Set after the events in the 'Character Sketches.'

Reactivation

Nightshade

I have heard bots talk in the past about dreaming while in stasis lock. I have listened to the tales and shrugged them off as mere myth and conjecture. I have never dreamt. Not once. The last records that my internal logging system indicate were the impending warning of the loss of cabin pressure and the impending crash of the Raven. A systems check shows that only my most vital components are functioning.

--Systems at 64 Capacity. Initializing optical routers.--

There is a burst of static that always precedes the reactivation of my optics. Self-preservation protocols cause my optical shields to lower, dampening the influx of light. Just the amplitude of the wavelengths indicate that I am currently lodged in a medical unit... somewhere. Uncertainty gnaws at my circuits, followed closely by a surge of rage that threatens to overwhelm my logic centers.

"She's online!"

I recognize the vocalizer frequency. I sit up faster than my own gyros can compensate for, and teeter for a moment on the brink of falling. Halogen hops up onto the slab beside me like one of the springlops from Kethlon IV. I cannot help but smirk wryly as he steadies me moments after my own gyros have come completely back online. He drops one midnight-blue armored arm around my shoulders and actually hugs me.

I wait for the com-ping, listening intently to the tight-wave band that we three use to communicate. But silence greets the gesture. Turning my optics back to Middle Brother, I find him watching me sadly. "Where is he?" I inquire, already feeling the answer deep in my Spark.

"Nights..." Halogen never has a chance to finish. Something else moves within my field of vision, and reflex takes over. A small compartment in my forearm infrastructure slides open, dropping three slender blades of pure energy into my hand. The new figure stops abruptly with his hands raised.

"Not again," he groans, seeming to roll his optics for a moment. I study him from behind my optic shields. My sensors tell me all I need to know, his vital spots, the weak joints in his boxy armor, the very fact that he is only running at 28 capacity. His appearance is written into hard memory, right down to the scowl that he is directing with fervor in my direction.

Halogen reaches out and gently takes the ener-daggers from me, shaking his head. "Ratchet, give us a few breems?" I have just attached the designation to the appearance, and I can easily extrapolate his purpose. Both his Autobot insignia emblazoned upon the lower slope of his chest piece, and his location here in the medical facility, this is one of the medical staff. When I couple the entreating way my brother affects to him, with the imperious look upon the Autobot's face, I can easily assume that this... 'Ratchet' is the Chief Medical Officer.

"Just a few." Ratchet finally tells Halogen, after appearing to weight his options. "Don't break her, Halo."

My head gains a curious tilt as I regard the familiarity with which the CMO addresses Middle Brother. Halogen's scarlet optics dim, because he knows exactly what I expect: answers. I do not need to speak; we simply have an understanding.

"What's the last thing you remember?" Halo releases my shoulders, to take me by the hand. I lower my gaze to where his silver fingers entwine with my ebony ones. He has never done that before. Uncomfortable with his attempted intimacy, I draw away.

"The crash." I state, factually. "Precisely, two and a half nanoclicks before I went offline." Halogen rubs the lower half of his faceplate instead of vocalizing a response. The silence stretches on for a few cycles. "How long have I been inactive?"

He actually waves me off. It takes every iota of self-control I possess to refrain from smacking him. My fists ball up and tense, and my optical shields retract back into the crest of my helm. Static frizzles slightly at the edges of my vision, until my systems compensate and adjust to account for the brilliance. Halogen's continued silence prompts me to compare my internal chronometer to the time-date stamp on my hard memories.

The alarm must have registered upon my features once the discrepancy is noticed. Halo grabs both of my arms to keep me stationary, to stop me from getting to my feet and venting my surging anger. Every one of my circuits burns with the knowledge that I was kept offline for so long. It is only when Halogen releases my arms, and grabs my head, forcing the optical connection between us, that his words even begin to sink into my processors.

"It's not what you think, Nights. You've been hit by a virus, a potent one. We're lucky we stopped it before it ate through all your hard memory." I grab reflexively onto his forearms, my ebon fingers flat and dull against his keen polish. "You've lost..."

There is no need for him to finish; I know the exact time period that I have lost. I lower my head, averting my optics from the truth. My audio receptors register the sounds of approach, but it is a conscious choice to refrain from looking. Another hand joins the attempts of Halo's comforts, resting against the back of my helm for a few moments.

"I'm kicking you out, Halo." There is an odd note of kindness attached to Ratchet's gruff tone, as though Middle Brother is genuinely liked here. "You need some good recharge."

Halogen's hands squeeze against my helm, a gesture that I am content with interpreting as affectionate. He hops back down from the slab and takes one last look at me. In those few clicks that we make contact, I ping his com on our encrypted frequency.

"Where is DropZone?"

Halogen watches me steadily from the egress. "He didn't make it." I have no time to find a reply, as he vanishes behind the closing door. I realize that I am numb to the death of Elder Brother. My arms cross over my chassis, barely cognizant of the medic looming casually over my shoulder. He misinterprets my silence and lays a hand once more on my shoulder. Reflex dictates that I move away from him, but instinct forces me to remain under his touch.

"You shouldn't worry." Ratchet begins to usher me from one area of the medical bay to another, using gentle pressure against my shoulder. "Memory loss is usually recoverable with the proper reminders." He is smiling at me, trying to make me feel comfortable in his presence. He leads me into a smaller off-set chamber, complete with a recharge bunk and a data-reader. "I'd like you to rest here tonight, just so we can make sure the virus doesn't have any unexpected side effects." He gestures vaguely toward the data-reader. "I took the liberty to upload some of the new King novels..."

I glance up at the taller mech when he trails off. He is expecting some manner of response, and so I nod slightly. It does not seem to assuage his strange nervousness. Finally, he claps his hands together and turns to leave. "I'll check on you before I head off." He does not even speak in my direction, simply vacating the small chamber in haste.

I remain stationary for a few moments, surveying the entrances and exits from the small room, taking careful note of the size parameters of the two ventilation shafts. With a slight nod, I sit on the edge of the bunk and retrieve the data-reader. I wonder why the CMO would have provided me with reading materials. Reading material written by a Terran author. I scan and rescan the first page more times than I care to keep track of. One recurring thought continually breaks up processing of the words.

Dropzone's gone.