It had taken some time to get used to the different personalities – all five of them. But it was no different than learning to balance the many quirks of the residents of the Ark.
Besides, with five devoted and eager mechs courting him, Bluestreak could stand to be a little patient.
Every one of them had their own charm.
Dead End, while occasionally dreary to a fault, had a beautiful glossa, and not just for kissing. He had musical talent buried in the dark, and to hear him sing was haunting and entrancing.
Drag Strip was as exacting about his paint job as Sunstreaker was. It made him single-minded and focused, and when he bent that focus onto Bluestreak, well. Ratchet might have had to replace a few circuits.
Motormaster was endearing in how he treated Bluestreak so gently. He fumbled over his words when he got flustered, and was adorably clumsy.
Once he got over the rage fed to him by Megatron, he was even a good leader.
Wildrider was, in a word, fun. He was full of energy, ideas, and he had no fear. He let nothing hold him back and embraced life. It was hard to be anything but happy in his presence.
Breakdown was utterly adorable. The only one of the five who let Bluestreak chase him. Even better, he let himself get caught.
One by one, Bluestreak had grown to know them separately.
Now it was time to know them as one.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Motormaster rumbled, every inch of him bristling with concern.
“We can be pretty intense, ya know,” Wildrider added, bouncing on his pedes.
Bluestreak grinned. “I’m sure.”
“Then don’t say we didn’t warn ya,” Dead End grumbled.
“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Bluestreak said.
“Stunticons, combine!” Motormaster ordered.
No matter how many times Bluestreak had witnessed a gestalt combine, it never ceased to amaze. How separately, they could stand on each other’s shoulders, but still never reach the height of Menasor combined. Plating flexed and twisted, different from their root mode, and they towered over Bluestreak as one.
Standing in their shadow, he should have felt ill at ease. But he didn’t. Menasor looked down at him, cocked his helm and then lowered himself to one knee with a creak and groan of gears.
“You Blue,” he boomed, slow and laborious. “You ours.”
Bluestreak laughed. “To make it simpler for you to understand, sure. But you’re mine, too. Just so you know. That’s how it works.”
Menasor chuckled, the deep vibrations rolling over and through Bluestreak, making him shiver. “We yours,” he agreed.
He offered a hand to Bluestreak – Drag Strip’s – and added, “Always.”
Bluestreak grinned and lay his own hand over Menasor’s fingertip. “Well, for now at any rate. I guess we’ll have to see how much you impress me in the future. And if I impress you, too.”
Another deep-rolling laugh echoed above him. Menasor vibrated from top to bottom, his armor shuffling and twitching.
“We’ll see,” he said.
Bluestreak’s smile stretched wider. Apart and together, either way, he figured he and the Stunticons were going to work out just fine.