By Adrian Tullberg.

First attempt at Transformer Fiction.


The medic looked up from the stubborn servo assembly he'd been spending more time on than could conceivably justified. "Yeah?"

Bumblebee looked a little ... nervous? "Have you seen Sunstreaker around?"


"Er ... haven't seen him leave his quarters since this morning ... why do ..."

"Thanks!" The small 'bot quickly ducked out of the medibay before Ratchet could question him further.


As far as he knew, Bumblebee never hung out with Sunstreaker. In fact, like the majority of the Autobots, he normally went out of his way to avoid him. Why would he be looking for...?

Ratchet decided not to speculate, and went back to applying none-too-gentle-pressure on the assembly. Either it was nothing - or he'd have an extra patient before too long.

Sunstreaker looked at the surface of his work, examining it with a critical gaze.

Lowering the tool - one of many devices he built himself for this delicate task, he couldn't trust the conventional instruments handed out as standard issue and neither Wheeljack or Ratchet wouldn't give up theirs - precisely parallel with the others on the tray, he picked up a small forced air jet, and used it to gently blow away the accumulated particles around the area.

Content with the work on the details, he willed away that initial building sensation of nervousness, and stepped back to look at the whole of his work.

Perfection. As always.

Sunstreaker moved to examine his efforts at a different angle. He didn't know why he had been afraid in the first place, but it always inspired him to work just that little bit harder.

"Sunstreaker? Can I come in?"

He turned away from the mirror to look at the intruder.

Bumblebee. That miniature who Prime held in such regard.

Not to mention possessing that unfortunate bodywork, both here and Cybertron. Nobody could measure up to him of course, but would it honestly harm the rest of them to take just a little care of themselves?

Then again, Bumblebee - up till now - had avoided annoying him. And since most 'bots managed that simply by being on-line, that was no mean feat.

Better humour him.

Sunstreaker placed his special cleaning tools, in their purpose built case, in their designated place on the shelf. "What is it?"

Bumblebee entered, and closed the door. He was nervously looking around, making sure that nobody had seen him in here.

Sunstreaker had heard of a human word some time ago; blackmail. He wondered if Bumblebee was going to hand him some on a plate.

"I ... I wanted to know ..."

"Just. Say. It."

"I need some of that upholstery cleaner you've got."

Not much scope for blackmail there. "Oh."

"You know. The good stuff."

Sunstreaker automatically glanced at the section of the shelves where it was kept.

The 'good stuff'. The specially formulated chemical created by Italians, the one race on this dirtball that showed anything close to appreciation for his form.

More specifically, the cleaner that wasn't even 'imported' into this section of the planet, and had to be specially 'ordered'. Not to mention paid for - the economics here were some sort of absurdist hallucination. Had to be tolerated; Ratchet and Wheeljack couldn't be convinced of the importance of a calfskin leather interior.

Sunstreaker decided to drag this out as long as possible before telling Bumblebee to take a hike.


"Ah ... a few days ago, I took Spike and Carly out around the mountains?"

Oh yes. Two of the humans that the others had adopted as mascots. Was Bumblebee officially in charge of feeding and tending to them, or did he volunteer?

"Then Prime ordered me to stop at a location and take some broad spectrum readings. This took a while, so Spike and Carly moved to my backseat, because they say it's more comfortable there ..."

"Go on."

"Then they were wriggling around, and Spike was ... I don't know, making some strange noises for about two minutes ..."

Sunstreaker cut all power to his faceplate. It was probably safer at this point.

"And the next day, there's this really weird smell that I just can't get rid of! So that's why ..."

Sunstreaker held up his hand to shut Bumblebee up, then took the box containing his entire supply of cleaner and handed it to Bumblebee.

"Keep it."

"Wow! I mean, thanks ..."

"On condition."


"Don't even think about coming near me again until you're certain that smell is gone. Got it?"

"Yeah. Okay! Thanks Sun ..."

In one deft move, Sunstreaker opened his door, shoved Bumblebee out, and closed it again, locking it tight.

Then he let loose that deep-seated shudder.