A/N Here we go again! Picks up right after Redeem. This is more plot driven, so…hopefully I've finally managed to avoid the 'let's have characters standing around contemplating' bits that suck down the pace. HOPEFULLY.

Diego Garcia

Flareup let the hard wash of Vortex's rotors push down at her, blocking him with her body from any shots from her own—alleged—side. The heavy copter took altitude quickly, waiting until the last of the ambulances began wheeling away. Courtesy, or observation? Flareup didn't care. He'd come without backup to deliver a load of injured humans—humans who had been injured by his own side, injured for what they had done to Barricade.

Vortex's words fought in her cortex—the humans have a weapon. They can kill us now, and wouldn't, probably, hesitate. The thought chilled any warmth she might have summoned up for the injured humans she helped offload from the Decepticon's hold. They were injured and frightened and in need of help, and she gave it, but her core was numb. They were also the ones who had killed Barricade with this new weapon. She could not bring herself to hate them—she had given up on hate. But she could only stir so much sympathy for them. And she knew she could never trust them: they had come by these injuries righteously.

And Vortex's other comments—his rejection of her desire to come with him, to leave these Autobots she no longer was. She was disturbed by…what? His insight? The fact that his reason wasn't a put down—that she was too small or too frail to survive. He'd said she wouldn't like what she'd have to become. And he was right. It had been a foolish request, regretted almost as soon as she'd asked it. But he hadn't blown her off or treated her like a child. He'd shown her more understanding and compassion than her own side. He'd listened. And believed. And made his decision, for her own good. She'd thought only Optimus had that ability—certainly not some battered veteran Decepticon warrior. Not the enemy. How could he tell? How could he read her so well when her own side—her own SISTERS—could not?

She could feel the frustration radiating from Sideswipe, Cliffjumper and the others, as she blocked their shot, her parti-colored optics trained on them, defying them to break the peace and shoot at Vortex. Show what they really were—Autobots? If they were, she wasn't one. But Vortex was right: she wasn't a Decepticon either. She was some…third thing that didn't have a name yet. And didn't seem to have a side.

[***]

Ironhide approached, cannons aimed at Vortex's underbelly as the copter grabbed air. Just like last time, Flareup thought—a Decepticon copter, and Flareup rolling away. Only this time she didn't think it was into the loving arms of her own team.

"You all right?" Ironhide said, his optics still trained on Vortex as the copter wheeled in the sky to his exit vector. Before she could answer, he called over his shoulder, "Someone tracking his path?"

"Got it," Sideswipe's voice came.

Ironhide danced sideways, keeping himself, Flareup noticed, in Vortex's firing angle. Drawing his fire, in case the copter decided to shoot. And she remembered that Ironhide had been the one to call a hold fire at Vortex's approach. Where was Optimus? Flareup lifted her optics and saw him, on the edge of the crowd, helping Ratchet to divvy up the refugees into the vehicles to transport to the base hospital. Not…leading. Ironhide had stepped in, and taken command. Without a fuss, without flash. With…almost a glimmer of his old confidence.

"I'm fine. Refugees?" she asked.

"Being taken care of." Ironhide's optics—and cannons—tracked Vortex's wheeling maneuver. Flareup's own gaze followed. Would Vortex start shooting, now that he was unencumbered?

"Thanks," Flareup said. Ironhide's gaze broke, his head snapping over to her, startled.

"For what?"

"Taking charge. Telling them to hold fire. All those humans owe you their lives for that."

"Yeah? To be honest, not sure how I feel about that part."

A faint smile. "Not sure, either. Vortex said they were testing a weapon. To use against us."

She didn't have to spell it out—weapons that worked against 'cons worked just as well against their kind. If there was one thing Ironhide could grasp implicitly, it was weaponry. Ironhide's mouth thinned. His gaze flicked up to Vortex, who was well out of range, his rotors a faint and fading beating of the bright, midday air. "Maybe those humans will remember this, then."

"They won't remember it right," Flareup muttered. "But I will."

[***]

Vortex lifted off from the tarmac, his rotors pushing the shimmering heat back into the ground as he caught air. He kept his external visuals at 360 span, determined not to get fired upon. He didn't trust the Autobots not to attack him, especially now that he wasn't laden with soft pink little protection. It should have bothered him that they were a meat shield for him. It didn't. He was too old, and too tired. Fight, if that was the order. But he'd suffered enough at his own initiative. He'd lost his entire team—even before the Crisis Accords severed the gestalts, he'd done enough to make his team completely useless. That's what initiative had gotten him. No. From then on, he had followed orders. And his orders here had been to deliver the humans from the ship to safety and offload them. From there…he was on his own. It would be easy to leave. Head up, back to the Nemesis. Mission accomplished. There was nothing to be gained by anything other than obedience. It would not make Barricade any less likely to be dead. It would not take away the destructive technology of the humans.

Yet…. To scurry off like a coward, as though he were afraid of the humans and their newfound capabilities. As though they were afraid.

And suddenly he felt a surge of dark rage break through what suddenly seemed like a thick shroud of numbness that had been wrapped over him and reality for…ages now. As though he had been in some sort of half-animation, a quasi-droneling, until this fury took him and shook him apart. Awake.

He was out of range, but he could fix that. He spun around opening up with his howitzer as soon as he hit level, dropping altitude to bring his machine guns into usable range. The rounds punched across the tarmac, gouging gravel from the ground in an unwavering line of small craters, stitching toward the loaded vehicles.

The humans responded first…not a surprise, Vortex thought. But their weapons could barely reach him. A slight jerk in altitude and he was out of range, gravity slowing the force of their rounds till they barely slapped against his heavy armor.

His rounds were not so effete. He felt his systems grit in satisfaction, a hunger he hadn't felt in a long time roaring to life like a third engine in him, as he heard the unmistakable howl of a mech in pain, saw pink and red and green liquids geyser out of wounds. He would show them the same mercy they showed his kind for megacycles. He would pay the humans back for Barricade, a toll in their own lives. He would make them think twice about their next victim. He'd seen the stasis-cuffs—what was left of them, charred against the melted tires of Barricade's wrists. He wanted them to know that their next victims would not be so encumbered. Or passive.

He heard the larger thooms of Ironhide's cannons. Two rounds, hastily fired, easily evaded in 4D motion. But he didn't want Ironhide to have a chance to recalibrate. He'd proved his point. He'd made a statement in the smoldering wrecks of the non-sentient vehicles, in the thin pitiful cries of the humans who had ridden him to safety, treated him like a machine.

They would not make the same mistake again.