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“Swerve, this comm sign only had three digits in it,” Blaster said. “Look, no valid path. I’m sorry, your message won’t go through.”
My message…
Swerve looked up at the communications officer, the frown on his face leaving little room for doubt. He was red and gold, and Swerve could name the mix of colours used to get each effect, making his red just that slight bit different than his own, or Rodimus’, or Magnus’. “I-- it’s got to be. It’s what he gave me.”
“Here, I’ll keep the recording,” Blaster said. “But now you have to go, other people need to use the communicator. This is our chance to finally get in contact with the rest of the Autobots, with Cybertron. Understand?”
“Yeah, I--” Swerve bobbed his head, and lowered his hand. “I understand.” Slowly, Swerve made his way out of the communications hub, pushing past the ‘bots that had been waiting for their turn. The minibot made his way back to his room, through the corridors of the ship -- his ship, past his crewmates -- the
Lost Light.
Everything, from the paint on the walls to the room markers seemed duller, less golden, than before. He shuffled to a stop before a door, marked ‘42’, reached up to key in the password -- chosen solely for the charming little sequence of beeping that it made when he entered it -- and the door opened.His room was empty, his only roommate having left him some time before, when he’d torn off his own head in response to what he was hearing, and he’d never managed to find a replacement. He’d had hopes for it, really: living with another person, playing pranks on each other, getting to know them. Sharing innermost secrets.Red Alert hadn’t been one for secrets, or pranks, or living with Swerve, so it seemed.
That was supposed to change here,
Swerve thought to himself, staring at the numbers on his hand.
I was supposed to make friends. I was supposed to get to know people. That’s why I wanted to own the bar. People could come to me, talk with me and confide in me, the way Magnus did. We were supposed to share something special. Except…
Except that people still only came to him for drinks, not advice. Everyone knew that he would talk about what he heard -- he couldn’t help it, having people confide in him was exciting -- and they’d laugh at his jokes. There was no sense of confidence, like when Rodimus and Drift would bend their heads together, murmuring softly, almost but not quite touching. No sense of budding friendship, like that between Cyclonus and
Tailgate,
of all people. If people wanted advice, they went to Rung -- oh, Primus, poor Rung -- or Drift, or Ratchet.
Swerve heaved himself up onto his berth, and reached over, taking the framed pict of Blurr off the shelf, staring at it, and as if the racer could hear him, said, “What’s your number? So I can call you and make plans. So we can be best buds and hang out. Why wouldn’t you give me the real number if you wanted to be friends?”Stubbornly, the pict refused to answer, and Swerve had no more answers than before.~ * ~
He came in like a breeze of pure, clean air, and Swerve couldn’t help but stare.
It’s him. It’s really him. Am I dreaming? Oh no, he’s coming
this
way.
"Quart of Engex, please. Hot. Smelting pool hot," Blurr said, his tone not impossibly fast, as some had claimed, but cool and smooth.
Swerve opened his mouth, but nothing of sense came out of it, babbling. “...love… hero… can’t believe… bar.”Blurr frowned at him, tilting his head a little. "Or... a shot of Nightmare Fuel if you're out of the pink stuff."
Swerve let out a high-pitched whine.
It’s him. I can’t believe it’s him. I’ve had two Primes and the Enforcer sit in my bar but it’s nothing compared to this. I love you, Blurr.
"Swerve's cause of death,” Skids murmured into his drink. “Hero worship."Blurr stared at him a moment longer, and walked away, shaking his head. Swerve could barely hear his words over the sheer level of excitement bubbling through the entirety of his frame.Whatever he did say, affected Skids enough to get up and follow him.
I should have gotten him to sign something, or finish his comm frequency, or something--
~ * ~“Hey.” Skids wasn’t as fast as the racer, so it took time once Blurr had stopped to catch up with him. “Blurr.”“You’re Skids, the theoretician.” Blurr nodded, and smiled briefly. “I’m impressed, you’re a hero, even if you are… bumming it around on the Lost Light.” He thumbed at the bar. “Autobot causes aren’t my speed any more, if you know what I mean.”“That bot’s name is Swerve, and he’s a big fan of yours,” Skids said, ignoring it. He’d listened to every treatise Swerve had committed to the spoken word about the racer, and so far, he couldn’t help but feel disappointed at his attitude. “You don’t have an excuse, you should be able to remember him.”
Blurr frowned. “I have millions of fans. Billions, in fact. Your friend? Thinks he knows me. Thinks
I
know
him.
I don’t. You barely see them after a while.”
“Swerve’s a hero,” Skids snapped. “He’s saved lives, everyone’s lives, by being a metallurgist
and
a bartender. He’s a good friend, and he deserves more respect than to be forgotten by his idol.”
Blurr vented slowly, and spread his hands. “What do you want from me, Skids? An apology? For him to cling to me and babble for another ten minutes?”“No,” Skids said, thinking quickly. “I want you to give him your comm sign. Your real one, and if he wants to talk to you… you should listen.”Blurr was silent for a time, and finally nodded. “I need something to write on.”Skids took out a data slate from his subspace, and keyed it on. Blurr’s face, with the winning, put-on smile he’d used for photo shoots, stared back. The real Blurr pursed his lips. “Autograph it too.”“Fine.” Blurr subspaced a marking pen and scrawled his name at the bottom, and carefully, in clear numbers, wrote his comm sign. “Happy?”
“When my friends are happy,” Skids said absently, and studied it. “Perfect. Now all I have to do is find the right time to give this to him. Things get busy on the
Lost Light.
You know, Autobot things.”
“Yeah,” Blurr said, looking away. “I know.”End