AN: For Starfire201. Many thanks to Ribbonelle for being a wonderful and patient beta on this, and even being willing to read multiple versions. Your comments and suggestions were invaluable.

I feel the moon hitting the blacktop
Just like a fuse, making the night so hot
Forget the truth until tomorrow
You'll be my Hughes, I'll be your Harlow
~ ZZ Ward, Blue Eyes Blind

Why Tyrest, of all places? It was a question that Tracks had been asking himself throughout his flight, but he was no closer to an answer now than he had been when he'd left Polyhex a half joor earlier. The only thing he knew for certain was that, apart from the Pits of Kaon, this was the last place he wanted to be. In fact he'd hoped never to lay optics on it again, but there it was straight ahead, a dark smudge on the shores of the Rust Sea.

He cut power to his flight engines, letting himself glide on the stiff breeze as he angled downward, senses on high alert for any signs of danger. His former home city had earned itself quite a reputation during these post-war years, and prudence dictated that he approach it silently, and with great caution.

He'd hoped it would look less familiar. Thousands of vorns of war and neglect should have softened its outlines, made it look less like the city he'd flown away from as a youngling with vows of never returning. Yet there were the docks, dark and empty but still recognizable; there were the old familiar streets, zig-zagging their way up the terraced slope. There was the temple, now with its roof caved in and its Well left open to the sky; there were the once-quaint shops and villas, with lights burning in just a few scattered windows, and there—off to the west and barely visible in corner of his optical field—was the old Inn.

Tracks had hoped it wouldn't be there. That it had, perhaps, been bombed out of existence, or that the sea might have risen up and swept it from its cliffside perch, but no. It looked every bit as haunted as it probably was, with its blank windows staring sightlessly across the waves toward Altihex. He dragged his attention away from it, and to the matter at hand. This wasn't the time to wallow in some masochistic trip down memory lane.

He was here to locate an errant Prime, and, with luck, talk some sense into him, much as Tracks doubted he was really the right mech for the job. Interventions weren't exactly in his wheelhouse, but Arcee had seemed desperate, and Tracks's spark, contrary to popular opinion, did harbor a few small shreds of chivalry. Besides, her call had gotten him out of a social situation that had rapidly been turning sticky, and not in the good way.

It wasn't that he didn't like Gyro. It was hard not to like Gyro, who, in spite of being a distant relation of Springer's, was gracious, easy to talk to, and had a wonderful sense of humor. He was handsome, taking obvious pride in his appearance, and as an added bonus, was just tall enough to dip Tracks when they danced together. Their first two dates had been spent enjoying Polyhex's nightlife and trading stories about their pasts. Tracks had had to be careful about which particular stories he chose to share, but he enjoyed hearing Gyro talk about his wartime adventures patrolling the borders of Iacon against Decepticon invaders.

Tonight, however, had been their third date, the one where you're supposed to kiss. Gyro had gone all out for it, too, taking Tracks to the newly opened Grand Ballroom at the Polyhex Ritz. It was every bit as, well… ritzy as one might expect, with great music, an overflowing assortment of edible and drinkable delicacies, and Cybertronian glitterati as far as the optic could scan.

Normally, Tracks would have been in heaven, and they had had a good time, dining, dancing and rubbing shoulder assemblies with a celebrity or two, and many more who were hoping to be mistaken as such, yet throughout the evening Tracks' mind had kept circling back to the impending kiss. He kept telling himself there was absolutely no reason why he shouldn't want to kiss Gyro, starting with the fact that he'd paid for all this, and ending with the fact that his lips looked so inviting, especially when he smiled. Each time the opportunity arose, however, Tracks found himself turning to the side or coming up with some excuse.

Eventually, they'd drifted out onto the ballroom's broad, sweeping balcony. There were just a few couples there, some swaying to the soft strains of music coming from within the ballroom, while others sat together in the shadows of the crystalline arbor, lost in intimate conversation. Gyro led the way over to the balcony railing and they stood leaning against it, gazing out across the Rust Sea.

It was like a scene from a movie. Cybertron's new moons, though still under construction, bathed the sea in a delicate sheen, and the wind and the stars beckoned with promises of flight. Tracks' chest tightened around a sudden ache of recollection, and Gyro, who had been telling an amusing story about a prank that a flightmate of his had once played on Springer when they were younglings, suddenly fell silent. Tracks tensed in spite of himself as the other's gaze settled on him.

"Tracks," Gyro said quietly, "what are you thinking?"

Tracks realized that Gyro had noticed the shift in his mood, and he seemed sincerely interested in knowing what had caused it. Hot Rod would never have noticed something like that. He would have just kept talking, and he wouldn't be waiting this patiently to hear what Tracks had to say. More to the point, Tracks reminded himself, Hot Rod no longer existed. He was Rodimus Prime now, having been transformed by the Matrix into what was essentially a different person.

"Nothing much," Tracks replied, trying to sound casual. "Just enjoying the view."

Gyro placed a hand on the railing next to his. "Tracks," he said, "I just wanted to say that I like you—a lot. It's the first time I've felt anything since Firewhirl was shot down, and that was a deca-orn ago. I don't want to put pressure on you, but… well, I wanted you to know how I feel."

Tracks stared at him. It felt as if time had come to a standstill, and his voice, along with every joint in his frame, seemed frozen. This was it, he thought. This was where he was supposed to lean in and kiss Gyro, or at least say something, but nothing was coming to mind. He cleared his vocalizer.

"I… could use another drink," he finally managed to blurt. It was inane, but at least he was talking. "How about I treat us to the next round? You've paid for everything so far."

He moved to bolt for the safety of the bar, but Gyro stopped him with a hand on his arm. "I already told you that tonight's on me," he said with a weak smile. "You can buy the drinks next time."

He headed for the bar. Tracks stared after him, mentally cursing himself. Gyro was everything he should want, and it wasn't as if Tracks didn't find him attractive. It was just… it was just…

You've got to stop carrying that flame, Raoul's voice echoed in his mind. It was what he'd said to Tracks during their most recent comm chat. You have to give some other guy a fighting chance. Raoul was right, of course. Even if being married had turned him into an insufferable know-it-all where it came to matters of the heart, or spark, he was right.

Hot Rod wouldn't take me to a place like this, Tracks reminded himself. He'd point me toward the chill unit in his galley and tell me to get my own drink. Yet when the next breath of sea wind brushed his face, it stirred potent memories of racing along a rain-slicked coastal highway with the Atlantic wind scouring his flanks. His train of thought collapsed into the recollection of a wild chase across wet sand followed by a swift pounce, the one that had taken him down and pinned him, strutless, beneath a warm, solid weight and laughing azure optics. That first kiss had burned his lips, tasting of salt wind and wildness, and it had made him forget everything but the hypnotic throb of their two engines meshing into one rhythm.

His comlink buzzed, making him jump, and he felt a twinge of worry when he recognized Arcee's callsig, and the fact that she was calling on a secure frequency. "'Cee?" he said, answering. "What's up?"

"Tracks, are you busy?"

"Um… not really," Tracks answered, feeling a twinge of guilt when he saw Gyro coming back with their drinks. "Is something wrong?"

"I don't know," she said. "I need a favor, but I don't want to say more than that over comlink."

"Is it an emergency?" Tracks asked, and flinched inwardly when he realized how this would probably sound to his date.

"I hope not," Arcee replied, "but do you think you could meet me in breem or so?"

"Uh…" Tracks glanced at Gyro, who had paused, drinks in hand, a few steps away. "All right," he said heavily, "I'm sending my location coordinates."

"I'll be right over," Arcee said. She cut the channel, and Tracks turned to Gyro, who was gazing at him sadly.

"That wasn't what it sounded like," Tracks said. "That really was a friend of mine calling with an emergency."

Gyro gave a slow shake of his head. "You could have just said how you felt."

"I…" Tracks glanced away. "Gyro, I'm sorry, I'm just…" Hung up on a mech who no longer exists, he scolded himself.

"Yeah, I can tell." Gyro handed the drinks to Tracks and leaped into the air, transforming into his chopper mode as he did so. "Just do the next guy a favor and be honest." He took off into the night sky, leaving Tracks holding the drinks.

o-0-o-0-o

Arcee was waiting when Tracks emerged from the Ritz, her slender frame dwarfed by the towering frond-crystals that grew on each side of the grand entrance.

"You were on a date?" she said accusingly. "Why didn't you say so?"

"Uhh… because you said this was an emergency?"

"Who was it with? Was it one of the guys I set you up with? Was it Gyro?"

"Does it matter?"

"It was, wasn't it?" She set her fists on her hips. "Look, I'll talk to him and tell him it was a real emergency, so he doesn't think you just—"

"I did just," Tracks interrupted. "Your call simply came at an opportune moment."

"But…" Arcee frowned. "He's a great guy, and I think he really likes you. If you keep hurting our friends, I'm going to stop setting you up."

That was an empty threat, and they both knew it. Arcee loved playing matchmaker, and Springer, her ever-jealous Conjunx-to-be, was more than supportive where it came to changing the relationship status of some of their more handsome, unattached friends.

"This will be the last time, I promise," Tracks said. "How about you tell me what the emergency is?" Judging by Arcee's use of the word 'our' in reference to her friends, he gathered that it didn't involve her having called off her upcoming bonding ceremony with Springer, which was a shame. Tracks had never cared for the loudmouthed chopper mech, and he especially didn't like the way Springer barked orders at Arcee and treated her like his personal servant. But love, as they said, was dim of optic, something that Tracks supposed he knew better than anyone.

"I can't talk about it here," Arcee replied. She looped an arm through his—a move that would have put her prospective mate in fits, had he been there—and drew him down the steps, along the path that led through the hotel's manicured gardens, and out onto the walkway that edged the shorefront. There were only a few other mechs and femmes here, mostly in pairs. Arcee tugged him over to the observation railing and leaned against it, her arm still linked with his. To a casual observer, they would seem like any other couple admiring the view.

It's Rodimus, she said without preamble, using a secure comm line that was, Tracks knew, reserved for high-ranking government officials.

Rodimus? he echoed, once the security protocols had granted him limited access. What about him? It seemed strange that the very mech who'd been on his mind so much this evening would turn out to be the topic of their conversation.

He's… Arcee paused. This has to remain confidential, okay?

Of course. Tracks half-turned toward her, studying her troubled expression with a growing sense of unease. Is he in some kind of danger?

Arcee's gaze was focused on the distant Hydrax Plateau, where a large interstellar space cruiser was settling in for a landing, its lights forming a misty halo in the haze of gasses that rose off the sea. We've been trying to keep this quiet, she said at length, but we might need to start looking for a new Prime.

What? But the Matrix—

Chose him, yes, I know. But sometimes it chooses wrong, Tracks. We think his body might be rejecting it.

Cold fear invaded Track's chassis. What does that mean, exactly?

It's happened before, Arcee said. First Aid found some ancient medical records of a Prime whose body rejected the Matrix. He went insane, and he had to be— she broke off. Well, let's just say it didn't end well.

And you think that could be happening now?

Ultra Magnus is seriously considering the possibility, Arcee said, and I'm finding it harder and harder to disagree.

She then proceeded with a litany of behavior that, Tracks had to admit, did sound unprofessional, if not downright bizarre. On one occasion, when called upon to make a speech, Rodimus had ignored the text he'd been given and launched instead into a solo rendition of John Lennon's Imagine. On a diplomatic visit to one of the outer worlds of the Nebulon Empire, Rodimus had burst into uncontrollable fits of laughter upon witnessing the Nebulon high priests performing the sacred rite of P'utna, which involved them climbing to the top of a pyramid on the morning of winter solstice and solemnly freezing their butt-cheeks to a statue of their goddess.

And then there was the time he ran away, Arcee concluded. He lost the Matrix and it fell into Decepticon hands. He did eventually get it back, but… she vented a sigh. He's been disappearing lately, and then showing up with unexplained dents and scratches. First Aid says it looks like he's been getting in fights, but Rodimus won't talk about it. I'm so worried, Tracks.

I had no idea.

We've been trying to keep it quiet. But now… she drew a datapad from her subspace and handed it to Tracks. He was supposed to make a speech at tonight's grand opening gala for the Cybertronian War Heroes Memorial. It's been on his calendar for at least a decaorn, yet he didn't show up. When we went around to his office, we found this.

Tracks activated the datapad and a stylus-written page appeared, covered in a familiar, sprawling penmanship:

Sorry I have to miss tonight's shindig.
Stuff came up.
Kup can give speech.
~R

Maybe something did come up, Tracks suggested. Something that was more urgent?

I wish I could believe that, Arcee said. But if it really is that urgent, he should be telling us about it, not just gallivanting off on his own.

Tracks had to agree that she had a point. He didn't want to believe what she was saying, in fact he didn't even want to think about it. He'd worked so hard to accept things as they were, to move on. Now it might all be for nothing.

What can I do? he asked finally.

Arcee drummed the fingers of her free hand against the railing. I've tried talking to him, she said. So have Kup and Ultra Magnus. I know he used to hang out with you, before. He used to… she hesitated, her optic ridges pulling into a delicate frown, he used to share things with you. Things he wouldn't share with me.

He did? Tracks was surprised. He'd considered Hot Rod a friend, and—on that one brief, glorious morning when he'd woken on a New England beach with sand clogging his vents and Hot Rod draped against him like an overheated blanket— had hoped their relationship might become something more. But that had been a lifetime ago.

He's very private, in his own way, Arcee said. You might have noticed that he doesn't open up to many people. Well, she added with a wan smile, he never opened up to me.

You had feelings for him, Tracks said. He'd always suspected as much, and prior to that incredible night on the beach, had assumed Hot Rod felt the same way about her.

"It wasn't pathetically obvious?" Arcee asked aloud.

"Well, I wouldn't say pathetically," Tracks said teasingly, and was pleased to see her give a faint smile. "I was surprised that the two of you didn't get together after the war ended. You seemed the perfect match."

"Well, I guess we weren't as perfect as everyone thought," Arcee said. "But it worked out for the best," she added, brightening. "I have Springer now."

"Right." Because when you can't bond with a Prime, the logical second choice is to graft yourself onto the nearest ill-mannered boor.

"He's a good mech!" Arcee flared, as if somehow sensing his thoughts. "You just don't know him like I do."

"I'll take your word on that."

Arcee didn't withdraw her arm, but he could feel defensive anger surging through her field. He sighed, and patted her hand. I'll talk to Rodimus, he promised, switching back to the secure channel. I can't guarantee that he'll listen, but I'll do my best.

"Thanks." Arcee's features relaxed just fractionally, and she gave his arm a squeeze. "You're a good friend, Tracks. I know this isn't your fault."

"Not my fault?" Tracks echoed. Now what were they talking about?

Arcee just smiled. "I have to get back. Ultra Magnus will be returning from Earth, and if Kup's giving that address, someone's eventually going to have to interrupt him."

"Might as well be you," Tracks agreed.

He was still pondering her remark as he watched her speed away, her taillights fading in the darkness. What wasn't his fault? The fact that she'd chosen a clod like Springer? No, surely she couldn't mean that. She seemed genuinely smitten with him, and amazingly tolerant of his various shortcomings.

He pushed back from the railing with a sigh. There was probably no figuring it out, so he might as well turn his attention to other mysteries. A call to Rodimus' comm line yielded no results. Tracks hadn't really expected it to, but he felt he had to try the obvious methods of contacting him first. The next step was a visit to his penthouse apartment. Tracks bypassed the concierge service and simply flew up to the roof. The lights were on inside, but a glance through the apartment's massive, crystallane windows was enough to tell him that there was no one home. What was more, one of the doors was slightly ajar.

Tracks debated with himself. Entering would be a violation of Rodimus' privacy, but then again, if he really was in some kind of trouble, and Tracks didn't go in, he might miss a vital clue that could have saved him. Finally, pushing his doubts aside, he let himself in.

Rodimus' living quarters were nothing like Hot Rod's had been. They were, of course, much fancier, but the appearance of a bomb having recently detonated inside them was also notably missing. Tracks wondered if it meant that Rodimus didn't live here full-time, or perhaps he employed a cleaning service that was actually capable of keeping up with his mess.

Or maybe he's just tidier these days, Tracks thought with a pang. Wasn't it possible that Rodimus had simply, well… grown up? Like Raoul, who no longer needed Tracks' guidance or protection. He now ran a successful dance program for New York street youth, and he and his mate were now even talking about adopting a kid of their own. Tracks was proud of him, but it had all happened so fast, and he couldn't suppress a certain forlorn feeling whenever he thought about him.

Of course, it had been different with Hot Rod. He'd never thought of himself as Hot Rod's surrogate creator, but more as a friend and perhaps a mentor. Right up until the day that Hot Rod had turned to him with that certain wicked glint in his optics, Tracks' spark had spun tight inside his chest, and he'd suddenly thought, Oh. So this was how it felt, this "falling in love" that everyone talked about. He'd never told anyone, Hot Rod least of all. Hot Rod, he'd told himself, had needed him as a friend.

But then had come that incredible night on the beach. Tracks hadn't considered it proof-positive that his feelings were returned, but at least it indicated that Hot Rod saw him as more than just a buddy. Tracks often thought about the morning they'd woken sprawled in the sand, and wondered what would have happened if Hot Rod hadn't gotten a call from Carly just then, asking if he could come to Autobot City to spend some time with Daniel. Hot Rod had agreed, of course, because Daniel was important to him in the same way that Raoul was to Tracks, and they'd made plans to meet again in New York a few days later.

But then the Decepticons had attacked Autobot City, and everything—everything—had changed. Hot Rod most of all.

Tracks wandered around the apartment, idly poking into drawers and cupboards. He was gratified to note that Rodimus' apparent tidiness didn't extend to the insides of such hidden areas, and the galley, too, was something of a disaster, with big splotches of energon congealing on the polished counter.

A quick scan of the titles on Rodimus' bookshelves yielded some surprising results, including tomes on Cybertronian history, political philosophy and classical literature. Hot Rod's reading tastes had run more to holo-comics, when he'd bothered with reading at all. He'd been far more interested in racing. Was that the Matrix's influence? Arcee was concerned that the Matrix might be driving Rodimus insane, yet somehow, these neatly categorized rows of reading material didn't speak of someone who was losing his mind.

Tracks trailed a finger along a row of title-spines and turned away, chewing his lower lip component absently. This wasn't getting him anywhere. Maybe he should head over to the raceway and see if he could track down some of the old "gang." If he could find Sideswipe, Sunstreaker or Mirage, and if he could convince any of them to speak with a mere Corvette, perhaps he could glean some useful information.

Decision made, he was heading for the door when he noticed a lone datapad left on the entertainment table, as if Rodimus had been using it and then forgotten to put it away. Tracks paused. Could it really hurt, considering that he was snooping anyway? He switched it on to reveal a page filled with cryptic, scribbled notes and little diagrams that might have been designs for buildings. There was a small sketch of Optimus Prime in one corner, and, to Tracks' surprise, also one of himself. It wasn't a bad likeness. Rodimus had drawn him glancing back over his shoulder, lips curving in a small, distant smile.

Tracks stared at the drawing, racking his processor for some sensible category under which it might fit. Why him? It didn't make sense, but then again, wondering about it also wasn't getting him any closer to finding Rodimus. He scrolled down the page a bit, scanning for anything that might be remotely helpful. He was about to give up when one particular scribble caught his attention.

Jazz, was all it said. Below it was a set of numbers that Tracks recognized as a private callsig. He rocked back on his heels, thinking it through. Few people even saw Jazz these days. He'd lost touch with nearly everyone since the war had ended, taking his bondmate with it, but if he and Rodimus were actually in contact, maybe there was a chance he knew something.

Tracks took the datapad over to the comm station and punched the code in before he had a chance to think better of it. The comm pinged several times before the screen lit up and Jazz's face appeared. He looked awful. His armor was scratched and dull, and his face had the hollow, sunken look of someone who hadn't had a decent recharge in orns.

"Tracks?" Jazz sounded startled. "What's goin' on, man? What are you doing at Rod's?"

"I came by looking for him," Tracks said, trying to hide his shock at his former comrade's appearance. The loss of a bondmate was excruciating, or so he'd been told. Not all mechs survived it, and Tracks could understand why Jazz would be keeping to himself these days. Still, seeing the devastation etched across his face made it seem horrifyingly tangible.

"What d'you mean?" Jazz asked. He peered past Tracks, trying to get a look at the room behind him. "He isn't there? How did you get in?"

"I broke in, technically," Tracks admitted. "But the door was open."

"I keep telling him to lock the damn thing." Jazz's pinched features settled into a frown, and the next time he spoke his tone was deadly serious. "What's going on?"

Tracks considered his answer. Arcee had asked him to maintain confidentiality, but he also didn't know how much Jazz already knew. Since getting caught in a lie would almost certainly torpedo his chances of getting any useful information, he settled on an edited version of the truth.

"He's been acting… oddly, and Arcee asked me to have a chat with him. You wouldn't happen to know where he's been spending his time lately?"

"Oddly, hm?" Jazz rubbed his chin. "You know that if I knew something, I wouldn't be able to tell you, right?"

Tracks vented a sigh. "If you do know something it would be very helpful if you did tell me, if only for his sake."

Jazz considered this. Tracks noticed that he was surrounded by what appeared to be some kind of musical contraption with keyboards, flashing colored lights and an intricate system of amps and speakers. It seemed to be half built, and Tracks guessed that this was what Jazz had been working on during his time in seclusion.

"I can't say much," Jazz said finally, "but if you want to talk to him, I'd suggest hitting up the Tyrestian shorefront right about, oh… now. There's a joint there called The Gravity Well. That'd be your best bet."

"The Tyrestian shorefront?" Tracks echoed. It felt as his internals had suddenly frozen.

"Well yeah," Jazz said. "What's the matter? You look as if the ghost of Starscream just tapped you on the shoulder."

"What in Primus' name is Rodimus doing there?" Tracks asked.

"Hey, I've already said more than I should. Seeing as it's you, though, I'm guessing Rod won't mind."

"Seeing as it's me? What's that supposed to mean?"

Jazz studied him for a moment, then smiled enigmatically. "Make sure you lock that door on your way out." With that he cut the connection, leaving Tracks alone with his own stunned reflection staring back at him from the blank screen. It was the second time in one evening that someone had made a comment that he couldn't grasp. First Arcee, with her strange remark about something not being his fault, and now this.

Deciding that there was no use in worrying about it, he left the apartment—making sure to lock the door, just as Jazz had requested—and took off, leaving Polyhex behind and setting his course for the city that he'd hoped never to have to set foot in, ever again.