Chapter Text
Before the Autobot and Decepticon divide, there was an old oil house.
An archivist and a gladiator, poised in serious sociopolitical discussion, sequestrating a booth all to themselves. Their meetings span over months, intensifying.
Supporters naturally hover around the two who would challenge and change the order of things, thus business is booming even more than usual. The crowd steadily grows, and lines are being drawn.
Slumped over her rather depleted drink, chin propped on a servo, gazing forlornly at nothing, young Slipstream has yet to find her faith. All her brethren seem so convinced. She was built for a trine. Why can she never seem to feel at home?
“Hi. This seat taken?”
Her wings shift with her non-committal shrug. “Go for it.” Most Seekers retract their wings when not in use. She does not. She does not want to appear small.
“Thanks.” Someone thus moves to sit alongside her, filling the gap. “Bit crowded in here, huh. I was supposed to meet a friend, but I can’t find him anywhere.”
Seekers are laughing uproariously and arguing among themselves, taking up far too much room.
“Hopefully, he’s not got himself into any trouble.”
A non-committal grunt.
“I should call him.”
She mostly ignores the conversation that follows, the stranger apparently managing to link comms with whoever she has been looking for, giving him a sisterly talking to.
“Okay, Bee, so long as you’re safe. Yeah, I’ll be here.” A feminine chuckle, affectionate. “Don’t keep me waiting too long. See you.”
Slipstream takes the final sip of her drink, bending the powerful cords of her neck, tipping her helm back as she polishes the dregs. Then she sets her cup down, contemplating another.
“Looks like you’ve had a bad day,” says the stranger, apparently taking notice.
“It was…” She contemplates a suitable response to this conversational display of empathy. “A day.” Clumsy and brusque.
“Ah. One of those.”
“Mmhm.”
Silence between them, again, for a while longer.
“…Hey, Mac?”
She does not pay further attention, until a fresh cup is pushed over to her. This makes her revive just a little bit. Someone bought her a drink. Is it compassion, or pity?
“You look like you could use it,” says the stranger. “Hope you don’t mind.”
Slipstream finally lifts her helm and looks up.
The pretty stranger with a painted face and big blue optics smiles sweetly, reassuring and kind.
Oh, no.
“I’m Windblade. What’s your name?”
Marvelling at possibly the most gorgeous femme, Slipstream succumbs to social anxiety yet again. “Uh.”
“Uh?” Windblade’s smile only deepens, optics twinkling good humour. “Hey, that’s easy to say.”
Ever unfortunate, Slipstream bites her dark, plump lower derma to prevent herself from saying something even more stupid. She has well and truly botched this encounter already. She hates herself. She always screws up with her incompetence.
The anxious yet sensual gesture catches the undivided attention of those blue optics, Windblade’s friendly and curious gaze drifting downwards accordingly, flickering with interest. “I get the feeling that’s not really your name.” Gently teasing.
“It’s… not.” Directing a look of utter terror in any other direction, the Seeker bemoans that she does not know how to talk to femmes outside her own kind. Even then, she can barely speak to Nova Storm, and their relationship is not like that at all. “Sorry. It’s Slipstream.”
“Slipstream? Now, that’s a lovely name.”
Her Spark chamber is about to burn a hole in her chassis. She clears her ventilation duct with a throaty rumble, timidly forcing herself to look over at Windblade again. “Thanks. Yours, too. It’s… noble. Strong, but flexible. A warrior’s name.”
It is now Windblade’s turn to look coy, dragging a slender digit across the counter, optical ridges gently lowered, an aside look. “Okay, fine.” A giggle. “That was really smooth.”
Slipstream perks, wings erect. “…It was?” She does not feel so anxious, all of a sudden.
“Right, let me try it. Ahem.”
She waits, surprisingly eager.
“So…” Windblade leans on one bent arm, the other raised to present her cup, from which she takes a delicate sip. “You come here often, big guy?” That sounded very flirtatious, just now, and intended to draw out a laugh, if her brows wiggling were any indication. Deliberately awful.
It works. Slipstream actually does offer a shy, breathy chuckle, flushed with Energon that pumps close to the flexible membrane of her angular face plates, blooming under the surface. Her cooling fans roar softly as her temperature readings rise.
“How was that? Was that good?”
“Terrible.” Her strong jaw frames a handsome smile. “I liked that.”
Windblade has succeeded in cheering up Slipstream. “Great, ’cause I’ve got more corny come-ons where that came from.” With no intention on stopping. No femme should be left alone and miserable whilst surrounded by uproarious company. “You got time?
“I think I’m available.”
“Shall I wax lyrical about your penetrating gaze, or perhaps your stately warframe, or…”
“Be still, my beating Spark.”
“It’s working, huh? How about I whisper sweet nothings in your audial?”
“About to break another Spark, Windblade?”
“Bee!” She beams, turning to embrace a bright yellow figure suddenly between them.
“Hey, bestie! How’s it going?”
“Great! I’ve made a friend.”
“Yeah, I noticed. So, who’s tall, dark and handsome over here?”
“Slipstream?” offers Slipstream in a question itself, unsure if she really is all that dark and handsome, although she is tall.
“Hi, name’s Bumblebee!” He sticks out a servo. “Nice to meet you!”
She is instantly socially anxious all over again as she awkwardly accepts, offering a firm shake whilst smiling thinly. He seems nice. A little loud, maybe.
“Hey, a booth just opened up towards the back, so we’ll have some space if we grab it quick. Come join us!”
“Oh, sure. Okay.”
Windblade and Bumblebee do most of the talking from then on.
The nice part, though, is that Slipstream actually winds up being included in actual friendly conversation, for a change. She gradually relaxes her powerful warframe, sinister facial rigging adopting a quiet smile, and does not flinch when Bumblee slaps her over the pauldron to punctuate a particularly good joke, or when Windblade eventually lays a delicate servo on a thickset wrist when it comes time to say goodbye.
“Let’s do this again, okay?”
“Yeah, Slip, link up with us sometime!”
“Sure. I’d like that.”
Maccadam’s smile has faded where he stands, polishing an empty cup.