After working all through the night, helping co-ordinate a rescue after a derelict skyscraper had collapsed on the Rustig border, Thundercracker was tired. He sat in the big chair facing the huge window, watching a flier stitch contrails into an insipid mackerel sky, nursing half a cube of high-grade and waiting for the sun to show itself before finally retiring to his room to get some much-needed down time.
He pinched the bridge of his nose and concentrated on bleeding off a little of the pressure in his helm. Getting all the injured parties out from under the rubble and shipped off to hospital had been fairly draining, and he could really have done with Skywarp’s help, but the teleport had been in a particularly funny mood. He’d mainly just got under everyone’s feet, before finally disappearing and turning off his locator beacon altogether.
It was only a general lack of energy that stopped Thundercracker going in search of his errant wingmate and delivering the well-earned punch in the head that had Skywarp’s name on it.
Calm, TC. Think how nice and cool and fresh your energon is. Think how good it’ll feel to get all your gyroscopes rebalanced, all your coolant lines depressurised, all your memory defragmented. When you get up, you’ll feel like a new mech.
He watched the sun begin to peek over the horizon, blushing an insipid morning sky with a subtle pink glow, and snorted at himself. Once I’ve strangled Skywarp, maybe. He deactivated his optics and allowed the play of morning sunlight across his enamel to lull him into a pleasant doze.
He was at the point of finally offlining altogether when the shrill squeal of outrage blasted into his awareness, rudely stripping away the layers of comfortable dormancy. Worryingly, it was male. More worryingly, it wasn’t Starscream. The blue Seeker leaped out of his chair, barely maintaining his sleepy balance, and collided with one of the easy chairs, already looking for attackers-
The house appeared to be empty… save for the raised voices, coming from Skywarp’s suite. Great. Knocking the bolts out of his wingmate's thick head could wait until he'd dealt with whoever was trying to kill him. Punching the fragger was a privilege only trinemates were party to.
Thundercracker launched himself at the upstairs level, narrowly avoiding crashing into the skylight, and vaulted over the mezzanine wall, already broadcasting an emergency code to unlock the door.
Barging through, weapons charged and ready for anything, he was not prepared for what he found. “What in Pit-?”
Two strangers occupied the berth. A large, bemused, mostly-white female Seeker with blue cheek flashes and a smooth helm, and a small, dark bike, glaring at his hands with a murderous expression in his crimson optics, blazing hot enough to melt sheet metal. It was the hottest, most baleful crimson glow the blue jet had seen in a long time, very nearly bright enough to light the entire room.
Or-… wait. The closer Thundercracker looked, the more he realised that the pair weren’t so unfamiliar, after all. The big femme bore the trademark police Battenburg in blue and yellow, the vivid squares marching up each wing, and in place of audio venting, she bore a rounded blue crystal lens on each side of her head. By contrast, the little dark mech was primarily black, with a smart silver “waistcoat”, and extremities such a lurid purple that it couldn’t be anyone other than-
“Skywarp?” Thundercracker finally let his hands drop back to his sides, and straightened up, able only to gawp.
(It's nearly Nanowrimo, noooo)
Crossposted. This entry was originally posted at http://keaalu.dreamwidth.org/21741.html.