out. The train then rattled, maglocks starting to disengage. The train’s engine also hummed to life, the start-up sequence initiating.

Bluestreak had turned away from the window to his door. Spark racing, he turned back, but the officer was gone. Venting heavily, Bluestreak found himself staggering toward the berth, sitting down heavily on it.

You’re okay. You’re okay. Everything’s fine. They can’t get to you. You’re safe. You’re safe. You’re technically on Praxian ground. The train doesn’t belong to Iacon- to Sentinel. The Pretender can’t get to you. It’s fine. Everything is fine.

Except, the more Bluestreak told himself that, the less he believed it.

Sentinel had found their base. Before that, he had been able to capture Optimus. Riri had gone after him. He was likely captured, too. Even if he wasn’t, he had nowhere to fall back to, no one to regroup with. Kup and Ironhide had been at the base, now also captured. Ultra Magnus was in Crystal City, leading the rebellion from there. 

And Bluestreak was… fleeing, hiding. Like a coward. He wasn’t a first-frame youngling anymore; he could help. 

Yet he ran, like his carrier had trained him. Bluestreak felt sick. While he was crumpled on this luxurious berth (Seriously, it’s the nicest thing Bluestreak’s ever sat on. Oh, he bet it would cradle his wings perfectly), Riri and the others were likely on their way to get tortured… or killed. Likely in secret. Keep it hush-hush, so the media didn’t learn who Sentinel truly was.

Staring down at the menu in his servos, Bluestreak could only think about his creator. Riri didn’t deserve to go out like this. He straightened up, looking around. His suspicions about his progenitor owning the master account were solidifying. 

If his progenitor had this much wealth. He was a baron. He had the Lord of Law’s audial. And the way the conductor had looked at Bluestreak after scanning his ticket, Bluestreak knew he must also have power. Leverage.

Although they had gone over the plan a thousand times, Riri never really said what to do after. Bluestreak never asked either, wanting the stressful conversations to end.

But now, Bluestreak knew what he would do. He’d confront his progenitor. No matter what happened in the past, he’d have to help Jazz. Their relationship couldn’t have ended so poorly, he wouldn’t do nothing, right?

Oh, Bluestreak, he couldn’t help think, throwing the datapad down and flopping onto the berth. What have you gotten yourself into?

- - - - - - - - - -

“Sir?”

Prowl looked up from his desk, piercing blue optics glaring at the squirming messenger in his doorway. “What is it?” He snapped.

The mech winced but obediently swept into the room. He procured a datapad from subspace, placing it on the Baron’s desk. “We received a security alert, sir. It seems someone has accessed your master account.”

Narrowing his optics, Prowl felt his irritation rise. He grabbed the ‘pad, looking over the report. 

Not many mechs had access to his accounts. There were he and his brothers. Smokescreen was reluctant to leave Praxus, and Barriade was still off planet, doing who knows what. With a simple ping, Prowl knew the location of Ricochet and Treadshot, still within Praxus’ borders and safe. 

Even if his inner circle had access to the account (without Prowl’s permission), it still wouldn’t have aligned with the receipt Prowl had received. The train ticket purchased was to Praxus, not leaving it. 

Peculiar. 

It wasn’t Barricade, he would have commed ahead. And he would have arrived by shuttle, not train. That led to the issue of a hacker.

Feeling his anger rise, Prowl looked back up at the messenger. “Has Red Alert looked this over?” Although he wasn’t Praxian, Prowl trusted the paranoid mech with his life, as had his sire. He’d find the thief who dared to access his accounts.

The messenger nodded. “Yes, sir. And the results came back clean…” The mech hesitated. “It seems the access code given was an old one, but still authorized.”

Prowl felt himself tense, sensor wings rising a fraction. “And what was the access code given?”

The messenger tentatively shared it, making Prowl freeze. An extremely tense silence passed before Prowl dismissed the mech, who readily fled the room. When the door slid shut behind him, Prowl pinged the security shutters on the windows to fall, leaving his study in lockdown. 

Settling back in his chair, Prowl pinged Red Alert directly for verification. The conversation was abrupt. Prowl soon found himself glaring at his console, showing satellite footage tracking the Emperium as it slowly made its way to Praxus. 

Something stirred inside Prowl’s spark. Something dark and eager. He sensor wings shuttered as he remembered that glinting blue visor and smooth voice. Although he tried to keep tabs on his ex-sponsus, the mech he held dear was tricky and soon slipped through the cracks.

But now here he was, willingly coming back home. Prowl vowed that once he got hold of his mate again, he’d never let him go. 

“Jazz,” Prowl vented. It had been so long since he uttered that designation. His optics didn’t leave his console. The marker on his screen slowly drew closer to him. “We’ll be together again at last.”

Chapter Text

“Well, this certainly is unexpected,” Ricochet said, leaning against the railing to peer down at the train coming in. Praxus was an isolated city-state. It didn’t get much traffic, so the train depot and shuttle station were wrapped up all in one.

That didn’t make it less grand. Ricochet sipped his cube of energon. It’s tang buzzing against his glossa. He watched from the casino on sight. It stood in the middle of the transportation hub. One of the bars overlooked the train station. Ricochet got a good view of the Emperium rolling in.

A frame settled beside him, familiar field latching onto his and tugging at his spark. Treadshot had only just arrived, having dealt with some of the Baron’s other business.

“You ever think this cycle would have come?” His mate asked, taking a swig of his own drink.

“Nope,” Ricochet answered, visor still latched onto the train. “And I still don’t believe it.”

“Hey, you never know,” Treadshot said with a shrug, “especially with Jazz. He’s always been a wild card.”

“Yeah, but he’s also as stubborn as slag.” Ricochet retorted. “I know, Jazzy. He wouldn’t willingly step ped into Praxus ever again.” Ricochet narrowed his optics under his visor. “Especially since he felt Prowl ‘betrayed’ him or whatever. So what’s he doing? What’s his angle?”

“I guess we'll find out soon,” Treadshot said as the Emperium locked into place. The train and station staff started milling around, getting ready for the passengers to unload and check over the train. It was a long way from Iacon. 

The two mates sat back and watched disembarkation, optics locked on the personal cars. Jazz would be escorted off the train soon, once the crowds died down. Then Ricochet and Treadshot could slip in and-

“Uh… there was only one VIP on the train, right?” Treadshot asked, field becoming nervous. 

Ricochet pulled up the Emperium’s passenger list. Jazz had been the only master account to purchase a ticket. “Yeah, why?”

“Well, I don’t think that mech getting off looks much like your twin.” Treadshot nodded to the third car from the locomotive. 

Turning, Ricochet sees assistants opening up the doors and putting down carpeted steps. One of them talked to a mech hovering at the entrance. Ricochet couldn’t see them from this angle, but it indeed did not look like Jazz. The Polyhexian felt his spark drop. He looked across the bondspace, trying to find his twin, but only Treadshot’s came into view.

“Slag,” Ricochet swore. Jazz wasn’t here. Prowl was going to be furious.

The two watched as the supposed VIP stepped out of the car. It was a Praxian. Young one. He still needed to get his last frame upgrade. His color scheme was a dull gray and red. At first glance, Ricochet would have pinned him as a walking corpse. 

Sensor wings held high (looking more stressed than noble), the Praxian looked around, optics snagging on anything that moved. His plating was tight to his protoform, and he moved stiffly down the steps. He turned back to the train’s staff, seemingly thanking them, before scanning the crowd again.

“Well, ain’t this a surprise?” Treadshot said, sensor wings flaring out and flapping in a stretch. He turned to Ricochet, tilting his helm. “Who’s going to deliver the bad news? Because he’s going to through a fit. Helms are going to roll, sparks are going to gutter. It’s not every cycle you expect your vanishing mate to return and get some kid masquerading as them.”

Ricochet scoffed but inwardly agreed. Turning so his back rested against the railing, he turned toward his commsuite, dialing up Prowl. “I’ll do it.”

“You sure?” Treadshot said, concern brushing against Ricochet’s spark. “I can do it. He could-”

Waving his mate off, Ricochet shook his helm. “Nah, I’ll do it. I’m technically family. Can’t shoot the messenger if they’re kin.” 

“Right,” Treadshot agreed, keeping his focus on their mark. “He prides himself on being family-oriented, even if his mate’s a washout.”

Although Ricochet felt a twinge at hearing his twin being called that, it was very dull. Jazzy might think Prowl betrayed him, but Ricochet wasn’t as inclined to believe that. His twin just didn’t know how to dedicate. 

The comm line was picked up almost right away. Ricochet felt his unease grow, but answered.

::Sir.:: 

::Do you have him?:: Prowl’s voice immediately answered. There was a rumbling undertone, like he couldn’t contain his engine.

It made Ricochet shiver. ::Nah. Sorry, boss. He didn’t show.:: Ricochet tilted his helm, watching the youngling walk off. ::An unknown did, though. Saw him being escorted off your car.::

There was a tense silence. ::Are you certain-::

::I’m pretty damn certain, Prowl.:: Ricochet cut off, irritated. The whole reason Prowl sent him down to collect Jazz was because they were twins. Although the bond’s been dark for a while, it could easily be reinstated with proximity. Yet when Ricochet checked again, it was still dark.

He told the Baron as much. More silence came over the line.

Ricochet squirmed, spark whirling with anxiety. He shared a look with Treadshot. This wasn’t going to end well.

Treadshot pinged Ricochet; the Polyhexian allowed him in on the call.

::Sir, you want us to nab him?:: Treadshot asked. Although the kid was getting away, all it took was a ping, and the nearest Enforcer would arrest him.

::...No.:: Prowl finally said. ::No, follow him. This mech was desperate enough to use my mate’s code. I want to know why.::

Although he stayed impassive on the outside, Ricochet shivered on the inside. He had seen all the different sides of his (would-be) brother-in-law. The tone he used didn’t bode well.

Ricochet watched the young Praxian disappear, walking deeper into the station. He didn’t envy the young mech. His cycles were numbered with the Baron’s attention on him.

- - - - - - - - - -

::Red Alert.::

::Baron. How may I help you?::

::It seems we have a thief in my city. The mech dared to steal from my mate. I want to know everything about him. You, of course, have all my resources at your disposal. I have sent you visor footage from Ricochet to identify the mech.::

::It shall be done. Give me a few joor, sir. I will have results before the cycle is over.::

::Thank you, Red Alert. Clear roads to you.::

::You as well, Baron.::

- - - - - - - - - -

“You gotta be kidding me,” Treadshot said, looking over Ricochet’s shoulder. “The kid isn’t even native?!” 

Ricochet just shook his head slightly, looking down at the credentials peering back.

They had followed the young Praxian to the Foreign Frame Gateway. The duo had watched as the mechling got in line with foreign frames. When he got up to one of the Gateway officials, it appeared he started registering for citizenship.

With Prowl’s sigil, it was easy to access the Gateway’s files. Since the kid had a Praxian frame, he easily surpassed the usual hoops foreigners usually had to go through. The young Praxian’s credentials now stared up at him.

“Bluestreak,” Ricochet said, mulling the designation over. 

“Of course he’s Iaconian,” Treadshot muttered, ire licking at Ricochet’s field. The city-state was a smelting pool of different frame types. It had no culture (unless a mech was so inclined to think of the religious history surrounding the city, which Ricochet was not); it would rather steal from other city-states. 

“Yeah, but that’s all we really have,” Ricochet muttered. Although the kid’s age, height, weight, education, altmode, and the like were all stored on file, that didn’t mean scrap when trying to figure out who Bluestreak was. “He didn’t give parentage.” 

“Maybe he doesn’t know it.” Treadshot considered.

“Probably.” Ricochet agreed. He looked up from the datapad, pinging the agent they had shadowing Bluestreak. 

The agent pinged back his location, making Ricochet frown. “He seems to have some destination in mind. He’s almost five districts away now.”

“Well, let’s get after him,” Treadshot said, moving toward the transforming lane. “Red Alert can sort out his history. Our job is to make sure we don’t lose the kid.”

Ricochet put the datapad away, following after his conjunx. Something felt off about this situation, but he didn’t have enough information to figure out what.

- - - - - - - - - -

::What do you mean there’s nothing?:: Prowl demanded, pacing his office.

::I’m sorry, Baron.:: Red Alert said, seemingly baffled as well. ::This Bluestreak is a ghost. He has no digital pedprint. The only information there is, is what he gave the Gateway. Before he accessed your master account, there was no trace of him on the airways.::

Prowl growled, frustrated. He had been preparing for Jazz’s return. The premise had been exciting. Although he had no idea why his mate was returning now of all times, he had been planning for every eventuality. He had readied the private wing at the hospital in case Jazz was severely damaged. He was preparing the courting rooms that he used to reside in, making sure they were spruced up and looked exactly as Jazz had left them. Prowl also made tentative plans to throw a gala in his home for his sponsus' return. 

Now it was all up in flames. Instead, he had a mystery on his servos. 

Usually, such conundrums would interest Prowl. However, given the circumstances, it only irritated him. He wanted this mech presented to him. He wanted to wring this Bluestreak’s neck cabling, and squeeze all the information out of him. He’d force Barricade to come back and torture all the mechling’s secrets out of him.

He wanted Jazz. At his side, where he belonged. 

::There has to be something.:: Prowl muttered over the comm. ::We have his origin city-state. Iacon may be primitive, but it must contain some documentation!::

::If there ever was, it’s been destroyed, sir. Iacon is in a state of unrest. Has been slowly crumbling for decavorns. It seems Sentinel Prime can’t handle ruling over it and the rest of Zeta’s Empire. It’s close to anarchy. Crystal City has already fallen to the terrorists.::

Prowl hurraphed low in his engine. He hadn’t really been following the downfall of Sentinel. His empire wasn’t any of Prowl’s business. And Prowl didn’t want to make it any of his business. He had helped Megatron secure his territory, and that had been enough of a hassle. Although it could be an opportunity to reign in another city-state under his rule, Prowl didn’t have the energy to deal with war right now. Even a small one. 

However, he was now regretting his choices. 

::Can’t Sentinel reign in his people in long enough to get proper datawork done?!:: He seethed. The frustrated energy in him was growing. Walking over to the little lounge corner in his office to entertain long meetings, Prowl flipped the low table in the center. The crystal pot on top went flying. It was somewhat satisfying to hear it shatter as it hit the wall, sending shards everywhere. 

::Indeed, it’s annoying.:: Red Alert tsked. There was a hesitant pause. ::Again, I apologize for not having any useful information to give you, my Baron. I will continue the search. Although I am not confident I’ll find this ghost’s trail.::

Prowl huffed, engine growly. ::See to it. I am disappointed in your results, Red Alert. Do better.:: Prowl abruptly ended the calls.

Deep down, Prowl did not blame Red Alert. He blamed Sentinel, the Iaconian archivists, and the medical staff for being incompetent. Then again, if a mech really wanted to disappear, no amount of proper filing would be a true obstacle for them. 

Flaring his sensor wings, Prowl stormed back to his desk. He sat down, pinging Ricochet for an update. 

The Polyhexian sent his coordinates and some attachments. Tilting his helm, Prowl accessed them. 

Ah, so that was Bluestreak. Although Prowl had got an image capture earlier, there was a great distance between Ricochet and him. Now, the Polyhexian got a closer shot. Bluestreak wasn’t that memorable with his mostly gray plating and red accents. But that was probably designed to be so. 

Apparently, Bluestreak had an apartment in Prowl’s city. Prowl sneered as he watched a quick video of the younger Praxian unlocking the door and heading inside. The perspective was from across the street, peering through the window. Ricochet’s ping came back from the 49th district. It wasn’t luxurious, but it also wasn’t slumming it. 

Prowl leaned back in his chair, sending the new information Ricochet gave him to his console. He glared at the picture of the mechling.

“Just who do you think you are?” He muttered to himself. 

- - - - - - - - - -

Locking the door behind him, Bluestreak looked around the apartment. It was small. A berth was shoved against the wall, with a sparsely furnished living room area taking up most of the space. There was a door that must have led to the washwrack. In the corner, there were a few storage units with a ledge that had a built-in energon press. 

It was a far downgrade from the luxurious train car. In fact, Bluestreak was pretty sure this apartment was about a third of its size. 

At least it was more familiar. Bluestreak was used to living in cramped, war bunkers. Sleeping on the train had been weird. It was quiet. The eclectic engine was barely humming as it zoomed on the maglev track. Bluestreak was used to hearing the systems of other mechs in the room. It was comforting to hear, even if Ironhide and Ultra Magnus’ systems ran loudly even in idle. 

Hopefully, Praxus would have some night noise. Bluestreak couldn’t stand the near silence. 

Three windows on the exterior wall showed the surrounding buildings in the waning natural light. Bluestreak was used to utter darkness of the tunnels. However, it seemed Praxus was a city that never slept. Already, storefront lights were turning on. As Bluestreak got closer, he could see the looming ramps of roads intersecting through the city-state. Residential areas where the safe house resided didn’t have any, but no matter where Bluestreak turned, he could find the winding paths leading to busier sectors of the city.

The non-native Praxian had never seen anything like it. It was beautiful and mesmerizing, if foreign. Bluestreak was sure the lights from the traffic signs and mechs milling on the roadways would look pretty at night. 

Looking away from the windows, Bluestreak went over to the couch and lone chair. The apartment might have been furnished, but it didn’t look lived in. There was a fine layer of dusk, and the air was stale. 

Sitting down on the surprisingly supportive cushions of the couch, Bluestreak curled up and took his datapad out. One step at a time. He reminded himself. His spark threatened to break that mantra. His digits shook with built-up anxiety, yet Bluestreak didn’t let himself break. He connected to the Praxian network and the apartment’s wifi before looking up PsychScreen.

He would make his appointment. Then he’d head for the washwracks and drink a cube before crying himself to recharge. 

Once he met with Smokescreen, there’d be no more time for hiccuping engines. He had a progenitor to meet and a carrier to save.

- - - - - - - - - -

::Hey, Prowl.::

::What is it, Ricochet?::

::I was able to hack into Bluestreak’s datapad. You will not believe who he just tried to set up an appointment with.::

- - - - - - - - - -

Bluestreak was devastated. Apparently, Smokescreen was a very busy and popular therapist. He was on a wait list. The receptionist said mechs could wait up to a vorn before getting an appointment with him.

Trying to think fast, Bluestreak wondered if any of the other therapists were available. All he had to do was run into Smokescreen. A breem of his time was all it would take to get his point across. Hopefully, knowing Bluestreak’s parentage would spark the mech into doing something.

However, it wasn’t meant to be. The rest of the clinic’s staff were also fully booked. Evidently, there was a shortage of emotional doctors in Praxus. 

The receptionist tried to persuade him to download PsychScreen’s app and talk to a virtual therapist. Bluestreak just hung up.

- - - - - - - - - -

::Prowlie! What a surprise! Have you heard from Barricade recently? We talked, and I think he will be planetside soon. We should all get together with Rico and Tread. It’s been-::

::Although this news excites me, I am calling for business.::

::Oh? You need dirt on someone?::

::Something like that. Have you gotten any new clients at PsychScreen?::

::Always. You know I’m the best, brother, and so does all of Praxus.::

::Hmmm, yes. Do you get an appointment request from someone designated Bluestreak?::

::Give me a moment… uh, yeah. He’s on the waiting list. Why? What do you want with him?::

::Make him your top priority. I want to know everything that you can get him to spill.::

::You got it, chief.::

- - - - - - - - - -

Luck was on Bluestreak’s side. Before he could spiral into despair, he received a message notification on his datapad. Smokescreen himself had reached out to him. He had an opening. Tomorrow.

Bluestreak wasn’t stupid. This wasn’t a coincidence. Although no one had stopped him at the station, there was probably someone watching him. 

But that was okay (yup, totally fine, because everything’s fine, especially when one has a stalker to lighten things up!). It was working out in his favor. 

One step at a time. Bluestreak told himself, sipping his cube. Cry. Then put a smile on your face, Bluestreak. You’re about to meet kin (maybe).

- - - - - - - - - -

“I’m looking for a Bluestreak?” 

Bluestreak looked up, vents stalling. There he was: Smokescreen. 

The mech was the same as the picture Riri had shown him long ago. The mech was mostly blue and red with white accents. It made his yellow chevron stand out, the famous Praxian helmcrest pointing down to blue optics. 

For a klik, all Bluestreak could do was stare. Then he shook his helm, standing up. “Uh, here!” He said, all the other mechs in the waiting room turned to stare at him. Bluestreak felt his shoulder pauldron’s rise. 

Lowering his sensor wings sheepishly, Bluestreak walked over to the therapist, all the while rambling. “That… that’s me. I’m Bluestreak. Thank you for seeing me so soon. I know you must be very busy, but I just had to make an appointment with you. I’m honored that you could see me in such a hurry. From what I gathered, you’re a very popular mech.”

Smokescreen indulgently listened while Bluestreak went on a tangent. When he finally stopped, the therapist gave Bluestreak an award-winning smile. “Of course! All my clients on special to me, even those I haven’t met yet. Just through this doorway here. No need to be nervous, think of this as a conversation between a friend.”

Pinging the door to open, Smokescreen waited for the younger Praxian to go into the room. “Sit wherever you like, make yourself at home.”

Entering, Bluestreak found a quaint lounge. There was a couch and two chairs. One window stood to the right, although it had a dark green curtain drawn over it. Besides an end table and a lamp in the corner, that was all that made up the room.

Bluestreak chose one of the chairs, nervously positioning himself. Although he wasn’t actually here for a therapist appointment, his spark couldn’t help but race. Maybe the real reason just made this even worse.

No matter how many times Riri made him go over the plan, Bluestreak never thought he’d actually put it into action. But this was real. This was really happening. 

Smokescreen took the other chair. He pulled a datapad and a pen out. He quickly situated himself before giving Bluestreak that dazzling smile again. “Okay, let’s start simple. Tell me about yourself. Who is Bluestreak?”

Bluestreak opened his intake, but no glyphs came out. Pausing, Bluestreak shook himself out. “Okay, I’m just going to be completely honest. I’m not here for a therapy appointment.”

“Oh?” Smokescreen said, raising a brow. He sat up a little more, tilting his helm. 

“Yes. Um… I just needed to set up a meeting with you. And Riri said this was the easiest way.”

“And who is ‘Riri’?” Smokescreen asked, optics narrowing in suspicion. His whole neutral-positive demeanor shifted into something darker.

“My carrier,” Bluestreak said. He tried to recite his lineage. He said it over a thousand times for Riri, so it should have been easy. However, the glyphs wouldn’t leave Bluestreak’s vocalizer.

“Okay,” Smokescreen said, looking Bluestreak over. He subspaced his datapad, leaning back into the chair. “And who’s your carrier?” He asked with arms crossed over his chassis.

Finally, Bluestreak could talk. “My name is Bluestreak, creation of Jazz and Baron Prowl.” He blurted out, venting hard after he said it.

Smokescreen… just stared. He tilted his helm again, shuttering his optics slowly. “Come again?” He asked, voice strained.

“I am…” Bluestreak paused, restarting. “My progenitor is Baron Prowl… and I need to speak with him.

“Uh-huh,” Smokescreen said, really looking at Bluestreak. “Yeahhh. Uh, I can do that. Would you mind going to the hospital with me? Just to-um-verify your…”

Bluestreak was confused for a moment before realization struck him. “Oh! Yes, of course! Sorry, yeah, that’d probably be a good idea.”

“Uh, yeah, it’s a good idea.” Smokescreen agreed, getting up. “If your claim’s true, I’ll take you to our clan’s home. And then… yeah. We should stop by a bar before we get there, actually.”

- - - - - - - - - -

::Hey, Prowl… you there?::

::What do you have for me, Smokescreen? Red Alert still has nothing on this Bluestreak. You'd better have actual results.::

::Uh, yeah… yeah, I got results. I also know why Red couldn’t find anything.::

::Wonderful. Tell me everything.::

::...I think this conversation would be better in person.::

::Oh?... I’m currently in the capital. There was an emergency Council meeting. Unfortunately, the matter will likely take all cycle. We have a fuel break scheduled in a couple joors if you want to-::

::Uh, no. You’re going to want to be free for this one. I’m heading home right now. We’ll talk when you get back.::

::...Very well… This better be good, Smokescreen.::

::I don’t know about good, but it is something.:

Chapter Text

Prowl slowed to a stop, pinging the gate’s door. He bid the Enforcer patrol he drove with a good night before rolling onto the property.

The ancestral manor Prowl and his brothers grew up on had been in their family for generations. It sat next to the famed Crystal Gardens. Their own private crystal collection almost seamlessly flowed into the public attraction. When Prowl entered the grounds, he almost forgot he was in the middle of Praxus. The well-kept grounds glistened beautifully around him, distancing him from the speeding roads that made up his city.

Transforming at the entrance to the estate, Prowl got a ping while walking up the steps. He froze, seeing that Red Alert had sent a file.

::Don’t open it yet.:: The security mech warned. ::You should talk to Smokecsreen first. This is news you’ll want to hear first servo.::

Prowl felt irritation flare at Red Alert’s glyphs. How dare his subordinates tell him what to do! Praxus only stood because of the control Prowl had over it and the people. That would all crumble if Prowl started to take orders.

He debated just opening the file out of spite. However, he hesitated, trying to put his feelings aside. Obviously, something happened in Smokescreen’s appointment with Bluestreak. Something big.

Prowl couldn’t help but think about Jazz. His sponsus was so close, Prowl could feel it. Bluestreak must have had some information on him.

The only way to find out was to talk to Smokescreen.

Opticking the file one more time, Prowl let out a growl. ::Fine.:: He said before terminating the comm with Red Alert. He then stormed inside.

“My liege,” a mech with a mostly blue palette and red face plates said, closing the doors behind Prowl. “Is there anything you require?”

“Tracks,” Prowl begrudgingly greeted his butler. The mech was a unique blend of Praxian and Vosian. “Where is Smokescreen?”

“In one of the receiving rooms, my lord. Our guest is settling in his rooms as we speak.”

Prowl froze from stomping off, giving Tracks an intense look. “What guest?” He demanded.

“Ah,” Tracks hesitated, suddenly sheepish. “I fear I over-shared, sir. Apologies, but I think it’s best you hear the news from your brother.”

A tense silence followed Tracks’ explanation. Prowl huffed softly, engine threatening to rev. “Does everyone know what’s going on but me?” He muttered.

He spun away from Tracks, storming up the stairs and down the right hallway toward the receiving room Smokescreen favored. He passed by milling servants, not even acknowledging them. His temper continued to soar.

Finally, the aforementioned room came into view. Prowl thundered up to it, throwing the vintage swinging doors open. It was satisfying to hear them slam against the wall.

“This had better not be a waste of my time, brother,” Prowl warned, continuing his march. He didn’t join Smokescreen at the lounge. Instead, he paced along the roaring fireplace. “I am running out of patience for your tricks.”

Smokescreen sipped on a cube of high grade. There was a sparkling bottle on the table with another cube poured for Prowl. Smokescreen took his time, only acknowledging Prowl when he set the cube down.

“Why don’t you sit with me, Prowl? It’s been a long cycle, I’m sure. And I’m afraid the news I’m about to share might be a bit-”

“Enough!” Prowl shouted, throwing the nearest item (a vase) at the wall. The spray of shattering shards wasn’t as satisfying as Prowl wanted. He whirled back to his brother, snarling. “Just spit it out already! What information were you able to pry out of Bluestreak?!”

Silence followed Prowl’s query. Smokescreen looked over at the mess Prowl made, then gave his brother a cool look, obviously not amused. Later, when Prowl was able to cool down, he’d be highly embarrassed. For now, he just bared his denta like a feral, seething.

Smokescreen snatched up his cube again, swirling its contents. “Did you notice that on Bluestreak’s file, his parentage was left blank? He refused to give it to the Gateway officials.”

Prowl blanked, not expecting the question. Looking over the file Ricochet pulled, Prowl confirmed Smokescreen’s information. “Yes, what of it?” He stood up straighter, crossing his arms over his chassis and flaring his wings.

“Well, I can see why he didn’t. I doubt anyone would have believed him without proof. I couldn’t believe him until the medics confirmed.”

Prowl tensed, looking Smokescreen over. “Confirmed what?”

Smokescreen hesitated; his whole demeanor softened. “Prowl.”

The Baron did not like that tone. “Smokescreen.” He sneered in warning, narrowing his optics.

Sighing, Smokescreen looked down, shaking his helm. “There’s no good way to say this, but Prowl, he’s yours.”

For a klik, Prowl didn’t react. Confusion filtered through his processor, melting his earlier anger. “What are you talking about? Who is mine?”

“Bluestreak,” Smokescreen claimed in that pathetically soft voice. “Look at Red’s file. It’ll show you. Bluestreak is your creation.”

Prowl was already pulling up the file before Smokescreen finished talking. When his glyphs registered, Prowl stilled, turning to look at his brother.

Smokescreen liked to pull pranks, had since they were younglings. But it was clear he was being serious this time. Besides, he knew better than to make Prowl the bunt of his jokes. 

With more vigor, Prowl poured all his attention into the file Red gave him. He greedily but carefully took in the information, barely believing the results.

“Jazz was carrying.” He whispered, barely believing the news. Saying it aloud hit Prowl hard, making it difficult to vent. He staggered over to a chair, heavily sitting down.

Smokescreen nodded, keeping an optic on his brother. “Must have happened right before he left… Bluestreak’s age matches up with the timeframe.”

Prowl was barely listening. ‘Jazz was sparked’ kept repeating through his processor.

He’d always wanted a bonded and creations. Prowl’s own creators had been happily bonded. And they always cemented how important family was to their creations. Prowl’s sire hadn’t had any family lineage. When Prowl asked him about his younglinghood, he said it was quite lonely. No siblings. A tired guardian who tried but was ultimately distant. He was thankful to have found a family within Prowl’s carrier.

No matter what, Prowl stood by his brothers. He had gotten a taste of what loneliness could do to a mech, and never wanted his family to feel that way. Although Prowl’s controlling persona sometimes got to them, Prowl knew his brothers appreciated his care. He had even reached out to Ricochet when Jazz had abandoned him. He made sure Ricochet knew he was welcomed, along with his conjunx Treadshot. They had become family, so they stuck together (even when certain members left). 

It had hurt when Jazz fled. It was even worse when Prowl couldn’t find any trace of his sponsus. It was like Jazz never existed, only his twin’s presence and Prowl’s memories indicated such a mech existed. 

Prowl had started to despair that his perfect match had escaped and would never return. The purchased ticket on his master account was the highlight of Prowl’s life, second only to meeting Jazz. And it had quickly crumbled when it was clear Jazz hadn’t returned.

But now things have changed for a third time. Prowl looked over the data, barely believing the CNA tests. He turned to Smokescreen, desperate. “I have a sparkling?” He whispered, voice foreign to him.

Smokescreen’s optics were bright. “Yeah, Prowlie.” He vented. “You have a sparkling.”

The announcement finally sank in for Prowl. 

His brother gave him a wary look. “He’s almost grown up now. Jazz seemed to raise him well… all alone. Though something’s happened. He won’t tell me what, he’s waiting to speak to you.” 

That snapped Prowl out of it. He stood up, shaky struts hardening with resolve. The infamous Baron was back. “Take me to him.” He commanded, making Smokescreen stand up hastily.

There was no stopping Prowl when he got that look.

- - - - - - - - - -

Bluestreak paced the room that Smokescreen had led him to. Or, he should say rooms. There was a lounge, a sprawling washracks, a room specifically for detailing, and then the berthrooms. The foreign feeling from the train came back, but tenfold. Smokescreen had left quickly, barely giving Bluestreak time to process. Then a servant had come in with a palette of foodstuffs from Bluestreak to choose from.

Apparently, his progenitor was so rich that he had his own home forge and personal chef. 

It was a lot. 

The cycle was spent anxiously waiting in his rooms. Bluestreak filtered throughout them, pacing and going over what he wanted to say to his progenitor. He needed to get Prowl to agree to… do something- anything- about Sentinel. All the major commanders of the rebellion were captured and would likely be executed soon (if they weren’t already snuffed). Bluestreak couldn’t just sit around any longer. He was trying not to think about what Riri was going through, yet now that he ran out of steps to accomplish-

There was a knock. Bluestreak froze, wearily opticking the grand door. He was currently in his berthroom. Alpha Centauri was just now setting, its light rays just peaking through the windows to cast long shadows. 

“Bluestreak?” Smokescreen’s familiar voice said, before there was another knock. “Hello? You in there, kid?”

Taking a few deep vents, Bluestreak strolled toward the door, pinging it open. “Um… hey.” He meekly said, letting his…avunculus into the room. 

It was only on the way to the manor that Smokescreen revealed his relation to Bluestreak. That he was Prowl’s brother.

Bluestreak had been… surprised. He never really considered whether his progenitor or Riri had siblings or even any other creations. Bluestreak knew Riri had a brother, Ricochet. His carrier talked about him fondly, if briefly. They had been raised by their carrier, Punch. Although Riri didn’t know what happened to him or if he was even alive. When asked where Ricochet was, Riri went quiet. 

Bluestreak had asked if he had any other extended family, to which Smokescreen easily responded.

Your grandcreators are dead. They were trapped in an apartment fire while traveling for… business. Besides Prowl and I, you have another Avunculus named Barricade. He’s coming home soon, so you’ll meet him eventually as well… That’s it, for now.

Smokescreen gave Bluestreak a grin. It wasn’t as blazing as the one he used in the office. He closed the door softly, walking over toward Bluestreak. “Hello, sweetspark. Are you getting situated?”

Bluestreak’s avunculus offered his forearm. Bluestreak clasped his servo around Smokescreen’s wrist. The elder Praxian did the same before pulling him in close. The centers of their chevrons met. The soft click surprised Bluestreak. Riri had taught him this greeting. It was usually used only among kin in Praxus.

Then again, Bluestreak guessed that’s exactly what Smokescreen was. 

“I’m… getting there,” Bluestreak answered his avunculus’ inquiry. He looked around the luxurious room. “It’s… something to get used to.”

Smokescreen chuckled. “It can be a lot, but it’s your home. I’m sure you’ll easily fit in after a while.”

Bluestreak just hummed, unsure if he agreed. He missed the bunkers and Ironhide’s snoring engines.

“Hey… so Prowl’s home,” Smokescreen said, turning to look at the door. “Actually, he’s in the other room.”

“What?!” Bluestreak jolted. He broke away from the half-embrace he was in with Smokescreen. He looked toward the door, suddenly fearful. “I-I’m not ready! W-what do I even say? I never thought I’d meet my progenitor, and now he’s right here?! I-I barely know anything about him. He’s the Baron, right? Is there a certain way I’m supposed to greet him? I mean, I get we’re technically kin, but we’ve never met, and we’re doing that now. Primus, what-”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Vent, Blue,” Smokescreen said, grabbing Bluestreak’s forearms. He made Bluestreak look him in the optics, helping him regulate his ventilation. “There you go, sweet spark. Relax, Prowlie’s not that scary.” 

Bluestreak giggled, vocalizer still staticky. “P-Prowlie?” 

“Oh, yeah. I’ve given him so many nicknames over the vorns. Barricade calls him Prowlet. Your Riri called him Prowler. He pretends to be irritated by them, but I think he secretly adores it. He’ll love it if you come up with some variation.”

Bluestreak chuckled, shaking his helm. “I-I don’t know.”

“Hey, all in good time, kid,” Smokescreen said, giving his wrists a gentle squeeze. He turned back to the closed door before giving Bluestreak a sincere look. “Okay, let’s take it one step at a time-”

Bluestreak’s venting stalled. That’s exactly what Riri would say…

“You’re just going to introduce each other, get to know one another. I’ll say this: Prowlie is really into the family thing. You’ll do fine. Just need to take that leap of faith, sweet spark, and get it done. Looking back, you’ll see how silly it was to worry.” 

Taking in his avunculus’ advice, Bluestreak nodded. “Okay… okay.”

“Great,” Smokescreen said, letting go of Bluestreak’s arms. He took a step toward the door before glancing back. “You ready?”

Bluestreak’s spark still fluttered when he turned toward the door, but he nodded. “Mhm,” was all he managed before it slid open.

There he stood. His progenitor. 

Prowl was facing away, looking over a painting that hung over the fireplace. It was some frivolous abstract art that Bluestreak couldn’t even fathom the meaning over. But the centerpiece quickly left his mind as he looked over Prowl. It was then that Bluestreak realized he’d never even seen a picture of the Baron before.

He was white with black accents, the inverse coloring of Riri. And whereas Riri had a prominent blue visor, Prowl had a stunning red chevron that matched Bluestreak’s accent color. His sensor wings were held high and proud. He also had a lightbar that Bluestreak seemingly inherited.

Then he turned around, and Bluestreak found he couldn’t move. Those piercing blue optics were cold. They reminded Bluestreak of the few Prime's Guards the Pretender had that didn’t wear visors. Merciless. Icy. Unsympathetic as they ripped sparks out.

His gaze shifted a little, but when they returned to Bluestreak, his optics had softened somewhat. The intensity dimmed down into something more tolerable. 

“Bluestreak,” Prowl said, fully facing his creation. He looked the younger Praxian up and down. “I’m delighted to finally meet you.”

“Uh… yeah,” Bluestreak said, voice soft yet hoarse. “Same.” 

“Come here,” Prowl said, raising a servo in gesture. His gaze continued to drink Bluestreak in. “Let me get a better look.”

Steeling himself, Bluesteak stepped forward. It seemed like an eternity before his servos were suddenly clasped in his progenitors. Bluestreak looked over the black servos. Riri also had black servos with a lone white plate on the back. Prowl’s were completely black before cutting to white at the wrists.

One of the servos pulled away. It positioned itself under Bluestreak’s chin, gently lifting his helm so he met his progenitor’s optics once more. None of the ice was present now. Bluestreak only saw kindness and warmth. They stood there a moment, just taking in each other’s presence. 

“You look so much like me,” Prowl said, unable to take his optics off Bluestreak. He slowly stepped back, starting to circle his creation. His field flowed out and touched Bluestreak’s. Although Bluestreak never met his progenitor, he couldn’t help but think it felt familiar.

He leaned into it like Riri’s, finding comfort in it. 

Prowl hummed from somewhere behind Bluestreak. The younger Praxian fanned out his sensor wings to get a better reading. That seemed to gain even more of Prowl’s approval. He intertwined more of his field with Bluestreak. A comforting warmth enveloped the youth.

After some time, Prowl finished his circle. He got closer to Bluestreak, lifting his chin again. “You may be my clone in frame, but you have your carrier’s optics.”

Bluestreak couldn’t help but perk his wings up at the compliment. He didn’t get to see Riri’s optics much with the visor in place. But every once in a while, he’d take it off and show golden optics that sparkled like Bluestreak’s. They were always Bluestreak’s favorite aspect of himself. 

Prowl looked him over in appreciation one more time before a more serious expression crossed his face plates. Some of that intensity came back from before.

“Although I would love to believe you reached out because you were curious of your lineage and wished to meet me, I’m assuming the true reason is far from pleasurable.”

Bluestreak cringed away, field receding. For a moment, he forgot. He forgot what Riri was going through while he was just staring at his progenitor. 

Prowl was also right. Although Bluestreak had been somewhat curious about his other creator as a sparkling, that interest slowly dulled into nothing. There were more important things to worry about, like the Pretender.

He hadn’t even considered seeking Prowl out. Of leaving Riri behind and traveling to Praxus unless the unfathomable happened.

Embarrassment and guilt seeped in for both his creators. He tried to recede his field, but Prowl’s stayed with him. A servo cupped his face plates, and Bluestreak found his gaze latching onto Prowl.

“Do not cower,” Prowl said in a soft but stern voice. He brought his helm forward, tapping their chevrons together. “I’m sorry, but I assumed you'd want to get the business aspect over with first.”

Bluestreak took in the murmured glyphs before shuttering his optics. “I do.” He whispered. Although he felt shame and guilt for not wanting to know his progenitor first, Prowl brushed those feelings was, further wrapping Bluestreak in his field.

“You may always be truthful with me. I prefer it over sweet lies.” Prowl said, leaning back until they were properly standing again. He gestured with a servo. “Come, walk with me. I would hear your story.”

All Bluestreak could do was nod. He allowed Prowl to tug him close, wrapping a servo around Bluestreak’s waist. He gently led Bluestreak out of his rooms, pausing only briefly to turn to Smokescreen. Bluestreak only just now realized he had been quietly observing the uniting family.

“Barricade commed me. His shuttle is currently making its way planetside. Could you inform Ricochet and Treadshot that they are to escort him here?”

Bluestreak jolted, looking up at his progenitor. He hadn’t realized Riri’s brother was in Praxus.

Smokescreen gave a nod. “It shall be done.”

“Wonderful. Have them all come home.” Prowl looked down at his creation. “Also, forewarn the forgers that I will be entertaining this evening. I believe Bluestreak deserves a proper introduction to the family.”

Bluestreak couldn’t help but smile. He allowed his progenitor to lead him down the grandiose halls. For the first time since leaving Iacon, Bluestreak’s spark felt a little lighter. 

- - - - - - - - - -

He landed on the cell floor with a clang. Finally, the guard’s brick-like fields receded. However, that was the least of Jazz’s worries. His HUD was filled with errors. The interrogator had finally been able to breach his firewalls. It had been an ugly war within. 

“Jazz, ye alrigh’?” Ironhide called out. They had put the major figures of the Matrix Sparks in their own cell block. Space out, so it was easier to monitor their communications. Ironhide’s field barely reached his.

“Never better.” Jazz groaned, not getting up. He didn’t know if he could if he wanted to. All his limbs hurt. The interrogator had ripped a couple parts of Jazz’s plating clean off, leaving bare protoform. The crazed mech had a field cycle stabbing the sensitive mesh, along with clipping and ripping wires out. 

There were no windows in the cell block. The only light was the glitchy force fields that were so fun to physically touch. When they’d first been brought in, a medic (well, medic was a stretch, the mech had been a total hack) had looked them over. She had cut off most HUD access, including chronometer. She also hacked their subspaces and unloaded their personal possessions while locking them in root mode. 

Jazz was smug to admit she missed a subspace. Sadly, to miss detection, it was small, only holding a lone dagger the length of Jazz’s servo. It was better than nothing, but Jazz didn’t dare use it until he got a plan.

He had no idea how long they had been dumped down there. He guessed the energon rations they received happened every cycle. Kept them weak and compliant. Or maybe the guards were just slackers. There didn’t seem to be a schedule. 

Tentatively, Jazz tried to sit up. It fragging hurt. However, he managed to drag his crippled form to the back of his cell, propping himself up on it.

An unknown time went by before the entrance to the block opened. More guards carried a limp Kup, throwing him into the cell to Jazz’s right. The Polyhexian winced at the dull thud of a helm hitting the floor. It seemed that was the last of the ‘visitations’ for this cycle. The guards left without taking anyone else.

Silence elasped afterward. Jazz was pretty sure Kup was out. The old war veteran usually was by the time the guards brought him back in. No one else spoke. They learned quickly that security didn’t like it when they chattered after interrogations. Only when their energon was brought could they speak before they started dragging mechs away (sometimes they skipped the energon part).

Jazz leaned his helm back, shuttering his optics. He hated not having his visor, but their interrogator had shattered it after he’d grown irritated with Jazz’s nonanswers. Although a frustrated interrogator made for a sloppy one, Jazz learned not to piss this one off after getting shards of his visor in his optics. His interrogator had ‘kindly’ pulled the pieces out, but he hadn’t fixed Jazz’s optics, leaving him half blind. 

Oh well, that’s what sensor horns were for. Even if they had been used against him had some points. 

It was good to recharge while he could. Jazz tried to focus his processor, ignoring his throbbing processor and zinging joints. He thought of gray and red plating. Of his bitty laughing or snuggled up against his side.

Bluestreak would have been in Praxus by now. He was probably at Prowl’s side, safe. Although Jazz still saw his ex-sponus as a backstabbing glitch, he knew he’d keep Bluestreak safe.

Even if Jazz died down in this rusting hole, he’d deactivate happily knowing his bitlet was safe.