The war seemed to drag on forever. Perhaps it was his inability to rest, perhaps his lack of knowledge as to how he might rest in such a situation. The war had left their home and made its way across galaxies, littering planets with fallen bodies of soldiers and innocent civilians, rubble making its complex patterns on the streets.

Those images, despite their age and impossible number, they didn't blur or fade with time as he'd hoped. Every time his processor even wandered down a path he'd wished it didn't, memories peppered the forefront of his thoughts, each fallen comrade a blow he fought to recover from. Their foes had been quiet for some time, and while the more cynical bots (usually including him) had been insistent that they would not be left alone for long, the sharp decline in activity, followed by an almost stale silence, had said otherwise.

Up until that point, the Decepticons had acted as if they'd been wiped out by some sort of plague. A likely possibility, the tactician had acknowledged, considering there were few other options to explain such a move. Them having gone completely incognito would have meant either foregoing their war-like habits altogether or putting in a great amount of effort to keep their activities under the radar. Chances were, if they attempted to perform the latter feat, it would only result in a slip up, and theoretically, such a mistake would have happened by that point.

Decepticons just giving up, completely out of the blue? Without an outside force putting pressure on them to give it up and just live peacefully? There was a fat chance of that ever happening. Especially taking into consideration some of the known key Decepticon players in the skirmishes leading up to their silence. Blackout and Devastator, being some of the more vicious fighters, each having torn through more than their fair share of Autobots, had just vanished.

Even the bounty hunters operating in the area had seemed to have backed off, with not so much as a word about Devcon to be heard.

Clearly, even if the prolific gambler wasn't dead, his source of credits had dried up, and it was not at all possible that the Decepticons decided to stop causing violence for violence's sake out of the pure kindness of their sparks, hence his extinction theory. If it had been a plague, that would have explained the very sudden loss of numbers, the frenzy and panic with which they'd disappeared. It also would have explained them going after First Aid in some sort of final reach of desperation.

But with them reappearing, it made little sense. If the Decepticons had busied themselves doing something else in preparation for this series of non-assaults, why had they even gone dark, or at least gone to such great lengths to disappear, only to resurface? There was a chance that they hadn't vanished at all, but Prowl refused to believe that the Decepticons had engaged with another adversary or gone on causing a mess for the Autobots to clean up without said Autobots knowing about it.

Standing in the base's command center, even in the middle of the night cycle, Prowl watched the flat terrain surrounding their base, helm turning every so often as he surveyed the expanse of territory. This had been something he'd insisted upon when building their new base of operations in the sector. If Autobot forces were operating out of this location, not only would it be completely flat as far as any reasonable mech could see in every direction, with no hiding spots, debris or any other forms of cover making a path towards their base, but even before the construction had begun he had mandated there be a watch tower such as this one, where mechs would take shifts on high alert waiting for the enemy.

Usually two other mechs would have been up here, but Prowl was more than capable of watching their territory on his own. It gave him a sense of not only pride, but reassurance that he was ensuring their security, if only through simple, but effective means. The base was rather large, and it had to be for the number of mechs it housed. As such, he took comfort in seeing the sentries posted on the walls, the number of which he had doubled two decaorns ago.

A few decaorns before, he'd have given a great list of things for peace and quiet. Besides the occasional out of hand ruckus from his mechs, a complaint from First Aid about having to patch up said morons responsible for the mess, and another from Jazz for punishing those responsible (whether or not the saboteur was serious, he couldn't be sure), things had been fairly manageable. A steady stream of supplies trickled into the base, their perimeter was secure, and despite the best efforts of two overly rambunctious terror twins, the base had not plunged into complete and utter chaos.

This quiet, however, was not something he had wished for. It was almost like shadows loomed over him and his Autobots, the taunting, hateful kind of darkness that threatened to unleash its fury from the pits upon them on nothing more than a whim. He'd have taken the twins' antics over this any day. The only problem was, this was his duty, his uncaring responsibility, and the war that he had sworn to fight was one such reality. The panic hadn't set in yet, much to his relief, but he knew once his mechs realized exactly how helpless they'd proven to be against the new and sudden threat, no matter how apparently small, it would be that much harder to bring order back.

There had to be a reason for all of this; for the heightened Decepticon presence near their base. Scouts had been spotted and pursued near the outskirts of their remote outpost and beyond their normal perimeter of surveillance, but the enemy forces had not engaged. It didn't make any sense, not to him, and not to the rest of the command staff.

They'd had suggestions, just as Prowl had, but none of them seemed to fit. Answers were good, facts were better, but factual answers were what he strived for. Unfortunately, there were none to be had, from him or his companions. Speaking of which…

Jazz came up to stand just behind the left side of his longtime companion, his own impeccable observational skills being put to good use immediately. The silence was comfortable for a while, since neither of them felt the need to say anything, but Prowl knew Jazz had come up here in the middle of his off-period for more than companionship.

"They're plotting something, Prowl," the saboteur said lowly, even sounding like he was scowling. A habit he'd adopted recently from Prowl, "Ah don't like it,"

"Neither do I," the Praxian admitted lowly, "It isn't just me I have to think about, unfortunately. And before you say it, I can't think about just the two of us, either,"

Jazz snorted, "You got me there, 'cept for the fact that it isn't just me worrying about all of this," he reminded his companion, "The entire base is on its toes. We're all a little nervous, Prowl," Though the words might have remained simple, they were anything but coming from his closest friend. Jazz didn't admit weaknesses. Not out loud, at least, and the verbalization of any such fears from the visored mech was definitely weighing heavily in his decision making.

"I know, but we're not the only ones," Prowl said, his gaze only moving to scan a different part of the terrain. He knew it well enough that it was familiar to him as his own servos, but still, he couldn't help but wait for something to feel off.

Jazz seemed mildly surprised, but whether because of his answer or his reasoning, Prowl didn't entirely know, "Then why aren't ya going after them?" He asked, standing back to back with the other commander and taking up the second watch post.

"They have not harmed our forces," he said, "They have not killed patrolling soldiers that stumbled across them, unlike before," Prowl reminded him, and the slight brush of air that swept past his doorwings confirmed his suspicions that Jazz had flinched, "Most notably, they are doing nothing to our supply routes, neither are they reconstructing their base."

A little more than exasperated as they switched their positions, Jazz managed to catch his friend's optics for an astrosecond and pronounce his annoyance, "Prowl, it doesn't mean they're not planning something," he insisted quite firmly, "I know you're trying to be rational about this, but cynicism isn't always a bad thing. I feel like we've got a whole role reversal going on here,"

"I am not ignorant, Jazz," Prowl said, and to any other, it would have seemed like scolding, but they were good enough friends to see past even the bitterest of words, "They are most definitely plotting something, but I couldn't tell you what it was even if I could read minds. Their actions seem jumbled and motions uncoordinated. I am still having a hard time trying to make sense of it all,"

"You don't think they're a danger?" the special operations mech asked incredulously, "That's ridiculous,"

"I did not say that," Prime's chief tactician said, a bit more icily than was truly necessary, "I think this is our first real exposure to Decepticons in some time, and it would be awfully hostile for us to respond with our own aggressive maneuvers towards fellow members of our race, whom lack all indications of violent intentions, and have yet to strike against us. The patrols will be vigilant, and in greater numbers to prevent attacks, but chasing down and capturing these mechs will not result in anything but further bloodshed. We know next to nothing about them, and the only thing they seem to want to do is escape once we approach them,"

"But we know they know that we know about them," the long string of potentially confusing and repetitive words came about, and even Prowl had trouble sorting through it with all of his Jazz-perience, "They keep coming back anyways," Jazz insisted.

Any normal mech would have assumed Jazz won the argument and wandered off to eavesdrop on someone else, and from the ensuing silence, it seemed Prowl had accepted his defeat gracefully. An outsider would have insisted that Prowl had been talked into a corner with their limited knowledge. Besides, there were no rules against thinking during a discussion, and Prowl would know.

Still, he'd taken long enough to think about it that even Jazz offered him an offhand glance to make sure Prowl was still with him. He looked torn, something Jazz took to mean that he had a point but wasn't sure whether or not it would be received well. Not usually something Prowl did around his friend. Both their censors tended to vanish around each other after so many vorns of friendship. Still, as Prowl vented deeply, the saboteur knew his friend was going through with the argument despite the faults he might have had with it. "There are few things that motivate mechs to do foolish things. Love, war, and revenge. All three motivations cause the abandonment of reason and welcome anarchy of the spark, in the form of desperation," he said firmly, as if he'd never hesitated to begin with, sounding rather assured in his response.

"Desperation?" Jazz echoed, "Are ya saying they're just scared, and that's why we aren't pouring our wrath on them?"

"Aren't we just frightened? Mirage is on those routes, and so is Bluestreak. Many of our other friends and companions are also outside this base, repeatedly. We both know it, and every orn it gnaws away at us."

"So, what's your strategy if we're all a bunch of scaredy-bots?"

"We talk to them," Oh, and he made it sound like such a simple solution, too.

Jazz made a face and turned to the Praxian in blatant shock. "Talk?"

"Their behavior is irrational," Prowl said plainly, "It makes no sense, and we have no information. If we get them to slip up, to reveal something of their minds, we might come to realize what their intentions truly are. Because if their intentions were violence, I do not believe they would be taking the best path to achieve their goals through such means,"

"Prowl, what are you saying? Because they seem slagging crazy, we should stroll over to where they are, hope they don't attack, or run away, and then get them to say something? What makes you think they'll talk? They don't want to talk to us, clearly, and it's not like extreme measures of producing answers would be approved,"

"No, they wouldn't," Prowl said tersely, "You and I are already walking a very fine line here. Torturing prisoners that do not present a clear and present danger to us is not an option. Not if we want to keep the respect of these mechs and femmes here,"

"Slag dis thing,"

"I'm not saying we do it now. I am telling you to think about it, before we meet with the others again. Something must be decided, but I do not believe we must act hastily, especially without all of the facts available to us."

A hint of suspicion appeared, and Jazz stared at his co-commander with intensely scrutinizing optics, "You know something, don't you?"

"I know that we need more information," Prowl said, as if scolding a small child who knew they were in the wrong, "Anything else at this point is speculation, and must be kept separate from fact,"

"The mechs suspect Quintessans. And their pet sparkeaters," The second in command retorted.

"Jazz," Prowl deadpanned, "You have had some ridiculous ideas, certainly, but I'm not so sure Sideswipe is a reliable source,"

"For gossip, he is. Bots are jittery, Prowl," the white and black mech said, "The new combat drills you have us running, training every orn, increasing the number and frequency of patrols and sentries? Everyone is on edge,"

"Good," the tactician replied.

"Good?" Jazz repeated incredulously, "I think we need to work on your definition of good, Prowl. I'm not the only one who hears rumors. The new Autobots who arrived a few decaorns ago have been asking me during their breaks if they made a mistake coming here. They're not just on edge. They're afraid. That is what the rest of us call bad,"

Prowl scoffed, giving his friend a genuinely irritated glare, "War is violent," he said, ice forming in the room with just those few words, "Inevitably so. Pretending we can go about our way when there is the possibility of losing mechs is ridiculous."

Servos threw themselves up in mock surrender, "I never said it wasn't. I just hope you know what you're going to say to the mechs, because that isn't going to fly,"

It wasn't often that soldiers saw their commanding officer mourn. They all knew the stories of the unwavering Autobot second-in-command and his closest friend making their way through several galaxies after the mass Exodus by the Autobots. Many said he was the reason this base had even happened to begin with. This City of Fortitude, as it was originally named, had been the Tactician's plan after many vorns of picking up strays and defending broken Autobot units.

He'd often hear the retellings, when Autobots who had joined along the way wondered aloud at how they'd been able to create something so beautiful and long-lasting. For whatever reason, this permanence was exactly what so many of the mechs had needed, and no one had protested the construction of Fort City, the name it had been shortened to by its inhabitants.

It was a simple enough tale, he supposed. In reality, he wasn't the only one responsible for the foundation of this magnificent structure. His team had been significantly smaller than that of the Ark's crew, having opted for the company of those he trusted the most rather than a few thousand mechs aboard the massive space cruiser.

Two medics, admittedly one medic by the name of Frist Aid, and his apprentice, Safeguard, in addition to a brilliant protégé of an engineer (trained by Wheeljack himself before his insistence on becoming a member of the wreckers) who had only agreed to travel with Prowl on the condition that his conjunx be allowed on the ship. Prowl had instantly agreed, much to the mech's surprise, but in reality, it wasn't all that ground-breaking when taking into consideration how valuable the mech really was. Having his conjunx on board just sweetened the deal, no matter how much PDA and possible indecent exposure they'd have to endure every once in a while.

Of course, Prowl had also insisted said mech be given a security clearance and labeled as a consultant, while still a civilian, but he wasn't changing protocol on a whim for just anyone.

Bluestreak had also joined the crew, listed as a highly specialized operative, alongside Jazz, Mirage, Trailbreaker (a last-minute replacement for the suddenly deceased Hound), Springer, Hot Rod, and a sweet-tempered femme by the name of Spacewalker who was too absent-minded for her own good. Sweet, but a bit of an airhead. Still, she was as good a navigator as he'd ever seen, and the only one who'd gotten through to her was the tactician.

She had been like Red Alert, in that way, he supposed.

When they'd set out into the universe hoping to find answers, or at least a safe haven, Prowl had never even suspected that he would once again find himself in charge of the biggest known Autobot complex in the universe. It had taken a long time, and a great deal of loss for him and his crew to make their way to Refuge and take a stance against the Decepticon forces, but undoubtedly, it had been worth it.

Every setback, injury, extinguished spark, each of them had all led to the massive complex they'd come up with against all odds.

And yet, standing there in front of the small fountain engraved with all the names of the Autobots remembered and lost, Prowl couldn't escape the grief that was laced into every corner of the room. Out of respect for the dead, this large area had been set aside and planned to a tee. The pentagon shape prism in the middle of the fountain, with similarly shaped boundaries of the trickling energon structure, and matching walls, all shined and shimmered under the modest lighting that came from whatever natural source was available at the time.

It was night time, and following a successful meeting, Prowl had gotten plans of action approved and methods of execution of said plans put in motion. It would only be a matter of time before they captured one of the scouts and gleaned some information, but he worried. Worried that his plans would fail, that more good mechs would die because of a mistake he made or a flaw no one had pointed out. He knew he wasn't infallible, but often mechs acted like he was Prime, or some ridiculous thing like that.

They were obviously wrong but pointing that out would needlessly cause conflict that would require time resolving when he could spend the same amount of time preparing their forces adequately for the upcoming skirmishes.

Still, when time was so precious, one often forgot what truly mattered, and that was the reason he'd come to the sanctuary. Standing just before the obelisk-like structure in front of him, his digits traced the engraved metal so slow they were almost caught on the deeply cut names.

Glyphs for respected lost mechs perforated his touch, tracing the names and frowning. He felt the symbol for Ironhide, for Hound, for Red Alert, and just after it, Inferno.

Everyone that Prowl and his mechs remembered had been put into these metal engravings, and there were even some names forgotten by the living that had made their way into the memorial. The sanctuary was deathly silent, a reminder of the similarly conditioned frames of their lost comrades, and out of respect for them, not even the terror twins disrupted it.

There were few others in the structure along with him. The engraver, a mech by the name of Tactile, who had stepped up to volunteer his services for the immense symbol remembrance, wasn't there that night, but it wasn't a surprise, since it was the middle of the fourth shift. Despite his other duties, Tactile often spent his off hours working on the memorial and was a younger mech who had engraved the entire thing. There was still extra space, and unfortunately, it was being filled in, glyph by glyph. He could often be found working to inscribe the names of the lost, and wouldn't let anyone else help him, not even Sunstreaker.

When Prowl had asked why he'd been so determined to do the work he was, in addition to the shifts he pulled just like all of the other Autobots, Tactile had shrugged and said something about pulling his weight, in addition to understanding the history behind the faction he had been born into. It was almost like he felt a responsibility to help his fellow soldiers grieve, in the way he explained it at least.

The base commander had put him on the counseling team's radar, just in case.

As more mechs trickled into their walls, more names came along with them. The tactician recalled a group of seven mechs who had banded together following the annihilation of their entire base. They'd barely even spoken in passing, but the tragedy had forced them to survive the massacre together.

When they'd made it to Fort City, three hundred names had come with them, and Tactile had been working for several decaorns every free moment he'd had.

He noticed white armor shaking with the effort of holding himself together. The familiar frame of Drift stood in front of one of the older patches, looking at a particular name that struck home for the black and white mech. Ratchet. It had been a devastating blow a few vorns before to learn of the medic's passing, and Drift had taken it especially hard. No one had dared to ask why. The dark glares at the wall and fury had deterred many a curious mech.

Still, as much as he knew remembering all of their lost soldiers was important, he was looking for something in particular. The names were arranged in chronological order, to the best of their ability, at least, and one of the more recent sections had been the result of the violence that had begun four and a half vorns after construction of the initial buildings on Refuge.

They'd aggravated a local military outpost comprised of Decepticons, who had taken measures against them as soon as construction had begun, something no one had quite realized until after the initial assault. The Autobot forces had driven the Decepticons back, and fortified their position, allowing for the completion of more military facilities, and shield generators, but the ensuing stalemate had cost both sides dearly.

Eventually, Prowl had ordered the complete wipeout of their base, and he'd thought the matter was dealt with until they'd started going after patrols that strayed just too far from the base to be reinforced in time. Slaughters of the small groups had been a form of vengeance by those Decepticons that had escaped the Autobot's destruction of their home. One of those had been a trio of mechs. Namely Sideswipe, Bluestreak, and Smokescreen.

The red twin had seized the gray mech and gone for cover, but by the time he had managed to secure a path to the injured Elite Guardsmech, he'd been shot in the back. Smokescreen hadn't gotten up again, not so much as even twitched, and the extreme reaction from Bluestreak had pointed towards the effects of bond loss. Sideswipe hadn't had the opportunity to go for Smokey's body before the Decepticons vanished as quickly as they'd come, taking the dead Praxian along with them.

Prowl suspected Sideswipe came down there nearly as often as he did.

This time, however, he wasn't completely alone. Bluestreak, doorwings set low on his back, clearly miserable, was staring at the glyph of his brother's name. His younger brother had a way of beating himself up so badly not even Prowl could compete sometimes. The black and white Praxian reached for his brother, moving slowly so as not to startle him.

One servo squeezed the silver-plated shoulder in front of him, and two sets of blue optics met. "Hey, Prowl," came the melancholy greeting. It couldn't mask how relieved he still was to see the older of the two Praxians.

"Hello," he'd replied gently, "How are you holding up?"

"I'm alright," Bluestreak lied, turning back to stare at the singular shape before his optics. "It isn't really fair, is it?"

"No, I don't suppose it is,"

"We just got him back. When we found him on the Decepticon prison ship, I'd hoped that we were going to be together again, as a family, and then he was just… gone."

"It isn't your fault,"

"It's not your fault either. Nobody's but that slagging con's."

Prowl nodded silently. It wouldn't do to tell Bluestreak that it was, in fact, really Prowl's fault. The blame game had no place where they were. Still, Bluestreak had been right. Having both of his brothers safe and secure had been such a blessing, he should have known it wouldn't last.

The two of them never should have been out together regardless. He'd cracked down on switching shifts with other Autobots when lacking the approval of a superior officer, in addition to demoting those soldiers who had neglected their duty while observing scanners and other instruments responsible for recording activity near their base. Scathing reprimands had been formally issued, and Prowl had turned to himself and put all of that resentment towards those responsible in the back of his spark, for later. It would serve him well when the time was right.

They stood together for some time, each lost in their own train of thought, but each moment linked to their lost brother. Prowl's optics had closed at some point, intensifying each sound with the loss of vision. Eventually, Bluestreak had had enough, and backed away slowly, "I've got a shift first thing tomorrow," he said.

I know. Prowl thought inwardly

"I'd better rest some before then if I can, I guess," he said, but it sounded more like a half-hearted hope than any real plan. Prowl nodded as if he were filing away the information like he would valuable intel for a battle plan.

"Good night, Bluestreak," he said, optics still closed as he opted to bow his helm.

He waited for a moment, feeling nothing but the coolness of metal beneath the ends of his digits before his optics snapped open. Bluestreak hadn't said anything back, meaning he was more than likely still standing just by Prowl, unable to break away from his grief.

He turned his helm, knowing he had to remind his brother to be on his way, preferably instead of collapsing of exhaustion in some hallway, "Bluestreak, you need to go recharge before-" Prowl trailed off, and suddenly found his whole frame ablaze with undiluted horror. Whatever Bluestreak had to recharge before was lost in the mech's mind. He felt his logic circuits threaten to fry themselves and glitch.

A snarling, massive, red-opticed Decepticon was standing with his blade at Bluestreak's throat, drawing a horrified sound from the Autobot commander as he met the wide blue optics drenched in fear.

This was not good.