[In TFA canon, this would take place late in season 3, just before "Predacons Rising" episode.]
I alighted awkwardly on the patched and pitted asphalt, not saying what I felt, which was “Oooh, my foot!” The joint just above the left turbine heel signaled malfunction; it hurt. I could feel the unnatural slack on the cables. As a foot, it was going to be nearly useless, and as awkward landing had proved, it was not going to enable me to fly. This was, of course, a bad thing.
I staggered over to Detroit's premier oilhouse, which in human terms was nothing but the rear loading dock of Maramba Brothers Auto Supply. In Cybertronian terms – what I knew of Cybertron – it was the local non-Autobot haunt. The Decepticons – what passed and remained for members of the faction on Earth these days – did not have a secret base or lair. We all had our own places, some on the island, some downtown; I preferred the waterfront for sheltering, but the skies were my home.
So, the damage: pretty fraggin' devastating. But you don't show devastated to your Decepticon and neutral croonies, unless you want to be the next one in target lock. I passed up a seat at the makeshift bar, of sheet metal and industrial oil drums and sat myself down on the concrete dock. I could sense she was up there. “Hey, Sister, how ya hangin'?” I called.
Blackarachnia lowered herself down along the rear of the strip mall and then transformed. “What the slag happened to you?”
The damage was obvious, but I wasn't going to show weakness to her. “Wouldn't you like to know!”
“You look like scrap, Jet.” Blackarachnia strutted along the loading dock and then hopped down to the worn asphalt. I could see multiple sets of optics tracking me, assessing my strength, or lack thereof.
“You shoulda seen the other guy!”
I think, at that, she saw the red paint transfer along the left side of my cockpit and got the wrong idea...or the more right than she knew...I really didn't know with her. “So who is he?”
Wrong idea, then. “Crimson Angels,” I said. It is a little funny that the local Earthlings, Americans, had some cultural similarities with Cybertronians. For example: 'Condition Magenta' and 'Red Alert' or 'Crimson Fog' and 'Seeing Red'.
“You thought he was back,” she accused.
“No – I didn't!” I realized a nanoklik too late that, in my anger, I had confirmed both that there was a 'he' involved and that I had any expectations regarding his returning to Earth, or not. And mistaking Earth jets for him was just wrong and illogical, because last I'd seen he was a disembodied head. Though, I knew he had a lot of spare parts on Luna, there was just no possibility that maneuvers of mere human pilots could match his dance.
He could be on a pleasure cruise with Megatron, for all I cared.
“You thought you saw Starscream,” Blackarachnia taunted.
“No.” But, I had 'seen red'. Not in the sense that a wing of red-painted Earth tech flown by human stunt pilots could logically be mistaken for that magenta-breasted silver bird. That I had perceived even the slightest similarity, just enough to trigger the rage within me. And at that point, I was not really seeing clearly anymore. I was lost in the crimson fog. I only knew that I was angry that something was lacking; denied me.
I did not even know, especially when I was angry, exactly what it was I wanted from him. I just felt that I wanted to hurt him until he gave it to me, which, in times of calm retrospection, I realized, was probably not the best way to encourage one to be giving and agreeable. I mean, It hadn't worked with Megatron.
I would have considered it a given that I needed a new strategy, but strategy just failed when it came to him. There was nothing logical about it. Just a turbine full of turbulent emotion.
Blackarachnia leaned forward a little, which I took as threat. But, she said then, “Tell me about it, Sister!”
“Maybe, just a little, they reminded me of him,” I said, with a smirky little smile, “I took out all five.” A suitable accomplishment for a warrior, but not one that I was overly proud of, truly. By human standards, superb machines with highly skilled pilots, ones that served as a group to inspire and entertain; a symbol for their people. I didn't really view that as a bad thing. We had elite fliers, too.
We just had the eliter elite.
Scrapper brought us some oil, and we talked, while my shard worked its miracles. We didn't tell each other everything, because, again, weren't we both bitter glitches who wouldn't hesitate to back-stab the other if it meant getting what we really wanted, or just getting our mech.
I don't think that a love-hate relationship with some mech is the pinnacle of a Decepticon femme's life – or that gender means much at all – but I think, in our specific cases, it was definitely one thread in our lives. We didn't really have similar ideas about such relations, for one, I was the lesser experienced. She wanted to catch and entangle – there was that whole binding in webbing spider thing. I was starting to suspect I wanted to be pursued, and, maybe, a little, to get caught – and one would have to be the fastest thing in the skies to do it, not to mention agile! I mean, how could I stand to be with anyone who would not prove their worth? And then, who would not allow me a rematch?
Still, there were definite parallels, not just the dysfunctional relationships and vengeful grudges, but, that we both apparently had some aptitude for science, or rather liked the color purple. I think, even before we talked, we sensed this subconsciously, and that had more to do with us calling each other 'Sister', than any human custom. Or rather, it was separate from their custom, but done for the same reason: to acknowledge bonds.
My shard and self repair systems had restored most of my functions. I knew I would be able to walk back to my place, if not fly. After some recharge, I might manage flying again. But, I lingered. Snarl came and went. And then later, the little green bot; he was complaining about some 'bumble' mech, and I could guess who that was.
I offered Wasp the remainder of my can of oil. “Tell us about it!”
[ooc: For people who rp, I'm going to tag this virtual, because I do not believe that Slipstream would physically recount this to your characters, yet, I'll allow that somehow everyone has been able to access this, like it is a file, and therefore may reply in character, to discuss opinion, if they wish, though without physical rp with Slipstream, who is not here. But, Slipstream will probably deny it all, anyway.]