[TF] Rain or Shine 08
Sep. 21st, 2020 07:09 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22Part Eight
Bluestreak's message pinged Blurr's inbox right as his pacing route took him by the massive window in the main room. He paused to skim the contents, venting a sigh which mixed relief and lingering anger.
Ricochet had been with them. Ricochet was on his way home now.
"Blurr?"
He waved off Drift's concern and sank down into the couch, his lower back aching, and Rebound shifting restlessly within his tank.
"Ricochet's on his way back," Blurr said.
"Well, that's good." Drift sat down beside him, offering an energon cube which looked to have been warmed and spiced.
"Thanks." Blurr took it, and gave it a sip, though his tanks roiled with queasiness, and little flutters of an ache clenched his belly. He rubbed his rounded abdomen, hiding a cringe.
"Sure you don't want to talk about it?"
Blurr gave Drift a baleful look over the edge of the cube. "I'm sure." He put the cube down, too queasy to give it more than a sip, and cupped his belly, trying to rub between the seams and soothe the odd cramping. "Ricochet threw a tantrum. That's it."
"Seems like a bit more than that."
Blurr climbed back to his feet and started to pace. He needed to be moving. He couldn't sit and relax. His son was out there in the arms of some weird stalker, and his partner was too busy throwing a childlike tantrum to be where he was most needed.
"It was."
"Bluestreak said you threw him out."
Blurr sighed and scrubbed his forehead. "Bluestreak talks too much." Which was a lot, coming from Blurr, who was often told he talked too fast, but he'd spent a long, long time training himself to talk at a normal speed for other people. "But yeah, I did. He was being an aft, and if we'd kept on the way we were, I probably would have hit him."
"But you're fine with him coming back?"
"Yes. No. I don't know." Blurr continued his long route around the perimeter of the main room, his hand rubbing self-consciously over his ugly, rounded abdomen. He was domestic now. He was tamed. He wished he hated it more. "It's complicated."
Drift watched him with that knowing gaze Blurr hated, just a little. "Relationships usually are. But you need to sit down, Blurr. You remember what Ratchet said."
"I remember," Blurr gritted out. He forced his pace to slow, though it physically irked him. He tried to concentrate on ventilating, on calming himself down.
It didn't work.
"He hasn't made a ransom demand," Blurr said, because he'd much rather talk about Quicken and finding Echo, than the potential return of his mate and whatever confrontation would spill out of that.
Drift sighed, almost too quiet for Blurr to hear, but he said, "Do you think he will?"
"No. Quicken's not after money." Blurr gnawed on his bottom lip, guilt tightening into a knot behind his spark. "He's obsessed. He thinks my family is holding me back." He worked his intake, worry making his spark accelerate. "Do you think Echo is still alive?"
"What!? Hey, of course he is!" Drift leapt up from the couch and intercepted Blurr on his route, his field radiating calm and reassurance. "Quicken was a Neutral. If he didn't have the bearings to fight in the war, no way he's going to hurt a sparkling."
Blurr rolled his optics. "But he has no problem with kidnapping?"
Drift rested his hands on Blurr's shoulders, giving him a squeeze. "He's alive," he said, tone firm. "If anything, this is a trap. Quicken hates Ricochet. If you ask me, it's Ricochet he's really after."
"You think Echo is bait?"
A dark something flickered across Drift's face, ugly and a bit frightening. "He's easier to grab than both you and Ricochet, and if there's one way to get your attention, Echo's definitely it." Drift worked his jaw, shame leaking into his field. "It's what I would've done."
"Deadlock would have killed Echo. You're not reassuring me, Drift." Blurr ducked out from under his comfort and started pacing again. The urge to run from the apartment, run through the streets, look under every piece of debris, rattled through his struts.
"No. I've done a lot of terrible, terrible things. But killing a sparkling like that? Not one of them." Drift shook his head and straightened his shoulders. "Even murderers have lines they don't cross, Blurr."
"Yeah? And what makes you so sure this is Quicken's line?"
"Because I chose to believe Echo is fine, and we're going to get him back, and Quicken is going to be in prison where he belongs," Drift said.
Blurr stared at him, working his jaw. Sometimes, Drift's unfounded optimism was the most irritating thing about him. This was one of those times.
It wasn't enough.
Blurr spun on a heel and stomped toward the door.
"Where are you going?" Drift hurried to follow.
"To find my son. I can't wait anymore. I have to do something," Blurr snapped. He paused by the storage closet and keyed open his weapons locker, removing a few old friends he hadn't visited since the peace treaty was signed. The everyday blaster hidden in a thigh compartment wouldn't cut it.
"You're just going to exhaust yourself," Drift protested.
"At least I'll be doing something instead of standing around with my thumbs up my aft. He's my son, Drift," Blurr growled and slammed the locker shut, his frame feeling oddly awkward with all his armaments returned to it.
"Blurr--"
The front door beeped, and they both froze, staring as it slid open and Ricochet stepped inside. He saw Blurr immediately, and Ricochet froze as their optics met.
"Hi, sweetspark. I'm home," Ricochet said after an awkward moment, offering a half-curved smirk.
"Did you find our son?" Blurr asked.
Ricochet stepped in fully, the door shutting behind him, and spread his hands. "Do you see him anywhere? Or maybe I have him stuffed in my subspace."
Blurr folded his arms. "Then what the frag are you doing here?"
"I live here," Ricochet said.
"Not right now, you don't."
Ricochet's mouth pressed together in a thin line, but his gaze slanted to Drift, visor flashing. "Do ya mind? This is private and personal."
"I'll leave if Blurr wants me to leave," Drift said, and he stepped up beside Blurr in a show of solidarity, his field nudging Blurr's with support.
"I'll be fine. Thanks, Drift. You should go home to Ratchet." Blurr, after all, wasn't afraid of Ricochet.
"If you're sure." Drift gave Blurr an awkward smile before he aimed a glare at Ricochet and stormed up to him, shoving a finger in his face. "If you upset him, I will cut your spike off."
Ricochet chuffed a vent. "Come back as Deadlock, and maybe I'll be scared."
"I mean it! He's been having false contractions because of the stress," Drift snapped, and Blurr sighed. He hadn’t wanted that little detail to get out. "Don't fragging upset him!" He poked Ricochet in the chest for real this time.
Blurr tensed.
Ricochet's visor narrowed to a thin line. "He has?"
"Yes. And if you'd been here, you'd know." Drift's engine growled. "So grow the frag up, Ricochet and solve this like an adult."
"I'm fine," Blurr protested, rolling his optics. He grabbed Drift's shoulders, steering him toward the door. "Go home. Go snuggle Ratchet. Thank you for staying here, but seriously, go home."
"I'm going. But I'll be back," Drift said as he held up his hands and made for the door, without a push this time. "I'm gonna help you look for Echo as soon as we got a lead."
"I know you will. Thanks."
"Anytime."
"Hey, Drift!" Ricochet called as Drift got to the door, and turned around, a question written on his face. Ricochet patted his chassis and said, "You get one."
Drift grinned, and it showed a lot of denta, specifically the sharpened ones he'd carried from his Decepticon days. For a moment, the shadow of Deadlock clung to him. "Sure."
Ricochet chuckled, and Blurr wondered if he was the only who could hear the razorwire in it before Drift was gone, and they were alone. Blurr refused to break the silence, as awkward and tense as it was.
"Was he telling the truth? Are you having false contractions?"
"They come and go." Blurr shrugged and moved back into the living room, the weight of Ricochet's gaze on him. "Rebound's fine. He's not the one in the hands of a maniac."
"We're gonna find him. Bluestreak and Jazz are interviewing people now, and I've got some contacts." Ricochet lifted his chin, jaw set. "I'm going to find our kid."
Blurr folded his arms, eyeing Ricochet warily. "Is that what you came here to tell me?"
"In part." Ricochet worked his jaw, and for the first time, some of his bravado seemed to falter. "And other things, too."
Blurr arched an orbital ridge. "I'm listening."
"Don't do that again," Ricochet said, and though his words were insistent, his voice and posture were soft. Relenting.
Blurr crinkled his forehead. "Excuse me?"
"Don't do that again. Don't throw me out of my house like I don't belong here." Ricochet worked his intake, his field fluttering where it nudged Blurr's own. "You're mad at me, fine, tell me to take a walk. But don't throw me out."
Blurr's chassis tightened, like someone was squeezing his spark, at the barely concealed pain in Ricochet's voice. His expression gave nothing away, but it was there in the flutter of his field, and the crackle of his voice.
"I can agree to that," Blurr said. It wasn't much to ask for honestly. "And you were right. I should have hired someone sooner. Echo, and Rebound deserve to have more of my time." He paused, cycled a ventilation, and firmed his voice. "But don't you dare tell me how I feel about my sparklings."
Ricochet flinched. "I didn't mean that."
"Yes, you did." Blurr dropped his arms and rubbed his abdomen, suddenly feeling the stress and the exhaustion all the way to his struts. Everything ached. "I know I don't fit the mold of what you picture to be a perfect genitor. I'm not like you. I didn't always dream of having a family, and I didn't plan for a sparkling. I love Echo, I do, but he wasn't in the plan, and I don't know what the frag I'm doing."
Ricochet scrubbed a hand down his face. "I shouldn't have said it. I know. I get it. Your past is different than mine, and I shouldn't keep expecting things. You're not my carrier. You're not my sire. You're you."
Blurr gnawed on the inside of his cheek. "I can't... I'm never going to meet your expectations. I'm just not. It doesn't come easy to me."
"I know. I'm the one who needs to get over myself." Ricochet moved in closer, and rather than retreat, Blurr allowed the embrace, letting Ricochet fold his arms around him. "You're not going to leave them. I know that. I just need to remember it."
"Yeah, you do," Blurr said, but the squeezing around his spark eased, and he clung to Ricochet, perhaps a bit more strongly than he needed to. "We gotta find Echo. We can't do it if we're fighting each other."
Ricochet pulled back and cupped Blurr's face, pulling their foreheads close. "We're going to find Echo. And I'm going to rip out Quicken's spark."
"I can get behind both of those things," Blurr murmured as he closed the distance and pressed his mouth to Ricochet's for a fierce kiss, an impact of their lips into which he poured all of his conflicting emotions.
He was worried about Echo. He was exhausted and aching, and left emotionally wrung out by the past day -- had it only been a day cycle? -- but for the first time, he was starting to feel like things were getting back on track.
He and Ricochet had taken down Whipstrike together after all. Surely one obsessed fan would be a snap.
~
"Thank you."
Bluestreak scrubbed Jazz's back with a firmer hand. "You're gonna have to be more specific, pet. What're you thanking me for?"
Jazz sighed and hung his head, bracing his hands on the shower wall. "For handling Ricochet like ya did. I know he's not easy."
"Honestly, you're the difficult one, far as I can tell."
Jazz snorted a laugh, and his field gave Bluestreak a playful swat. "Not what I meant." He paused and audibly cycled a ventilation. "It's just... we didn't have good genitors, ya know. I told ya that. We didn't get raised right. And Rico's got a chip on his shoulder when it comes to genitors."
"You should be telling Blurr this," Bluestreak said.
"I'm sure Blurr knows. I hope he does." Jazz kneaded the shower wall, just to give his fingers something to do. "Our carrier vanished on us. Just walked out. Couldn't handle raising two sparklings when they didn't even want one. Our sire did the best he could, but his spark wasn't in it, and we knew it."
Bluestreak's field nudged his, warm with affection. "Blurr's not going to do the same thing."
"I know that. You know that. Frag, even Ricochet knows that. It's just..." Jazz trailed off, and he turned around, sliding his arms around Bluestreak, voice muffled against Bluestreak's chassis. "But old wounds, ya know? Sometimes, they come back and bite us."
"And what's your wound?"
Jazz went still, his visor flickering. "What do you mean?"
Bluestreak dropped the sponge and pressed a knuckle under Jazz's chin, tilting his head up. "What wound did I disturb to make you run away from me?"
Jazz worked his intake, swallowing thickly. "I wasn't runnin'. I was..." He trailed off and sighed, shame twisting inside of him. "Okay. Mebbe I was runnin' a little bit."
“Is it too much?” Bluestreak asked, and the question was soft, barely audible over the spatter of the solvent, and the whirring of their fans behind their closed vents.
Jazz would have tilted his head, if he hadn’t wanted to lose Bluestreak’s touch. “What?”
“You. Me. Our contract.” Bluestreak stroked gently down Jazz’s intake, his fingers a soft brush over the sensitive cables. “Us.”
“No.” Jazz shook his head and stepped closer, into the heavier rings of Bluestreak’s field. “No, that’s not what it’s about. I swear.”
Bluestreak reached past him and shut off the solvent, leaving the washrack uncomfortably silent and echoing, save for the dripping of the sprayer, which constantly leaked. Jazz had been meaning to fix that. “Then tell me.”
Jazz sighed. He would have lowered his gaze, but it felt wrong to do so. Bluestreak deserved better than an answer told to the floor.
“I quit, Blue,” he said. “I quit, and you shined, and I was bored, and you weren’t here, and I was startin’ to forget who I was. I thought I was losing myself. And I just…” He trailed off, catching himself when he realized he’d started to run on and on like Bluestreak. The words caught in the back of his intake.
Bluestreak embraced him. “You panicked.”
“I panicked,” Jazz admitted.
The silence was suffocating. Bluestreak’s field gave nothing away, master of it he was, though his embrace stayed warm and affectionate.
“Do you still want it? Want us?” Bluestreak asked.
Jazz jerked out of his arms to look up, to catch Bluestreak’s optics so he could read the truth. “Yes. Of course I do! It’s just, it can’t be all. I gotta get back out there. I gotta be me again.”
Bluestreak tilted his head, his sensory panels sinking from the high arch Jazz’s sudden movement had caused. “I wasn’t the one stopping you, and I’m not going to apologize for taking the job, no matter what issue you have with Prowl.”
“I already know that, and I didn’t say you were.”
“You know, Prowl isn’t the only mech with power in this city, Jazz,” Bluestreak said as he reached for Jazz again, and he allowed the embrace.
“You’re not making sense,” Jazz said.
“Maybe because I’m a little more Decepticon than you think I am,” Bluestreak chuckled and kissed his forehead before leaning around Jazz to flick the washrack on. “Come on. Let’s finish washing up, and then we have work to do.”
Jazz cupped the back of Bluestreak’s neck, causing Bluestreak to look at him. “Are we good?”
Bluestreak tipped their foreheads together. “Don’t you ever leave again. Not like that. Not without a conversation.”
“I can do that,” Jazz said, around a lump in his intake. It was the least he could do.
“Then yeah, we’re good.” Bluestreak smiled, and it made Jazz’s spark ache, to see that familiar smile, and feel that familiar warm embrace of Bluestreak’s field. “Or at least, as good as we can be right now without having a serious conversation, like where you were and what you were doing. But it can wait until we find Echo.”
Jazz’s spark gave a little tremble. “Serious conversation, huh?”
“I think we need to revisit our contract.” Bluestreak stroked his cheek again, and the warmth of his touch along with the press of his field was just enough to reassure. “And we both need to discuss terms about what we want from each other, what’s acceptable and what’s not.”
“Fair enough,” Jazz murmured, and leaned into Bluestreak’s touch, venting a soft sigh. “I really am sorry, Blue. I wasn’t thinkin’. I was just…”
“Reacting. I know.” Bluestreak pressed a kiss to his forehead and then bent down, grabbing up the scrubber. “Come on. We gotta get cleaned up, and then I need your help if we’re going to find Echo.”
Jazz turned and snagged another scrubber for himself. “Kiddo first, then us. Promise.”
Bluestreak smiled, and it made Jazz weak in the knees, to see most of the shadows finally gone from his optics, and his sensory panels lifting once more. “It’s good to have my partner back,” he said.
Jazz’s spark hummed with warmth.
Primus, he’d been such a fool.
“It’s good to be home,” Jazz said, and he meant it.
~
Drift didn't go home, but only because he knew Ratchet wouldn't be there. Instead, he went to the main medical facility, and up to the administration floor, then back to the corner office, where he knew he'd find his mate.
He didn't bother to knock. Just tipped his head in greeting to the floor administrative aide -- a Neutral by the name of Enovate -- and let himself into Ratchet's office. Soft music floated in the air, and the sharp odor of relaxation crystals tickled Drift's olfactory sensors. He grinned despite himself.
He knew he'd convince Ratchet eventually.
"Is it intermission?" Ratchet asked without looking up from his datapads, his forehead with that little furrow of concentration in it which Drift found so endearing.
"I think it's actually the end of the show," Drift said as he came around the desk and leaned in to brush his lips over that furrow. "Ricochet is back where he belongs, and Jazz is home with Bluestreak, from what I hear."
Ratchet snorted and tipped his head up for a brief kiss. "We can hope," he said, and his lips curved in a soft smile. "Was Blurr staying calm?"
"Do you really want me to answer that?"
Ratchet snorted and shifted his attention back to his datapads, idly tapping the end of the stylus to the gentle beat of the music. "If he goes into early labor, he's not going to get the valve birth he wants."
"He's stubborn. They both are." Drift moved to Ratchet's other side and leaned back against the desk so he could see Ratchet's face. "And understandably worried. I'd be, too, if I was in their position."
"Everyone's doing the best they can. Right now, the best thing Blurr can do is try and stay calm for Rebound's sake." Ratchet gestured absently toward his monitor, which had been silenced, but was playing a steady stream of news. "There's a whole city looking for Echo and Quicken. Someone knows something."
He was right.
Drift glanced at the monitor. A ticket along the bottom of the screen scrolled headlines constantly, and he caught the tail end of an announcement regarding the search for Echo, but the report currently onscreen was also about Echo. There was a picture of both him and Quicken in the background while the news anchor spoke on the situation.
"The war's over, but people hold onto grudges for a long time. You really think someone will speak up?" Drift asked. He certainly hoped so, for Echo's sake, but his confidence in the good-nature of others had taken a beating during the war.
Ratchet sighed and put the stylus down, reaching for Drift's hand. "Right now, it's the best chance anyone has. Echo's a sparkling. I'd like to think Cybertron still has a conscience."
The comm code for a tipline flashed on the screen. It could be anonymous, if anyone felt the need, and Drift hoped that was enough reassurance for the wary.
"Wherever he is, it's gotta be a trap," Drift said, thinking of his conversation with Blurr, and Quicken's possible motivations. Quicken likely wanted to hurt Ricochet, kill him even. He was probably counting on them finding him. "They're going to need back up."
Ratchet squeezed his hand and gave it a little pull, catching his attention. Drift cocked his head and went with the tug, right into Ratchet's lap.
"They've got Bluestreak and Jazz, and believe it or not, relatively reliable Enforcers to call in. You don't have to take this bullet for them." Ratchet rested a hand on Drift's abdomen, and there was a thickness in his voice. "I would ask that you don't."
Drift cycled his optics. He looked down at Ratchet's hand, but fear mingled with the hope, clogging up his intake. He rested his hand over Ratchet's.
"You mean...?"
Ratchet lifted his free hand and cupped Drift's face, sweeping a thumb over his cheek. "If my instruments are at all accurate, yes, I mean. First Aid was right. We just needed to keep trying."
Joy caught in Drift's intake before it spilled out of his vocalizer. He didn't know if he could smile broadly enough, and he grabbed Ratchet's face and pulled him in for a kiss, his field bursting like fireworks.
He was sparked.
He was sparked.
Ratchet's instruments were never wrong. Drift was sparked. They were sparked. They were going to have a sparkling together.
"I... I can't say no if they need me," Drift babbled in between kisses as Ratchet's happiness seeped into his own. "But I won't volunteer, and I'll make sure to protect myself. Us. Our family."
Ratchet brushed their nasal ridges together. "I already know you will."
Drift pressed his forehead to Ratchet's. "I love you so much. You know that, right?"
“Wouldn’t have made you my conjunx if I didn’t,” Ratchet said and placed his hand over Drift’s, their fingers interlocking as they cupped Drift’s flat abdomen -- and Ratchet had already told him it was likely to stay flat through his carry. He had more internal space than Blurr.
“I thought it was my stunning good looks,” Drift said.
Ratchet snorted and rolled his optics. “And your annoyingly optimistic personality.” He pressed closer, voice lowering as though it embarrassed him. “I love you, too.”
Drift beamed. Getting Ratchet to say it was one of the best things in the world, because Ratchet hoarded his words like a dragon hoarded treasure. Drift knew he was loved, Ratchet showed it in everyway that mattered, but he liked hearing the words, too.
“You done with work?” Drift asked, trying not to vibrate out of his armor with happiness. “I’m suddenly feeling the urge to take you home.”
“I think I can work something out,” Ratchet said, and kissed him again, long and lingering, warm and savoring.
~
The front door chimed, and Ricochet glanced at Blurr with a frown. They didn’t often get visitors, and those who did come to call generally knew to let themselves in, or comm ahead of time. They didn’t get anonymous callers.
Blurr pulled a blaster from his thigh compartment, an old thing Ricochet recognized from war-time, and checked the charge on it.
Ricochet grinned. He knew there was a reason he loved this mech.
“You get the door,” Blurr said. “I’ve got your back.”
"I know you do." Ricochet pulled him in for a kiss before letting go and approaching the door, every internal alarm on high alert. They didn't even use the front door, preferring to come up from the bar every time.
This was so unusual to merit caution.
Ricochet opened the door, and an unfamiliar mech stood on the other side, bulky, all sharp angles and boxy shapes, carrying the reek of construction work. He hunched his shoulders as if to make himself smaller. Amber optics stared back at Ricochet before dropping to the ground.
"Can I help you?" Ricochet asked.
The mech rebooted his vocalizer and it made a grinding noise. "Sorry to bother you, I actually came to, um, help you. If I can."
Ricochet stared at him. "How's that?" he asked as Blurr stepped up beside him, blaster out of view, but his posture tense.
"I work with Quicken," the mech said, and when Ricochet's engine growled, the big mech flinched and shrank back a half-step. "And I think, I think I might know where he might be hiding."
"Where?" Blurr demanded as Ricochet put a hand on his mate's shoulder and pulled him back, closer to Ricochet.
"Why would you want to help? What's in it for you?" Ricochet asked, careful to keep his tone even though his smile bared his fanged denta. "And how do we know you're not working with him and this is a trap?"
The mech paled, his gaze shifting from Blurr to Ricochet and back again. His fingers tangled together before he tapped one of his arm panels and produced a small holo-cube, which he squeezed. His expression instantly softened as the image of a mechlet flashed into view, a smaller, splitting image of the mech standing before them.
"This is my sparkling, Acute," he said, and the pride in his voice was evident. "He's my everything, and if something happened to him, I'd... I don't know what I'd do."
"He looks a little younger than Echo," Blurr observed, and some of his wariness eased, though Ricochet remained cautious.
The mech nodded. "He'll start school next year." He smiled, soft and full of pride as he looked at the holo-cube before he stowed it away and straightened with a little cough. "I'm Survey, and I work with Quicken on one of the build crews. He used to grumble a lot, when he thought no one was listening, and he'd talk to anyone who seemed receptive about the old days, and the races. Was a big racing fan, he was."
Blurr nodded. "I knew that much."
Survey slid his gaze to Ricochet. "But he hated you. Didn't have much use for us in general, Decepticons I mean, but he really hated you. Blamed you for a lot of things."
"I'm not for everyone, what can I say?" Ricochet shrugged, but kept his razor-sharp smile. "You're tellin' us stuff we know. If you don't have anything helpful, why'd you bother coming?"
Survey sucked in a vent, tangling his fingers together. "Quicken complained a lot about the fact we weren't rebuilding the stadiums yet. He always said he'd start doing it himself if no one would listen. He wanted to start with the racetracks, kept trying to get us to join his little work crews, do it off the clock."
"You really think he's hiding at one of the stadiums?" Blurr asked.
Survey nodded. "Quicken was obsessed with them. He kept saying that if he could rebuild them, it would be the greatest gift, a way to prove his devotion. He never said your designation but..." At this, Survey looked a little uncomfortable. "I mean, he never stopped talking about how amazing you were either."
"Well, you are pretty amazing," Ricochet said as he slid an arm around Blurr, feeling the rattle in Blurr's armor, barely contained. "But Quicken's a bit more than an eager fan."
"If he's hiding anywhere, it'd be in one of the stadiums. I'm sure of it," Survey said.
And well, Ricochet had to admit, it made sense. Quicken hadn't made a call for a ransom, and his hatred of Ricochet was pretty clear, as was his love for Blurr. If this was about his obsession with the Racer Blurr, then it stood to reason, he'd set the stage for whatever grand plan he'd made, in one of the stadiums.
"It's worth a try," Blurr said. "We'll check it out. Thanks, Survey."
Survey nodded and stepped further back. "You're welcome. I just... I hope you find your sparkling. He needs to be home with his family."
"He does," Ricochet said, and tipped his head. "We appreciate the information."
Survey nodded again and walked away, bits of construction grit flaking off his frame. He'd seemed sincere enough. Ricochet hoped his information panned out.
He let the door close and turned toward Blurr, who looked contemplative, while a storm raged in his optics.
"I won the Primus Cup three years in a row at Nova's Stand," Blurr said as he folded his arms over his chassis. "If Survey's tip has any merit, that's where Quicken would be."
"You think?"
Blurr firmed his jaw. "I would've won a fourth if the war hadn't escalated the way it did." He lifted his shoulders. "I can't assume I know how a maniac thinks, but it's the kind of thing that gnaws at an obsessed fan."
Ricochet pulled Blurr into his arms to quell the rage building inside of him. "Then let's go. Now. Check it out. I don't want to leave Echo there a minute more if we don't have to."
"Me either." Blurr stepped back and slid his blaster back from whence it came. "Tell Jazz and Blue. They can check out the other stadiums. But we'll go to Nova's."
Ricochet cupped his face and pressed their foreheads together. "We will get Echo back, and we're going to make Quicken regret taking our kid."
***
Blurr gave Drift a baleful look over the edge of the cube. "I'm sure." He put the cube down, too queasy to give it more than a sip, and cupped his belly, trying to rub between the seams and soothe the odd cramping. "Ricochet threw a tantrum. That's it."
"Seems like a bit more than that."
Blurr climbed back to his feet and started to pace. He needed to be moving. He couldn't sit and relax. His son was out there in the arms of some weird stalker, and his partner was too busy throwing a childlike tantrum to be where he was most needed.
"It was."
"Bluestreak said you threw him out."
Blurr sighed and scrubbed his forehead. "Bluestreak talks too much." Which was a lot, coming from Blurr, who was often told he talked too fast, but he'd spent a long, long time training himself to talk at a normal speed for other people. "But yeah, I did. He was being an aft, and if we'd kept on the way we were, I probably would have hit him."
"But you're fine with him coming back?"
"Yes. No. I don't know." Blurr continued his long route around the perimeter of the main room, his hand rubbing self-consciously over his ugly, rounded abdomen. He was domestic now. He was tamed. He wished he hated it more. "It's complicated."
Drift watched him with that knowing gaze Blurr hated, just a little. "Relationships usually are. But you need to sit down, Blurr. You remember what Ratchet said."
"I remember," Blurr gritted out. He forced his pace to slow, though it physically irked him. He tried to concentrate on ventilating, on calming himself down.
It didn't work.
"He hasn't made a ransom demand," Blurr said, because he'd much rather talk about Quicken and finding Echo, than the potential return of his mate and whatever confrontation would spill out of that.
Drift sighed, almost too quiet for Blurr to hear, but he said, "Do you think he will?"
"No. Quicken's not after money." Blurr gnawed on his bottom lip, guilt tightening into a knot behind his spark. "He's obsessed. He thinks my family is holding me back." He worked his intake, worry making his spark accelerate. "Do you think Echo is still alive?"
"What!? Hey, of course he is!" Drift leapt up from the couch and intercepted Blurr on his route, his field radiating calm and reassurance. "Quicken was a Neutral. If he didn't have the bearings to fight in the war, no way he's going to hurt a sparkling."
Blurr rolled his optics. "But he has no problem with kidnapping?"
Drift rested his hands on Blurr's shoulders, giving him a squeeze. "He's alive," he said, tone firm. "If anything, this is a trap. Quicken hates Ricochet. If you ask me, it's Ricochet he's really after."
"You think Echo is bait?"
A dark something flickered across Drift's face, ugly and a bit frightening. "He's easier to grab than both you and Ricochet, and if there's one way to get your attention, Echo's definitely it." Drift worked his jaw, shame leaking into his field. "It's what I would've done."
"Deadlock would have killed Echo. You're not reassuring me, Drift." Blurr ducked out from under his comfort and started pacing again. The urge to run from the apartment, run through the streets, look under every piece of debris, rattled through his struts.
"No. I've done a lot of terrible, terrible things. But killing a sparkling like that? Not one of them." Drift shook his head and straightened his shoulders. "Even murderers have lines they don't cross, Blurr."
"Yeah? And what makes you so sure this is Quicken's line?"
"Because I chose to believe Echo is fine, and we're going to get him back, and Quicken is going to be in prison where he belongs," Drift said.
Blurr stared at him, working his jaw. Sometimes, Drift's unfounded optimism was the most irritating thing about him. This was one of those times.
It wasn't enough.
Blurr spun on a heel and stomped toward the door.
"Where are you going?" Drift hurried to follow.
"To find my son. I can't wait anymore. I have to do something," Blurr snapped. He paused by the storage closet and keyed open his weapons locker, removing a few old friends he hadn't visited since the peace treaty was signed. The everyday blaster hidden in a thigh compartment wouldn't cut it.
"You're just going to exhaust yourself," Drift protested.
"At least I'll be doing something instead of standing around with my thumbs up my aft. He's my son, Drift," Blurr growled and slammed the locker shut, his frame feeling oddly awkward with all his armaments returned to it.
"Blurr--"
The front door beeped, and they both froze, staring as it slid open and Ricochet stepped inside. He saw Blurr immediately, and Ricochet froze as their optics met.
"Hi, sweetspark. I'm home," Ricochet said after an awkward moment, offering a half-curved smirk.
"Did you find our son?" Blurr asked.
Ricochet stepped in fully, the door shutting behind him, and spread his hands. "Do you see him anywhere? Or maybe I have him stuffed in my subspace."
Blurr folded his arms. "Then what the frag are you doing here?"
"I live here," Ricochet said.
"Not right now, you don't."
Ricochet's mouth pressed together in a thin line, but his gaze slanted to Drift, visor flashing. "Do ya mind? This is private and personal."
"I'll leave if Blurr wants me to leave," Drift said, and he stepped up beside Blurr in a show of solidarity, his field nudging Blurr's with support.
"I'll be fine. Thanks, Drift. You should go home to Ratchet." Blurr, after all, wasn't afraid of Ricochet.
"If you're sure." Drift gave Blurr an awkward smile before he aimed a glare at Ricochet and stormed up to him, shoving a finger in his face. "If you upset him, I will cut your spike off."
Ricochet chuffed a vent. "Come back as Deadlock, and maybe I'll be scared."
"I mean it! He's been having false contractions because of the stress," Drift snapped, and Blurr sighed. He hadn’t wanted that little detail to get out. "Don't fragging upset him!" He poked Ricochet in the chest for real this time.
Blurr tensed.
Ricochet's visor narrowed to a thin line. "He has?"
"Yes. And if you'd been here, you'd know." Drift's engine growled. "So grow the frag up, Ricochet and solve this like an adult."
"I'm fine," Blurr protested, rolling his optics. He grabbed Drift's shoulders, steering him toward the door. "Go home. Go snuggle Ratchet. Thank you for staying here, but seriously, go home."
"I'm going. But I'll be back," Drift said as he held up his hands and made for the door, without a push this time. "I'm gonna help you look for Echo as soon as we got a lead."
"I know you will. Thanks."
"Anytime."
"Hey, Drift!" Ricochet called as Drift got to the door, and turned around, a question written on his face. Ricochet patted his chassis and said, "You get one."
Drift grinned, and it showed a lot of denta, specifically the sharpened ones he'd carried from his Decepticon days. For a moment, the shadow of Deadlock clung to him. "Sure."
Ricochet chuckled, and Blurr wondered if he was the only who could hear the razorwire in it before Drift was gone, and they were alone. Blurr refused to break the silence, as awkward and tense as it was.
"Was he telling the truth? Are you having false contractions?"
"They come and go." Blurr shrugged and moved back into the living room, the weight of Ricochet's gaze on him. "Rebound's fine. He's not the one in the hands of a maniac."
"We're gonna find him. Bluestreak and Jazz are interviewing people now, and I've got some contacts." Ricochet lifted his chin, jaw set. "I'm going to find our kid."
Blurr folded his arms, eyeing Ricochet warily. "Is that what you came here to tell me?"
"In part." Ricochet worked his jaw, and for the first time, some of his bravado seemed to falter. "And other things, too."
Blurr arched an orbital ridge. "I'm listening."
"Don't do that again," Ricochet said, and though his words were insistent, his voice and posture were soft. Relenting.
Blurr crinkled his forehead. "Excuse me?"
"Don't do that again. Don't throw me out of my house like I don't belong here." Ricochet worked his intake, his field fluttering where it nudged Blurr's own. "You're mad at me, fine, tell me to take a walk. But don't throw me out."
Blurr's chassis tightened, like someone was squeezing his spark, at the barely concealed pain in Ricochet's voice. His expression gave nothing away, but it was there in the flutter of his field, and the crackle of his voice.
"I can agree to that," Blurr said. It wasn't much to ask for honestly. "And you were right. I should have hired someone sooner. Echo, and Rebound deserve to have more of my time." He paused, cycled a ventilation, and firmed his voice. "But don't you dare tell me how I feel about my sparklings."
Ricochet flinched. "I didn't mean that."
"Yes, you did." Blurr dropped his arms and rubbed his abdomen, suddenly feeling the stress and the exhaustion all the way to his struts. Everything ached. "I know I don't fit the mold of what you picture to be a perfect genitor. I'm not like you. I didn't always dream of having a family, and I didn't plan for a sparkling. I love Echo, I do, but he wasn't in the plan, and I don't know what the frag I'm doing."
Ricochet scrubbed a hand down his face. "I shouldn't have said it. I know. I get it. Your past is different than mine, and I shouldn't keep expecting things. You're not my carrier. You're not my sire. You're you."
Blurr gnawed on the inside of his cheek. "I can't... I'm never going to meet your expectations. I'm just not. It doesn't come easy to me."
"I know. I'm the one who needs to get over myself." Ricochet moved in closer, and rather than retreat, Blurr allowed the embrace, letting Ricochet fold his arms around him. "You're not going to leave them. I know that. I just need to remember it."
"Yeah, you do," Blurr said, but the squeezing around his spark eased, and he clung to Ricochet, perhaps a bit more strongly than he needed to. "We gotta find Echo. We can't do it if we're fighting each other."
Ricochet pulled back and cupped Blurr's face, pulling their foreheads close. "We're going to find Echo. And I'm going to rip out Quicken's spark."
"I can get behind both of those things," Blurr murmured as he closed the distance and pressed his mouth to Ricochet's for a fierce kiss, an impact of their lips into which he poured all of his conflicting emotions.
He was worried about Echo. He was exhausted and aching, and left emotionally wrung out by the past day -- had it only been a day cycle? -- but for the first time, he was starting to feel like things were getting back on track.
He and Ricochet had taken down Whipstrike together after all. Surely one obsessed fan would be a snap.
"Thank you."
Bluestreak scrubbed Jazz's back with a firmer hand. "You're gonna have to be more specific, pet. What're you thanking me for?"
Jazz sighed and hung his head, bracing his hands on the shower wall. "For handling Ricochet like ya did. I know he's not easy."
"Honestly, you're the difficult one, far as I can tell."
Jazz snorted a laugh, and his field gave Bluestreak a playful swat. "Not what I meant." He paused and audibly cycled a ventilation. "It's just... we didn't have good genitors, ya know. I told ya that. We didn't get raised right. And Rico's got a chip on his shoulder when it comes to genitors."
"You should be telling Blurr this," Bluestreak said.
"I'm sure Blurr knows. I hope he does." Jazz kneaded the shower wall, just to give his fingers something to do. "Our carrier vanished on us. Just walked out. Couldn't handle raising two sparklings when they didn't even want one. Our sire did the best he could, but his spark wasn't in it, and we knew it."
Bluestreak's field nudged his, warm with affection. "Blurr's not going to do the same thing."
"I know that. You know that. Frag, even Ricochet knows that. It's just..." Jazz trailed off, and he turned around, sliding his arms around Bluestreak, voice muffled against Bluestreak's chassis. "But old wounds, ya know? Sometimes, they come back and bite us."
"And what's your wound?"
Jazz went still, his visor flickering. "What do you mean?"
Bluestreak dropped the sponge and pressed a knuckle under Jazz's chin, tilting his head up. "What wound did I disturb to make you run away from me?"
Jazz worked his intake, swallowing thickly. "I wasn't runnin'. I was..." He trailed off and sighed, shame twisting inside of him. "Okay. Mebbe I was runnin' a little bit."
“Is it too much?” Bluestreak asked, and the question was soft, barely audible over the spatter of the solvent, and the whirring of their fans behind their closed vents.
Jazz would have tilted his head, if he hadn’t wanted to lose Bluestreak’s touch. “What?”
“You. Me. Our contract.” Bluestreak stroked gently down Jazz’s intake, his fingers a soft brush over the sensitive cables. “Us.”
“No.” Jazz shook his head and stepped closer, into the heavier rings of Bluestreak’s field. “No, that’s not what it’s about. I swear.”
Bluestreak reached past him and shut off the solvent, leaving the washrack uncomfortably silent and echoing, save for the dripping of the sprayer, which constantly leaked. Jazz had been meaning to fix that. “Then tell me.”
Jazz sighed. He would have lowered his gaze, but it felt wrong to do so. Bluestreak deserved better than an answer told to the floor.
“I quit, Blue,” he said. “I quit, and you shined, and I was bored, and you weren’t here, and I was startin’ to forget who I was. I thought I was losing myself. And I just…” He trailed off, catching himself when he realized he’d started to run on and on like Bluestreak. The words caught in the back of his intake.
Bluestreak embraced him. “You panicked.”
“I panicked,” Jazz admitted.
The silence was suffocating. Bluestreak’s field gave nothing away, master of it he was, though his embrace stayed warm and affectionate.
“Do you still want it? Want us?” Bluestreak asked.
Jazz jerked out of his arms to look up, to catch Bluestreak’s optics so he could read the truth. “Yes. Of course I do! It’s just, it can’t be all. I gotta get back out there. I gotta be me again.”
Bluestreak tilted his head, his sensory panels sinking from the high arch Jazz’s sudden movement had caused. “I wasn’t the one stopping you, and I’m not going to apologize for taking the job, no matter what issue you have with Prowl.”
“I already know that, and I didn’t say you were.”
“You know, Prowl isn’t the only mech with power in this city, Jazz,” Bluestreak said as he reached for Jazz again, and he allowed the embrace.
“You’re not making sense,” Jazz said.
“Maybe because I’m a little more Decepticon than you think I am,” Bluestreak chuckled and kissed his forehead before leaning around Jazz to flick the washrack on. “Come on. Let’s finish washing up, and then we have work to do.”
Jazz cupped the back of Bluestreak’s neck, causing Bluestreak to look at him. “Are we good?”
Bluestreak tipped their foreheads together. “Don’t you ever leave again. Not like that. Not without a conversation.”
“I can do that,” Jazz said, around a lump in his intake. It was the least he could do.
“Then yeah, we’re good.” Bluestreak smiled, and it made Jazz’s spark ache, to see that familiar smile, and feel that familiar warm embrace of Bluestreak’s field. “Or at least, as good as we can be right now without having a serious conversation, like where you were and what you were doing. But it can wait until we find Echo.”
Jazz’s spark gave a little tremble. “Serious conversation, huh?”
“I think we need to revisit our contract.” Bluestreak stroked his cheek again, and the warmth of his touch along with the press of his field was just enough to reassure. “And we both need to discuss terms about what we want from each other, what’s acceptable and what’s not.”
“Fair enough,” Jazz murmured, and leaned into Bluestreak’s touch, venting a soft sigh. “I really am sorry, Blue. I wasn’t thinkin’. I was just…”
“Reacting. I know.” Bluestreak pressed a kiss to his forehead and then bent down, grabbing up the scrubber. “Come on. We gotta get cleaned up, and then I need your help if we’re going to find Echo.”
Jazz turned and snagged another scrubber for himself. “Kiddo first, then us. Promise.”
Bluestreak smiled, and it made Jazz weak in the knees, to see most of the shadows finally gone from his optics, and his sensory panels lifting once more. “It’s good to have my partner back,” he said.
Jazz’s spark hummed with warmth.
Primus, he’d been such a fool.
“It’s good to be home,” Jazz said, and he meant it.
Drift didn't go home, but only because he knew Ratchet wouldn't be there. Instead, he went to the main medical facility, and up to the administration floor, then back to the corner office, where he knew he'd find his mate.
He didn't bother to knock. Just tipped his head in greeting to the floor administrative aide -- a Neutral by the name of Enovate -- and let himself into Ratchet's office. Soft music floated in the air, and the sharp odor of relaxation crystals tickled Drift's olfactory sensors. He grinned despite himself.
He knew he'd convince Ratchet eventually.
"Is it intermission?" Ratchet asked without looking up from his datapads, his forehead with that little furrow of concentration in it which Drift found so endearing.
"I think it's actually the end of the show," Drift said as he came around the desk and leaned in to brush his lips over that furrow. "Ricochet is back where he belongs, and Jazz is home with Bluestreak, from what I hear."
Ratchet snorted and tipped his head up for a brief kiss. "We can hope," he said, and his lips curved in a soft smile. "Was Blurr staying calm?"
"Do you really want me to answer that?"
Ratchet snorted and shifted his attention back to his datapads, idly tapping the end of the stylus to the gentle beat of the music. "If he goes into early labor, he's not going to get the valve birth he wants."
"He's stubborn. They both are." Drift moved to Ratchet's other side and leaned back against the desk so he could see Ratchet's face. "And understandably worried. I'd be, too, if I was in their position."
"Everyone's doing the best they can. Right now, the best thing Blurr can do is try and stay calm for Rebound's sake." Ratchet gestured absently toward his monitor, which had been silenced, but was playing a steady stream of news. "There's a whole city looking for Echo and Quicken. Someone knows something."
He was right.
Drift glanced at the monitor. A ticket along the bottom of the screen scrolled headlines constantly, and he caught the tail end of an announcement regarding the search for Echo, but the report currently onscreen was also about Echo. There was a picture of both him and Quicken in the background while the news anchor spoke on the situation.
"The war's over, but people hold onto grudges for a long time. You really think someone will speak up?" Drift asked. He certainly hoped so, for Echo's sake, but his confidence in the good-nature of others had taken a beating during the war.
Ratchet sighed and put the stylus down, reaching for Drift's hand. "Right now, it's the best chance anyone has. Echo's a sparkling. I'd like to think Cybertron still has a conscience."
The comm code for a tipline flashed on the screen. It could be anonymous, if anyone felt the need, and Drift hoped that was enough reassurance for the wary.
"Wherever he is, it's gotta be a trap," Drift said, thinking of his conversation with Blurr, and Quicken's possible motivations. Quicken likely wanted to hurt Ricochet, kill him even. He was probably counting on them finding him. "They're going to need back up."
Ratchet squeezed his hand and gave it a little pull, catching his attention. Drift cocked his head and went with the tug, right into Ratchet's lap.
"They've got Bluestreak and Jazz, and believe it or not, relatively reliable Enforcers to call in. You don't have to take this bullet for them." Ratchet rested a hand on Drift's abdomen, and there was a thickness in his voice. "I would ask that you don't."
Drift cycled his optics. He looked down at Ratchet's hand, but fear mingled with the hope, clogging up his intake. He rested his hand over Ratchet's.
"You mean...?"
Ratchet lifted his free hand and cupped Drift's face, sweeping a thumb over his cheek. "If my instruments are at all accurate, yes, I mean. First Aid was right. We just needed to keep trying."
Joy caught in Drift's intake before it spilled out of his vocalizer. He didn't know if he could smile broadly enough, and he grabbed Ratchet's face and pulled him in for a kiss, his field bursting like fireworks.
He was sparked.
He was sparked.
Ratchet's instruments were never wrong. Drift was sparked. They were sparked. They were going to have a sparkling together.
"I... I can't say no if they need me," Drift babbled in between kisses as Ratchet's happiness seeped into his own. "But I won't volunteer, and I'll make sure to protect myself. Us. Our family."
Ratchet brushed their nasal ridges together. "I already know you will."
Drift pressed his forehead to Ratchet's. "I love you so much. You know that, right?"
“Wouldn’t have made you my conjunx if I didn’t,” Ratchet said and placed his hand over Drift’s, their fingers interlocking as they cupped Drift’s flat abdomen -- and Ratchet had already told him it was likely to stay flat through his carry. He had more internal space than Blurr.
“I thought it was my stunning good looks,” Drift said.
Ratchet snorted and rolled his optics. “And your annoyingly optimistic personality.” He pressed closer, voice lowering as though it embarrassed him. “I love you, too.”
Drift beamed. Getting Ratchet to say it was one of the best things in the world, because Ratchet hoarded his words like a dragon hoarded treasure. Drift knew he was loved, Ratchet showed it in everyway that mattered, but he liked hearing the words, too.
“You done with work?” Drift asked, trying not to vibrate out of his armor with happiness. “I’m suddenly feeling the urge to take you home.”
“I think I can work something out,” Ratchet said, and kissed him again, long and lingering, warm and savoring.
The front door chimed, and Ricochet glanced at Blurr with a frown. They didn’t often get visitors, and those who did come to call generally knew to let themselves in, or comm ahead of time. They didn’t get anonymous callers.
Blurr pulled a blaster from his thigh compartment, an old thing Ricochet recognized from war-time, and checked the charge on it.
Ricochet grinned. He knew there was a reason he loved this mech.
“You get the door,” Blurr said. “I’ve got your back.”
"I know you do." Ricochet pulled him in for a kiss before letting go and approaching the door, every internal alarm on high alert. They didn't even use the front door, preferring to come up from the bar every time.
This was so unusual to merit caution.
Ricochet opened the door, and an unfamiliar mech stood on the other side, bulky, all sharp angles and boxy shapes, carrying the reek of construction work. He hunched his shoulders as if to make himself smaller. Amber optics stared back at Ricochet before dropping to the ground.
"Can I help you?" Ricochet asked.
The mech rebooted his vocalizer and it made a grinding noise. "Sorry to bother you, I actually came to, um, help you. If I can."
Ricochet stared at him. "How's that?" he asked as Blurr stepped up beside him, blaster out of view, but his posture tense.
"I work with Quicken," the mech said, and when Ricochet's engine growled, the big mech flinched and shrank back a half-step. "And I think, I think I might know where he might be hiding."
"Where?" Blurr demanded as Ricochet put a hand on his mate's shoulder and pulled him back, closer to Ricochet.
"Why would you want to help? What's in it for you?" Ricochet asked, careful to keep his tone even though his smile bared his fanged denta. "And how do we know you're not working with him and this is a trap?"
The mech paled, his gaze shifting from Blurr to Ricochet and back again. His fingers tangled together before he tapped one of his arm panels and produced a small holo-cube, which he squeezed. His expression instantly softened as the image of a mechlet flashed into view, a smaller, splitting image of the mech standing before them.
"This is my sparkling, Acute," he said, and the pride in his voice was evident. "He's my everything, and if something happened to him, I'd... I don't know what I'd do."
"He looks a little younger than Echo," Blurr observed, and some of his wariness eased, though Ricochet remained cautious.
The mech nodded. "He'll start school next year." He smiled, soft and full of pride as he looked at the holo-cube before he stowed it away and straightened with a little cough. "I'm Survey, and I work with Quicken on one of the build crews. He used to grumble a lot, when he thought no one was listening, and he'd talk to anyone who seemed receptive about the old days, and the races. Was a big racing fan, he was."
Blurr nodded. "I knew that much."
Survey slid his gaze to Ricochet. "But he hated you. Didn't have much use for us in general, Decepticons I mean, but he really hated you. Blamed you for a lot of things."
"I'm not for everyone, what can I say?" Ricochet shrugged, but kept his razor-sharp smile. "You're tellin' us stuff we know. If you don't have anything helpful, why'd you bother coming?"
Survey sucked in a vent, tangling his fingers together. "Quicken complained a lot about the fact we weren't rebuilding the stadiums yet. He always said he'd start doing it himself if no one would listen. He wanted to start with the racetracks, kept trying to get us to join his little work crews, do it off the clock."
"You really think he's hiding at one of the stadiums?" Blurr asked.
Survey nodded. "Quicken was obsessed with them. He kept saying that if he could rebuild them, it would be the greatest gift, a way to prove his devotion. He never said your designation but..." At this, Survey looked a little uncomfortable. "I mean, he never stopped talking about how amazing you were either."
"Well, you are pretty amazing," Ricochet said as he slid an arm around Blurr, feeling the rattle in Blurr's armor, barely contained. "But Quicken's a bit more than an eager fan."
"If he's hiding anywhere, it'd be in one of the stadiums. I'm sure of it," Survey said.
And well, Ricochet had to admit, it made sense. Quicken hadn't made a call for a ransom, and his hatred of Ricochet was pretty clear, as was his love for Blurr. If this was about his obsession with the Racer Blurr, then it stood to reason, he'd set the stage for whatever grand plan he'd made, in one of the stadiums.
"It's worth a try," Blurr said. "We'll check it out. Thanks, Survey."
Survey nodded and stepped further back. "You're welcome. I just... I hope you find your sparkling. He needs to be home with his family."
"He does," Ricochet said, and tipped his head. "We appreciate the information."
Survey nodded again and walked away, bits of construction grit flaking off his frame. He'd seemed sincere enough. Ricochet hoped his information panned out.
He let the door close and turned toward Blurr, who looked contemplative, while a storm raged in his optics.
"I won the Primus Cup three years in a row at Nova's Stand," Blurr said as he folded his arms over his chassis. "If Survey's tip has any merit, that's where Quicken would be."
"You think?"
Blurr firmed his jaw. "I would've won a fourth if the war hadn't escalated the way it did." He lifted his shoulders. "I can't assume I know how a maniac thinks, but it's the kind of thing that gnaws at an obsessed fan."
Ricochet pulled Blurr into his arms to quell the rage building inside of him. "Then let's go. Now. Check it out. I don't want to leave Echo there a minute more if we don't have to."
"Me either." Blurr stepped back and slid his blaster back from whence it came. "Tell Jazz and Blue. They can check out the other stadiums. But we'll go to Nova's."
Ricochet cupped his face and pressed their foreheads together. "We will get Echo back, and we're going to make Quicken regret taking our kid."
