Chapter Text
Dusk bled across the horizon, staining the clouds in scorching red and burning gold. The mountains below lay in jagged silence, scarred by old blasts and half-buried wreckage that caught the light like broken glass. Thin trails of smoke drifted from the valley floor, curling lazily upward as if the land itself was still exhaling from battle. High above it all, the Aerialbots cut across the fading sky.
It should have been a moment to savor, the kind of view poets back on Cybertron —probably— would have chased. But to Air Raid, it was just wasted sky. They'd been sent as a precaution, according to Prowl. A combiner was never a bad asset to have lying around. They'd done nothing. Air Raid was forced to sit and watch as the likes of Cliffjumper rolled around in the glory of battle. Air Raid scoffed. All his shots had gone wide, anyway.
The steady pace Silverbolt set was suffocating. The atmosphere below begged for daring dives and wild maneuvers. Every inch of his plating itched to break formation, to twist the horizon upside down. There was more to flying than straight lines and carefully communicated calls.
He couldn’t help himself.
He throttled forward a fraction, edging ahead of formation. until Silverbolt’s sharp tone snapped over the radio.
“Hold your position, Air Raid.”
The words dragged like weights. The sky was alive with color and space, and all Silverbolt wanted was lines and discipline. Air Raid bit back a laugh as he pressed closer than ordered, close enough to make the others wobble in his jetwash. He heard Fireflight’s startled yelp, shaken from whatever trance he’d likely been in. He felt Skydive’s clipped irritation, simmering in the bond. Predictably, Silverbolt didn't react.
The sky— endless as it was— felt smaller under his largest brother’s shadow. His current rigidness was a silent promise of a lecture. The Ark suddenly couldn't be far enough. It was always something. Silverbolt jumped at any opportunity to get under his plating and tear him a new one.
Then he saw it. A dark shimmer cutting across the fading light. Beautiful sleek, angular wings slicing effortlessly through the atmosphere in perfect lockstep. Seekers. A trine, flying low over the canyon’s rim, afterburners blending in with the warm glow of the sunset. The trine was no doubt fleeing from the scuffle that had led to their gestalt being dispatched in the first place.
Air Raid’s engines thrummed at the sight. Finally, a chance to stretch his wings. Finally, some action.
His comm crackled once more with Silverbolt’s steady tone. “Hold formation. Do not engage unless provoked.” The order slid past him like water vapor gliding atop his wings. The Decepticons were right there, practically begging for an ambush, and Air Raid’s spark hammered with the thrill of it. Provocation be damned. The enemy was right there!
His gracious leader had the attitude of a quitter.
His systems sang as he nosedived at breakneck speed, not hesitating to open fire. The response was immediate. For being trine, the seekers were quick to split. Radio chatter made focusing difficult.
He leveled on the lead, crosshairs flashing red, and dove headfirst. The Seeker snapped away at the last second, her second wingmate sliding under to rake a burst of fire across his belly. He jolted, sparks spitting off his armor.
He readjusted his angle, giving chase, but the pair moved like they shared a spark. He watched covetously as they twisted and banked in perfect sync. Every shot he took struck empty air, every dodge forced him closer to the canyon wall or the rocky, unstable terrain below. Every second spent recovering left him open. His thrusters howled. He was flying at his limit, and still, they were faster.
A beam of light cut across his wing. Another shot, far too close. He dipped into a nosedive, his altimeter flashing warnings across his HUD.
“Air Raid, break off!” Silverbolt’s voice snipped sharp across comms. The bond tightened uncomfortably, wrung tight like an elastic band— pulled taut and ready to snap.
He ignored it. He had her. He could win this.
Then the shot came—not from him. From Silverbolt.
His brother had rooted down on a canyon ledge, plating braced, rifle steady. The blast caught the Seeker across her wing, throwing her off-course in a spray of sparks. Air Raid swerved away from the collision, cursing under his breath.
“Got your back,” Silverbolt said, voice infuriatingly calm.
Before he could snap back, Fireflight dove past, afterburners blazing, pulling the second Seeker onto his tail. Skydive and Slingshot split wide, their fire hemming the Decepticon in. A single, sharp shot ended it. Air Raid watched with satisfaction as thick viscous smoke bloomed from the canyon.
Air Raid pulled up hard, vents heaving, his frame buzzing with static. Around him, the others tightened formation again, engines running hot with residual tension. He felt their attention on him, waiting for Silverbolt to say something.
But Silverbolt only glanced his way and leveled back into the sky.
“Don't tell me you're upset that we won a fight.” He snarled in irritation. Silverbolt’s field only tightened, pressed impossibly close to his frame. The bond went quiet, leaving nothing to listen to but the roar of engines and the whip of the headwind as it rushed through the canyon and gnashed against his cockpit.
Predictably, no one answered in his stead. The silence pressed heavier than enemy fire. His plating stung where it had been grazed, but the scrutiny of Silverbolt’s disapproval served well to numb the ache.
“Have you lost your mind?!”
Predictable. The lecture. Silverbolt could only stew about something for so long. The shuttle spun on his heel, turning to glare down at him. His wings were tense in irritation, servos balled into fists.
“You could have been killed! You deliberately disobeyed my orders!”
Airraid grit his denta in defiance. How could he be so blind?
“We won! We had every opportunity to engage the enemy! Why ignore it?” Airraid stepped forward, defiant brow ridges twisting up his faceplates in indignation. He felt the optics of his gestalt and passersby alike seering into his plating.
“Because it is our responsibility to follow the orders assigned to us! They were retreating! Your little stunt could’ve sparked retaliation!” Silverbolt bit back, temper flaring far brighter than usual.
“I have had it with the constant defiance! Slingshot is better at doing what he is told!”
The Harrier’s protest was lost on both of them.
“Maybe if you didn't keep us on a two foot leash I'd actually give a slag! You treat us like sparklings all of the time! Your leadership is stifling our potential! It's no wonder we aren't respected around here, not with you around!” Air Raid vented roughly, optics bright with fury.
“I could be ten times the leader you are!” He asserted.
His glare faltered as Silverbolt vented calmly, jaw unclenching as he took a step back.
“You do it then.”
“What?” Airraid paused, taken aback.
Silverbolt looked down at him, expression schooled once again.
“Congratulations. You’ve been promoted.”
He gaped in shock as Silverbolt turned around, leaving him standing on the tarmac.
“And that is how I became leader.” Air Raid announced proudly, chest puffed out.
“So yeah—Silverbolt finally saw reason,” he crowed, pacing the rec room. “He straight up gave it to me. Said he accepted I’d do a better job. Can you believe it? Me. Official leader.” He fluttered his wings in pride, grin bright enough to outdo the military grade lightning overhead. “An obvious choice, really.”
Strafe, who’d been leaning back against a couch with one ped kicked up on the table in front of it —which had, very clearly, seen better days— and a service blaster idly resting on his knee, blinked in that quick, jittery way Air Raid had learned to read as clearly “about to explode with enthusiasm.” He rocked forward on his heels, then straightened, trying on a face that was mostly admiration and maybe parts mild terror.
“Congrats, Air Raid,” Strafe said, voice fast as a burst rifle. “Yeah. Leader. Leader is—awesome. I mean, you fly fast. Very fast. Fast is—good. Well, obviously— You're a plane. If you need cover I can—um—provide cover. Lots of cover. I will cover with—lots of—” He reached for the blaster and then stopped, remembering he was indoors and swallowed a nervous chuckle. “Metaphorical cover, yes. Mostly metaphorical.”
Air Raid puffed up even further. “See? Support. That’s what I’m talking about. Strafe gets it.” Air Raid crossed his arms proudly.
“You’ll never believe what Silverbolt told me himself. ‘Finally,’ he said. ‘At last, someone with vision.’”
Strafe’s optics darted to the far doorway— a reflex—then back. “He said that? Oh. Oh, that’s—wow. I mean—having vision is good! And Silverbolt definitely knows things. But, uh, vision also sees things. Like—incoming missiles.” He gave a tight, hopeful smile.
Air Raid awkwardly nodded, giving a tense, grimaced smile in return.
A snicker from the coffee table made Air Raid turn. He caught Eject trying to look dignified while barely holding back a laugh alongside his mini-cassette brethren. Noticing, Air Raid wagged a talon toward him. “Look at this oaf. He wouldn't know divine aerial leadership if it beat him upside the head.”
Strafe nodded enthusiastically.