GAME

Bluestreak dragged his left boot in the mud as he trudged off the football field and took a gloomy seat on the empty bleachers. He'd have to have Ratchet check it-- that last tackle from Cliffjumper must've snapped a cable or something-- but the pain from having to abandon his favorite Earth game was worse. Downtime was a precious commodity. If it wasn't fending off Decepticon attacks, it was those endless 'humanitarian' missions Optimus was always sending them on, or the stupid combat drills, or cleanup duty, blah blah. He'd like to challenge those pulley-waisted 'Cons into a game of football and tackle them into the dirt…

"Yowza!" Bluestreak swore he felt a hand grazing his door wings---and there it was again!- this time lightly scratching the junction between wings and back plates, now laying feathery caresses to the back of his neck-- definitely not the wind. Bluestreak jumped, then yelped as his injured foot caught his weight and gave way. Something heavy- and invisible- straddled his chest, pinning him down.

"M-Mirage? Tell me that's you!"

Mirage chuckled. "I couldn't resist, friend. You looked so crestfallen." Concern entered his voice. "You're not hurt, are you?"

"Nah, just my pride." Bluestreak laughed. "I should've known better than to try to rush the ball with Cliffjumper on linebacker. The runt plays rough."

"Mmm. Agreed," the voice replied. "Mind if I watch this game with you? I'm still not familiar with human blood sports."

"Hey, be my guest. It's a bit complicated, but I'll try to give you the rundown… say, you can turn off the invisibility now."

"Negative. Optimus wishes for me to recuperate further after my encounter with Bombshell, but the boredom is intolerable. I don't mean to upset him, but neither do I have the slightest intention of spending this lovely day on a recharge berth. I crave …entertainment."

Bluestreak felt unseen arms hoist him back into a sitting position. That was followed by a large weight on his lap, and what felt like arms thrown across his shoulders and hands stroking his wings.

"Uh, Mirage, I don't think---"

"Am I blocking your view?"

"Very funny, Mirage. But really—uhhn!" Unseen fingers probed the shallows of Bluestreak's head lamps. He heard Liegier engines revving, sending vibrations through his torso and groin. What had an old Cybertron buddy once told him? - Primus save us from racers and bluebloods- they always get what they want, and they get it fast.

"Teach me all about this game," Mirage whispered in his audials.

His foot injury was quite, quite forgotten.

Bumblebee fumbled the ball and failed to notice when Wheeljack grabbed it from right under his nose. Instead, he stared at Bluestreak sitting in the bleachers. The gray robot jerked repeatedly. He also swore he could see Bluestreak sparking.

He opened his private comm: "Bumblebee to Ratchet, please comply. Can you check up on Bluestreak, doc? He said he twisted his ankle cables, but I'm worried. He looks like he's in serious pain."

Ratchet signaled back from repair bay: "I just did a long-range scan on him, Bumblebee. All clear."

"You sure?" He glanced again; yup- those were definitely sparks.

"Relax and get back to your game. Give the Twins a good thump on the head for me. Oh, and Bumblebee—" he snickered—"if you see Mirage, get him herepronto. Optimus would like a word."