Slipstream doesn't even look back as she flies up, planning how she'll pick off her opponent from the air, until the roar of jets besides her own and the strikes to her heels hit her.

Yelping in surprise, she tumbles end-over-end through the air, twisting to catch a look at what had hit her-- did the little Autobot have missiles-- and expression turning to stunned dismay when she sees the little pink bot is in the air with her.

"Autobots don't fly!" she objects, because they don't, and this femme doesn't even have wings like Optimus had when she'd shot at him, mistaking him for her creator. "That's not fair!" And her thrusters are sparking and pained from the slashes landed across them, a burning pain and unpleasant stink of fried metal and plastic from the flaming blades, which is doubly unfair.

Even more serious now, she levels her guns at the Autobot, letting off a volley and trying to get more space between them. Swords are short-range; if she gets far enough away, she ought to be able to go back to her original plan, sniping and strafing from safety.

After all, everyone knows that Autobots are never heavily armed, and definitely don't use guns.