Disclaimer : I don't own Transformers, though that would be pretty damn awesome if I did.

Credits : In this story I will be referencing Bumblebee's origins as developed by Karategal in her stories, as well as the destruction of the Youth Sectors, coined as 'Floatila' by Lady Tecuma in 'Sparks and Plasma'. I will also be using the concept of 'carrying' as developed by Litahatchee in her story 'Night Fire', as well as referencing her depiction of the Floatilla Massacre. These ideas are used with permission. If you wish to use them, do not ask me. You must obtain permission from these authors. That said, I reccommend that you read each and every story mentioned here, especially if you're a fan of Ironhide/Chromia, sparklings in general, or Bumblebee.

Note : This is an OC centric story. You will need to read 'File Recovery' to understand some of what occurs, as it deals with Nightblade, his crew, and his short time amongst the Autobots.

Heir Apparent

Prologue

Fire rained down from the sky as several heavy batteries rattled off at once, the sound of them deafening to the audios even at such a distance. As the shells fell around him, blasting craters within the already pitted surface of the road, he dove into the half burned out shell of an old corner shop. For a moment he paused, revelling in the fact that he had managed to cross the street unscathed, but the glow from even this small triumph faded as the cannon fire ceased only to be replaced by the drone of jet turbines cutting through the dust strewn air.

Closer and closer they roared, circling, searching the ground below for survivors.

He stayed where he was, thankful that the roof was still intact, blocking him from aerial surveillance, but the second he felt the tickle of scanners washing over him, he bolted. Debris kicked up as he ran, cutting through into the back alleys, away from the scanners, away from the drone of Seekers flying overhead. The sound grew duller with every corner he turned, every wall put between himself and the corner shop.

He grinned, casting a glance over his shoulder, slowing his pace from mad dash to that of a mild jog.

And then a pain, needle sharp and spreading, dug through his chest. It burned so fiercely that his neural network stuttered, causing his balance to shatter even as he tried to keep on running. He fell forward, momentum making the fall slightly uneven. His left shoulder hit the ground first, digging a small rut into the rubble even as the rest of him collapsed.

He tried to push himself up, but the pain was too intense for him to coordinate his movements. He shuddered, coughing as his intakes took in more dust than air. He felt more than saw the energon drip from his mouth to the ground, realizing that whatever had hit him had ruptured something vital.

Slow footsteps graced his audios.

They weren't cautious, but simply methodical, as if the walker was merely out for a stroll, taking his time with his approach. They were heavy, and more importantly, they were alone.

He wasn't a threat, not anymore.

He tried to activate his communication lines then, to hail a friendly frequency, to call for help, but all he got was static and a dark chuckle of amusement from his attacker. The lines were jammed, he should have known that, but the pain brewed panic in his processor and panic tended to cause irrational thinking.

The walker appeared within his field of vision, or at least his pedes did. There was a pause, as if his attacker was contemplating what to do next. A scant few seconds later a pressure bore down on his helm and the burning, parylizing pain cut through his systems again. He shrieked, vocalizers unable to sustain the pitch of his agony very long until the shorted out.

And then the pressure abated and his attacker stepped away only to crouch down in front of him.

Now he saw the midnight blue armor, the way the legs were constructed, the red glow as the optics stared down at him, and most importantly the energon coated blade as it was lowered into view. His attacker very carefully held the blade with one hand, while reaching into a subspace pocket to pull out a small stained but otherwise clean rag. Then, slowly and deliberately, he began to wipe the blade clean.

First one side.

Then the other.

His vision crackled, and the pain no longer seemed to be much of an issue, in fact, most of his body had gone numb. Warnings kept flashing as he watched the energon soaked rag traverse over the edge of the blade again and again. His sensors, internal and external were shutting down.

One by one.

The rag vanished bag into it's compartment and the blade, now clean, was lifted away from his field of vision. He heard, quite sharply, the sound of it being secured back into place on its owner's frame. No sooner had this scant noise leak through his processor, did the declaration of an immenant shutdown flash across his optics.

Stasis lock set in and with it, darkness.