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[personal profile] keaalu
Title (chapter): Remember Me (01)
Series: Transformers, G1-based “Blue” AU
Rating: PG-13
Notes: In which the coneheads have a fairly simple job to do, but Ramjet is pretty confident one of them (probably Dirge) will still manage to screw it up.


“I’m sure I could hit him from here.”

“We’re not meant to be shooting him, Dirge. We’re not meant to be drawing attention to ourselves yet. Or did you forget that part? Again?”

Sitting on a distant cliff right on the territorial limit of Vos, Ramjet had a headache coming on. He still didn’t understand precisely why Megatron had sent his trine back here, unless it was to get shot of the three of them for an orn or two. (Which Ramjet could understand; he’d have liked to be able to ditch his wingmates for a couple of orns, as well.) It wasn’t like this played into any of their specific skillsets. Spying on the former command trine was the whole reason mechs like Soundwave existed. They didn’t have a whole lot to show for their trip, so far.

And now he had to deal with a bored, argumentative Dirge. Sure, Ramjet loved his wingbros, but they really made his helm hurt sometimes – even more than flying into slag did, and he was actually engineered for that.

Ramjet tuned his brother out, returning his attention to the matter at hand. After Soundwave had picked up on some carelessly unguarded Autobot chatter that suggested there was going to be some sort of official celebration in the coming orns, the three coneheads had been sent back to Cybertron to get a feel for what was going on.

That idiot spacebridge guard had even asked them if they were coming for ‘that Vos thing?’ and had happily let them through when they’d lied that of course they were; what else would they be going back to Cybertron for?

They’d arrived to find the ‘thing’ involved Vos – correction, New Vos – being on the cusp of being recognised as an autonomous city-state once again. The celebration was the official recognition of that fact. Looking at the news reports, half the damn planet was going to be attending.

And Ramjet, one of a small number of pure-sparked Vosians, who’d survived Tarn’s attack, and dug out Primus-only-knew-how-many survivors, and fought against the Autobots that had wanted to keep them all grounded, and actually defended that ungrateful red slagger on more than one occasion instead of just letting one of Prime’s band of merry morons shoot him?

Not invited.

The white jet couldn’t help feeling just a tiny bit hurt. And vindictive.

Megatron had been cooking something up for a long time – something to permanently wipe the insufferable smirk off a certain jet’s faceplates. Ramjet was looking forwards to getting to see it.

Of course, the warlord hadn’t let all his remaining loyalists in on the details – didn’t trust them not to prematurely screw it up, Ramjet guessed. Fair precautions if Thrust was involved. All they’d been told was go to Cybertron, see what’s going on, and when you leave, make sure you leave my calling card. Preferably something that will get them to come to me.

The three uninvited mechs had quietly set up a scope on the escarpment, to watch proceedings from a discreet distance. New buildings in Vos had sprung up like weeds; even now, two small Seekers were carefully hoisting a girder to the working platform, their trine leader shouting directions down to them.

Thrust watched them with a curl in his lip. “Yeah, this looks so much better than working for Megs, of course. I’d so much rather be hauling building materials around like some dumb beast of burden.”

Ramjet kept his vocaliser carefully offline, to keep from pointing out that actually? Something about this sounded… tolerable. Something possibly even rather appealing about the idea. Coming home, helping rebuild. Not getting shot at by underclocked Autobots for the sake of a few dregs of energon.

If only it wouldn’t involve the need to thank the scarlet traitor. He was fairly confident his vocaliser would glitch out before he managed the words.

Atop an unfinished high central tower, a small group of Seekers had clustered; there were a few that Ramjet didn’t recognise, and didn’t feel inclined to try and get an ident off them, but Starscream’s ivory wings were present, of course, right in the middle. Acid Storm stood off to his left, and Thundercracker was close by on his right. That giant white Autobot bus sat in the middle of a little cluster of curious Seekers on the edge of the platform, apparently more interested in chatting with the residents and enjoying the view than contributing to the conversation.

No Skywarp, but that was no surprise. Even before ditching the ‘Cons, the mech had elevated slacking off to an art form. No great deal – he’d have probably been as useful as a cardboard blast shield to them, right now.

Ramjet wasn’t sure what they were discussing, but figured it was something political. Could never be a good sign when even your (supposed) friends didn’t really want to get involved.

Starscream’s laughter – a high, grating sound that set Ramjet’s denta on edge – was audible even over the distance between them. Nice to see some things didn’t change. He was gesticulating grandly about something, arms waving as though conducting an orchestra, although Ramjet couldn’t parse his words at this distance. In front of them, a holographic representation of part of a city hung in the air; it probably overlaid the real streets, so Starscream could demonstrate where he was thinking of building his palace, or some slag.

Ramjet glared at the back of the silver wings, as if he could somehow focus his optics into lasers and bore holes through them. The traitor actually looked good. Perhaps a fraction smaller than the conehead remembered, more lightly built, but he was clean, well-polished, and highly animated, so obviously not suffering from lack of energon. It made Ramjet feel slow and heavy – not to mention, reminded him how fragging depleted he spent most of his life.

He’d got all New Vos pledging their alliance to him, and half the dirt-crawlers in the neighbouring districts. It was like a giant middle finger to Megatron, and the dwindling number of remaining Decepticon loyalists. Ha ha, look at me, bribing all these suckers with gifts and false promises. They’re such a gullible bunch of idiots, it’s truly shameful your mighty leader couldn’t lie so convincingly as me.

It’s not our fault we’re stuck on Dirt, on the wrong side of the space bridge, dealing with underclocked
Autobots who just have no idea of when to fragging quit.

“I definitely could hit him from this distance. Might even be able to knock half the other slagheads off in the process.”

Yeah, that headache wasn’t going to get any better any time soon. Ramjet glanced up at Dirge, who perched on the very top of the escarpment, cannons up, making a big show of measuring his aim.

“It’s not about whether or not you’re physically capable…” the white jet sighed and covered his face with one hand. “We’re not meant to be shooting him, Dirge, or we’d have done it already. It’ll blow our cover, if nothing else.”

“Your life wouldn’t be worth living if the Boss found out you offed him, anyway,” Thrust added, from his ledge further down the rockface. “You know he’s been fantasising about finally killing the slagmunch for vorns. He might kill you in his stead. Then we’d have to find some other depressive loser to make our numbers back up.”

Dirge made a little noise of displeasure and folded his arms. “This from the mech that watches far too much human-made entertainment, and is always complaining that the bad guy doesn’t just kill the hero when they get the chance.”

Thrust vented a snort and finally looked up at his wingmate. “We’re calling the Screamer a hero, now?”

Dirge ignored him. “Anyway, I never said anything about killing the fragger. I just want to knock that obnoxious smirk off his faceplates.”

Fine.” Ramjet glared back into his scope. “If you can do it without him raising the alarm, feel free. But if you ruin this whole plan that we’ve been working on for the last quarter vorn? You’re on your own. You can rescue yourself when they come hunting you. And when Megatron comes for your wingtips.”

Dirge went quiet, muttering to himself. “Just wish he didn’t look so fragging smug. And comfortable.”

“Yeah, speaking of which,” Thrust glanced up at his wingleader, “remind me why WE haven’t ditched the ‘Cons and come home, like those three losers?”

Ramjet glared back, but without much heat, and Thrust didn’t back down. Why indeed. “Because we know the meaning of loyalty, to the mech that scraped us up out of the gutter while Vos burned? We don’t owe these traitors anything.”

“You act like they’d even let the likes of you in, in the first place,” Dirge sniped. “We half-smelted guttermechs have no place in Cybertronian high society.” He waved a hand, airily. “Why are you suddenly so interested, anyway?”

“Because it looks nice, over there? It’s not some stupid tin can on the bottom of the ocean on a planet of dirt? We could have it made, over there. Comfortable. Not starving all the time?” Thrust glared up at him. “If a buncha soft-sparked Autobots and wibbly neutrals let Starscream come live here, without even separating him from his spark for war crimes, why aren’t we getting in on the action?”

Dirge snorted and used one thruster to give his burgundy twin a shove-kick to the head. “’Cause you’d get shot at before you even get to say ‘hi, how’s it going?’? You know those three are territorial as it gets. You saw what they did to Astrotrain, and that was just for roughing up one of Skywarp’s femmes.”

Thrust rubbed his helm and pouted. “That’s why you broadcast something friendly while you’re still out of range of fire?”

“Yeah, and I got you a massive white sheet to wave while you’re at it.”

“You know what? That wouldn’t actually hurt to have.”

Guys,” Ramjet groaned, finally lifting his head from his hands. “Did you ever think the reason we’re a laughing stock that never get anything done is ‘cause you two spend all your time bickering?”

Two sets of hostile crimson optics glared back at him.

Dirge leaned subtly closer; “Right, so, nothing at all to do with the fact our de facto wingleader’s a waste of space whose only solution to problems is to headbutt them?”

Ramjet came halfway up into a crouch and Dirge hastily stumbled backwards out of range. “Where you’re just all noise, and no substance? Right,” he sneered. “Anyway. If this all works, you might get your wish, Thrust.” He picked up the scope. “Come on. We’ve got one more job to do before we can head back to Dirt.”

New Vos was separated from Deixar by the districts of Tysta and Surkea. Surkea was still a derelict ruin, but Tysta had plenty of high perches a mech could put down on to watch the goings-on below, and plan their next steps.

Dirge peered through the scope. “All right, so I could understand watching the Screamer, but why are we spying on a bunch of grounders?”

“Remember the second part of Megatron’s instructions?”

“Leave a calling card?”

“Right. And you clocked that one of the dirt-crawlers is Skywarp’s brat, right?”

“Like any of us could forget,” Dirge drawled, sourly, folding his arms “Point being?”

“Point being, you unimaginative troglodyte, if we want their attention, how better to get it?”


Edit: what did you do to my htmls, DW? I'm sure I didn't miss a > anywhere. Trying again...

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