Work Text:
Piston. It had to be Piston, Blurr thought. No one else knew .No one else could sell him out like that. He’d have to do…something about that later. When he could think, when he could plan. He was fast on his feet, yes, but only literally.
And even that wasn’t entirely genuine.
But right now, he had other things to deal with, namely Fasttrack, smirking at him across the table. “So,” Fasttrack said.
“So.” Blurr felt like an echo, but it was all he could think to do, his processor still reeling. It had been so long that he’d almost forgotten himself. Or tried to, deliberately shoving the secret in the back of his memory banks, replacing it with win after win, party after party. It was all worth it, in the end. A little crime, small enough, really. And he’d made far better use of this body than the poor sod who’d signed it over at the relinquishment clinic. It was all about potential and drive. He’d always had the drive and this poor mech, his original colors now buried so deep beyond the signature blue Blurr had made his signature that even Blurr couldn’t remember them. They didn’t matter, not as much as the Doppler blueshift blues.
“I know you like to do things big and splashy, Blurr,” Fasttrack said. “I’m sure the scandal if this comes out would be, you know, suiting your legendary stature.” He grinned, before taking a long, satisified pull at his drink.
“If,” Blurr said. If Fasttrack hadn’t already gone to the racing commission, it meant there was something he had in mind. Wiggle room.
Fasttrack shrugged. “I was just thinking, you know, there was a more heroic way for the Legendary Blurr to go out. A bit more ‘blaze of glory’ than ‘flare of shame’.”
“Blaze of glory. By losing to you.”
Fasttrack grinned. “Something like that.”
“Get slagged.” He hadn’t come all this way to go out like that.
“Now, Blurr. There’s no reason to be hostile. We can think win-win.”
“About me losing a race.” It sounded ridiculous. Because it was.
“Sure.” Fasttrack turned, his hand flicking up to order another round. As if they were friends, having a friendly drink. “Try this on, though, Blurr. We take it slow. Really build anticipation. Make it a charity race, maybe, to, you know, emphasize the story element. Frag. To give you a story element. Something sympathetic. Make you likeable.”
Blurr’s turn to frown. “I’m likeable.”
“Sure,” Fasttrack said, as if granting a point that didn’t really matter. “Sure. You’re likeable enough. But think of the possibilities. Play the story right. Maybe a sudden injury, mid race. Scrap. I’d even fork over some of my winnings to your charity. Out of respect.”
“Bribery.”
“Oh, Blurr,” Fasttrack said, shaking his head. “I don’t need to bribe you.” He flicked the transparent plastic datachit in the air, catching it nimbly. He tossed in the air, again, negligently, almost goading Blurr to take a swipe for it.
Blurr wasn’t stupid: if Fasttrack had the data, he had it on more than one chit. The world seemed to be spinning even faster than Blurr could balance on. “But what assurance do I have? You know. That it goes that way. Ends there.”
Fasttrack tipped his head. “Yeah, you’re just gonna have to, I don’t know. Trust me.”
[***]
The whole night, dreadful and dizzying, flashed over Blurr’s processor, lightning bright and blazing. It seemed, already, like ancient history, like something almost trivial. It was trivial, now: no one would care if Blurr, the great racer, was a bodythief. The world was fracturing along a thousand other lines, and fame and wealth were no longer the stable islands they once were. And pleasure? Pleasure was something that didn’t seem to exist anymore.
Except this pleasure: the gun the Autobots had handed him, to help him break through the lines with his message. It was a small detour, one no one would ever notice, to go back to where Fasttrack lay, his Decepticon badge still shiny new.
He'd never dealt with Piston, he'd never figured out how, before the war had broken out and races had been banned by Zeta Prime's orders. The Zeta he had just raced to save.
Fasttrack was rolling in shock, clutching at one of his amputated legs, when he caught sight of the baleful bore of the gun in Blurr’s hand. “Blurr.” He flopped to his belly, reaching out with an energon-stained hand. “Blurr. Buddy. I need a medic. You wouldn’t leave an old buddy to die like this, bleed out?” He gave a sickish grin. “Not a great way to go out.”
Blurr felt a grin, a scimitar blade of pure hot freedom, slice his mouth. “Of course not, Fasttrack,” he said. “I’d never let you go out like that.” And the smile tightened, under the flash of pink burst from the gun’s muzzle.