Hi! *waves.* It's been a while since I've written anything, so I figured I'd start back with gusto.

The Xenocryst Saga is set about 57 years after the battle of Tyger Pax and is a sequel of sorts to one of my previous fics, War and Wings. If you want to avoid spoilers for the end of WaW, I would advise against reading this unless you've slogged through the former (and "Visiting Hours").

Here's the full summary:

Without the AllSpark, the Autobots find themselves at a major disadvantage against the much more powerful Decepticon army, isolated as they are in Iacon. With options and resources drying up around him, Optimus Prime enacts phase one of his contingency plan: Operation Xenocryst.

Crossarm, the disgraced former HMO of the Iacon Clinic, is given a choice: Rust in prison, or travel to a remote world at the ass-end of the galaxy to assist with an energon seeding mission. And while it seems like a no-brainer to the young jet, the journey-and its outcome-may be a lot more than he, or anyone else, bargained for.

My goal is world building through character development. There is no main antagonist here, just Cybertronians living on, and trying to make sense of, the small, organic world that is MG2505. The war is on everyone's mind, but they're not dealing with it directly. How do people cope with being isolated in an unfamiliar place, knowing that at any moment they might loose the home-world that they are trying desperately to save? How do they stay sane? How might they change? That's what I'll be exploring. If you like these types of themes, consider reading. If you want to read a fic that deals more with the direct implications of war, read War and Wings.

Methinks I've talked enough. Enjoy.

It was summer at the North Pole.

Not that Crossarm cared.

Firstly, he preferred spring. When Hadeen was low on the horizon, clouds and other atmospheric phenomena were so pretty as to be surreal. That, and the low angle of insolation really brought out the white highlights on his protoform and mesh.

Secondly, he was stuck inside, fumbling through a never-ending string of briefings in preparation for his upcoming voyage…

"So…I guess this is my last message to you."

The words evaporated in his voice box, and the young mech sighed, paused, and replayed the communication, then a third time for good measure. He couldn't help but cringe at the almost wistful tone to his voice.

Primus… he cursed and rubbed his hand across his face-plate. He was running out of time; Spec had a terrible temper and he could almost imagine her busting down the door and tearing him a new exhaust port for taking so long to compose a message to someone that was supposed to be a friend.

The young mech shook his head, deleted the old message, and tried to compose himself so that he wouldn't have to start over…again.

He touched a blue glyph on the computer's interface panel and a chime prodded his voice into activity. "Io…" There was so much that he wanted to say that he very nearly froze up just thinking about it. But then, with a sigh and a determined shake of his head, he forced a smile to his lips and began to talk. "Hey, how's it going?"

You sound like an idiot… he couldn't help but think, but he pressed on. "So…I'll be leaving Cybertron in a few solar cycles…but you probably already knew that," He chuckled, mirthlessly. "No doubt Ratchet filled you in on my situation." A sudden twinge of jealousy shot through his spark as he thought of the old medi-bot; he ignored it with effort. "My only wish was that I could have said my final goodbyes to you in person…as a free 'Bot." He paused and chuckled. "Well…somewhat free. Probation is a hell-of-a-thing…"

Before he could say anything else, an angry voice exploded across his 'com. *Where are you? Highwall's briefing is about to start.* Crossarm quickly hit the pause glyph on the recording device. While he could speak over his com without audible vocalization, he couldn't imagine what Io would read into a sizeable amount of recorded silence.

*I realize that, Spec.* He replied in what he hoped was a courteous tone. *I said I'd be there, and I will.*

A grumble of static suggested that she was about to curse him out and pull rank, so the young jet was quick to add: *This may well be the last time that I communicate with her. Ever.*

There was a long pause. Then a sound that may have been a sigh. *Fine. Fine. Just…hurry up; Prowl is really pushing for us to leave on schedule. And you've got a LOT of catching up to do, Grunt.*

Crossarm's lip curled at the rude nickname that Spec had given him at their first meeting. She hated the military and "Grunt" was her chosen name for anyone with a rank, regardless of what. But the way she said it, with such vitriol…that irked him more than anything. *Fine,* he huffed, patience waning. *I'll be there shortly.*

His line went dead and he stared at recording device for a moment to re-collect his thoughts.

"Look…I know…." He said softly, activating the record glyph once again. "I know that what I'm about to say may sound stupid and selfish, but I've got to get it off my mantle." His spark twisted painfully in his chest. "I love you." The pain seemed to increase, as if someone were driving a spear through his spark-casing. "And when this mission is over, when I'm finally free…I'll come back for you."

He paused the recording and let his head drop into his hands.

Everything about his last statement felt wrong. Was wrong.

Io could never love him, not in the way he wanted. Her spark belonged to Ratchet, figuratively and, to his continued dismay, literally. He could easier lose a hand, a wing, and a leg, then he could separate her from Ratchet, even if she wanted to. And she certainly didn't want to.

But no matter how much he tried to purge the feeling, the thought that he loved her remained…as strong and stubborn as ever, glaring at him…taunting him. Primus, what the hell is wrong with me…? He wondered. What's the point of loving someone who can't love you back? And what is the point of telling them?

He stared at the recording device trying to figure out what he could say. He knew it couldn't be that, and he knew he needed to leave, but after the umpteenth time of trying to put his thoughts into a coherent, useful, and not-altogether-creepy form, he seemed to have come full circle into thoughts best kept in the dark.

But…what should he say?

He might have spent the entire night cycling this question, but the recognition that further delays might lead Spec to legitimately write him up for insubordination caused him to reach forward to try one final time.

Unfortunately, at that moment, the door swung open with a loud clang. A yellow mech stepped into the room and looked at Crossarm as if he had been lazed by a Decepticon war ship. "Oh! Sorry, I didn't know the terminal was…"

Startled, Crossarm's hand jerked forward. The console beeped and the young jet looked up at the screen with wide, horrified optics.

The message had been sent.

His spark sunk into his trods.

He had just sent a very ill-thought-out, very personal message to Io's current address. The same, physical address, he remembered suddenly, as one Ratchet of Iacon.

He buried his head in his hands. Well…at least the solar cycle can't get any...

*Crossarm, get your aft down to shuttle bay forty NOW!* Spec interrupted over his private 'com, killing the thought before it could finish. Surprisingly enough, she didn't sound angry. If anything, she was nervous. *Prowl's here for some reason, and he's livid. He wants to talk to you.*

The sparkling sighed heavily. So much for that… *I'll be there in a moment…*