Chapter 1: Reunion Impact Velocity
The engines were a scream tearing the sky open.
It started as a distant speck against the deepening violet, a meteor bleeding fire. Then the sound hit—a physical wave of noise that vibrated through the desert floor and up through Sideswipe’s struts. He stood alone on a bluff, his red finish drinking the last copper light of dusk, every circuit tuned to that descending hellfire.
Sand whipped around his ankles. He didn’t move.
The transport ship, a blocky Cybertronian scow not built for grace, punched through the final layer of atmosphere. Its hull glowed molten orange, shedding heat-shield plates that spiraled away into nothing. It disappeared behind the jagged teeth of a distant mesa. A moment of silence, vast and suffocating.
Then, a thunderous crump that shook the ground. A pillar of dust and smoke bloomed on the horizon, lit from within by the ship’s dying thrusters.
Sideswipe was already moving.
He transformed in a fluid snap of parts, his Lamborghini form hitting the cracked earth and kicking up a rooster tail of dirt. He didn’t take the road. He went straight over the scrub and rock, his suspension eating impacts that would’ve shattered human engineering. The ship’s coordinates pulsed in his HUD like a second spark.
By the time he skidded to a halt at the edge of the freshly carved crater, the main ramp was just beginning to lower with a protesting shriek of metal.
Smoke billowed out. The interior was dark.
A shape resolved itself in the gloom, backlit by emergency strips of crimson light. Tall, broad-shouldered, and gleaming even under a layer of cosmic grime and scorch marks.
Sunstreaker.
Sideswipe didn’t wait for the ramp to fully touch sand. He transformed mid-leap, his own armor flashing scarlet. He crossed the ten-meter gap in a blur.
The impact was metallic and profound. Sunstreaker caught him, his own gold-plated arms snapping around Sideswipe’s waist with a force that would have crumpled a lighter bot. Sideswipe’s momentum drove them both back a step, their pedes grinding trenches in the soil.
For a nanoklik, there was only the silent, violent communication of their sparks. It wasn’t a gentle reunion. It was a crashing tide of locked data streams, eighteen months of separation compressing into a single, synchronized burst: loneliness, rage, a thousand battles fought alone, the constant, aching void where the other half of your consciousness was supposed to be. It was affirmation, and possession, and home.
Sideswipe’s face was buried in his twin’s neck cabling. He could smell Cybertronian ozone, energon coolant, and the distinct, sharp polish Sunstreaker used on his finish.
“You’re scratched,” Sideswipe muttered, his vocalizer staticky with overload.
“You dented my plating,” Sunstreaker shot back, but his grip tightened. His voice was the same—arrogant, precise, and thrumming with a relief so deep it sounded like anger.
A slow, deliberate clapping echoed from the top of the ramp.
Knock Out leaned in the doorway, one arm braced against the frame, his crimson finish somehow still impeccably glossy. A wolf-whistle, perfectly pitched and utterly human, cut through the desert air. “And they say romance is dead. Really, Sideswipe, a full-body tackle? So brutish. So… effective.”
Behind him, Ratchet emerged, his medic’s optics already scanning both twins with a practiced, critical flicker. He grunted, unimpressed. “Spark synchronization spike on both. Minor plating deformation at the impact points. Adrenaline levels critical. I’ll prepare the sedatives.”
“No one’s sedating anyone,” Sideswipe said, finally pulling back, but keeping one hand on Sunstreaker’s arm. As if to make sure he was real.
A new engine growl approached, careful and official. Bumblebee’s black and yellow Camaro form rolled up to the crater’s edge and transformed. He took in the scene: the smoking ship, the locked twins, the smug defector in the doorway, the already-exasperated medic.
He lifted a hand and slowly dragged it down his faceplate. “The ground bridge activity was off the charts. I had to tell the Pentagon it was a satellite disintegration.” He looked at the twins, his doorwings drooping slightly. “Do you have any idea the insurance premium for a classified extraterrestrial incident? And now there’s two of you.”
Sunstreaker turned his head, his optics cool and assessing. “You’re the commander.”
“Yeah. And you’re here against Optimus’s direct orders,” Bumblebee said, walking closer. His tone wasn’t angry. It was tired. “Care to explain how you bypassed Cybertronian security, commandeered a long-range transport, and navigated a blind jump through a cosmic rust storm without getting atomized?”
All optics shifted to Knock Out.
The former Decepticon medic pushed off the doorframe and sauntered down the ramp, brushing invisible dust from his shoulder. “What? I have many talents. Logistics is one of them. Also, forgery. The access codes were a work of art, if I do say so myself.” He stopped beside Bumblebee, his field brushing the smaller Autobot’s with a familiar, intimate charge. “Don’t look at me like that, Bee. You wanted a medic with initiative.”
“I wanted a medic who wouldn’t start an interplanetary incident for a vanity project,” Bumblebee muttered, but he didn’t pull away from the contact.
“This isn’t vanity,” Sunstreaker said, his voice cutting. He finally released Sideswipe, standing to his full height. The dying light caught the gold of his armor, making him look like a statue carved from a desert mesa. “It’s tactical redundancy. Sideswipe is erratic alone. I balance him. You need the set.”
“He’s not wrong,” Sideswipe grinned, all sharp edges and reckless confidence now that his other half was solid beside him. “My hit rate goes up seventy percent when he’s covering my flank.”
“Your collateral damage also triples,” Ratchet intoned, pulling a scanner from his subspace. “I’m reading residual cosmic radiation in your thruster ports, Sunstreaker. You’re coming with me. Now. Before you contaminate the local ecosystem with stranded gamma particles.”
Sunstreaker looked like he wanted to argue, but a warning pulse from Sideswipe’s spark changed his mind. He gave a curt nod. “Fine. But I need a buffer and wax. This atmospheric grit is appalling.”
As Ratchet led a complaining Sunstreaker toward a ground bridge portal now shimmering to life a few meters away, Knock Out sidled up to Bumblebee. “Admit it. You’re glad he’s here. The little red menace has been moping for a year.”
Bumblebee watched the twins go, Sideswipe talking a mile a minute, Sunstreaker listening with sharp, focused attention. “I’m glad Sideswipe is whole again,” he corrected softly. “But Prime’s going to have my headlights for this. And yours.”
“Mm. I can be very persuasive,” Knock Out purred.
Bumblebee ignored the implication, turning to face the wrecked ship. “We need to sanitize this site before a human drone spots it. And you,” he pointed a finger at Knock Out, “are writing the full incident report. In triplicate.”
Knock Out’s smirk didn’t fade. “Bossy.”
Back at the ground bridge, Sideswipe hung back as Ratchet ushered Sunstreaker through. He looked over his shoulder, meeting Bumblebee’s gaze across the darkening desert. He gave a quick, genuine nod. Thanks.
Bumblebee just shook his head, but the exasperation in his field had warmed into something like resigned acceptance. He turned to survey the colossal mess, the weight of command settling back on his shoulders, now complicated by a new, brilliant, and undoubtedly troublesome variable.
In the bunker med-bay, under Ratchet’s glaring lights, Sunstreaker finally asked the quiet question. “The Decepticons here. Their threat level?”
Sideswipe’s grin turned feral. “Oh, you’re gonna love it. They’re so rude.” The story began to spill out, and for the first time in eighteen months, the telling felt right. It wasn’t just his story anymore. It was theirs.
Outside, under a blanket of cold desert stars, the wreck of the transport ship began to cool. Its mission, illegal and impossibly audacious, was a complete success.
Inside the bunker’s med-bay, the sterile white lights hummed, a stark contrast to the desert’s organic dark. Ratchet gestured to the main berth, its surface scuffed from centuries of repairs. “Hop up, Sunstreaker. Let’s get a baseline before you contaminate my entire habsuite with stranded radiation.”
Sunstreaker complied with a faint, dismissive scoff, his golden frame settling on the metal with a quiet clang. As Ratchet turned his back to rummage through a high cabinet for a deep-cycle scanner, Sunstreaker’s hand shot out. He snagged Sideswipe’s wrist and yanked.
Sideswipe tumbled onto the berth beside him with a surprised grunt. Before he could speak, Sunstreaker’s other hand came up to cradle the back of his head. Their foreheads touched, fields merging into a private, crackling storm.
“Don’t you dare leave me again,” Sunstreaker warned, his voice a low vibration that went straight to Sideswipe’s spark. It wasn’t a request. It was a raw imperative, stripped of all vanity and ego, leaving only the foundational code of their bond.
Then he closed the gap.
The kiss was less about affection and more about reclamation. A violent, desperate re-establishment of a connection severed for too long. Sideswipe melted into it, his own hands coming up to grip Sunstreaker’s shoulder plating. They parted just long enough for Sideswipe to drag in a vent and whisper, “Never.”
He reconnected their lips, pushing Sunstreaker back against the inclined berth, his weight settling over him as he deepened the kiss. It was all spark-deep communication now, a silent, frantic download of everything words had failed to convey.
The sharp, deliberate sound of a throat being cleared cut through the charged air.
Ratchet stood a few paces away, a heavy scanner in his hand, his optic ridge arched so high it threatened to disappear into his helm. His own frame was running a few degrees warmer than baseline. “While I’m thrilled you’ve reconciled,” he said dryly, “my berth is a diagnostic tool, not a dating lounge. Some of us have work to do.”
They broke apart, their plating faintly buzzing. Sideswipe slid off to stand beside the berth, but his fingers immediately found Sunstreaker’s, locking tight. He stayed close enough to maintain the physical tether, giving Ratchet just enough room to work.
Ratchet moved in, deploying the scanner with practiced ease. He pretended not to notice the residual heat radiating from Sunstreaker’s frame, or the way the gold mech’s free hand was still clenched into a fist against the berth. The scanner whirred, casting a blue grid over Sunstreaker’s chassis.
“So we’re just hunting down Decepticon prisoners that escaped in the crash?” Sunstreaker asked, his vocalizer slightly strained. He was staring at the ceiling, refusing to look at Ratchet. “That doesn’t sound too bad.”
Sideswipe nodded, his thumb stroking the back of Sunstreaker’s hand. “Yeah. It’s mostly cleanup. There’s way more downtime than there was during the war. Hell, I can’t believe it’s already been three years since the war ended.”
Ratchet piped up, adjusting a setting on his tool. “Not if I keep you two too busy to cause trouble. My peace and quiet is a precious commodity.”
They both snickered at that, the tension easing a fraction.
Sunstreaker turned his head, finally looking away from the ceiling. “Is there anyone else here? Or just us, Bee, and Knock Out?”
Ratchet nodded, his focus on the scanner’s readout. “Besides them, Grimlock is here. Don’t ask. Drift is around, meditating most likely. There’s a mini-bot named Fixit who handles comms and tech. And Strongarm is here as well.” He paused, delivering the next line with the weight of a serious medical prognosis. “Avoid her so I don’t have to hear about it.”
Sunstreaker gave Sideswipe a questioning look.
Sideswipe rolled his optics. “She’s a cadet. Obsessed with trying to make people follow the rules. Thinks protocol manuals are recreational reading. She and I have a… understanding.”
“He means she writes him up for insubordination twice a week,” Ratchet clarified. “It’s a lovely bit of routine.”
Before Sunstreaker could respond, the med-bay doors hissed open. The mech who strode in was all blue armor and rigid posture, a datapad clutched in her hand like a weapon. Her gaze landed on the entangled twins and her lip plates pursed.
“Ratchet,” Strongarm said, her tone all business. “I need the debris analysis from the crash site for my incident log. Commander Bumblebee’s initial report is… unacceptably sparse.” Her optics flicked to Sunstreaker. “And I’ll need a full intake profile for the new arrival. Designation, serial code, purpose for being here, and authorized clearance level.”
Sunstreaker looked from her, to Sideswipe, and then back to Ratchet. A slow, dangerously sleek smile spread across his faceplate.
“Purpose for being here?” he repeated, his voice a velvet-covered blade.
Sideswipe just groaned, letting his head fall forward. The consequences weren’t just heating up. They’d just walked into the med-bay wearing a badge.