Greetings Earthlings and Aliens.

I wrote this story with a partner a few years ago. Life happened, as it so often does, and we never finished it. The two of us don't speak anymore. I hope that she is still writing-the world is a much better place with her stories in it. I borrowed one of her characters-the one that drew me to her in the first place, her portrayal of Bluestreak. He holds a special place in my heart for leading me to the author kaydeeblu. Her stories are gripping and imaginative. I'm so glad I was gifted with the chance to share her life for a while. This story was co-written and edited by kaydeeblu. It's not finished. I don't know if I can finish it solo, or even if I should. It deserves to see the light day, and she deserves most of the credit for it.

Word of warning: my writing mantra is, "there must be violence and carnage," while kaydeeblu's was, "somebody's gotta die!" This is a tragic love story.

Enjoy.

It was mid summer of 2009 when the U.S. Government scraped together a new mixed services unit and recruited people to fill up the available slots. Being a highly qualified female tactical aircraft maintenance technician—or as we call it in the Air Force, a crewchief—with a degree under my belt, I was a shoe-in. But a prestigious assignment like this one is highly competitive, and that doesn't leave room for many friends. Which was pretty evident at the moment. My assistant crewchief and I were the only creatures stirringon the Nevada desert heat.

"Hey Wash. Did you pin up the cockpit?" I called to the dark, skinny Senior Airman padding lightly across the wing of our jet.

"Yeah Sarge." Senior Airman Jordan "Wash" Washington, my assistant crewchief and only ally. He winked at me before jumping down from the wingtip. I winced at his landing—that would have hurt me. "Smitty, let's do the forms inside. Th' heat's killer!" He was right. The temperature on this July evening was running 105 degrees farenheit. That was down from the afternoon's high.

Wash and I flew in that morning on a C-17. We had been good friends at Nellis Air Force Base, but here I was assigned as his supervisor. Ours had been the last stop to pick up personnel before reaching the highly secretive location, lovingly dubbed "Area 52" by the flight crew. The name caught on and the sarcastic alien reference was not lost on anyone. Breifing upon breifing had preceeded our transport. We were told we had to be prepared—what we would see here was unlike anything mankind had ever known before. So far, this looked like every other flightline I had ever been to on every other base. Even the desert wasn't new. We were surrounded by arid vacantness for days; the nearest town was twenty miles away. Grand solitude.

Mere hours into our first day here and Wash was already going stir-crazy. He stood nearby rubbing his palms.

"Told you to wear your gloves," I muttered, raising my covered hands with a smug wave.

Wash leaned close to the large, wheeled toolbox I was using as a desk to update our aircraft's forms. "Gloves are for the cold, Smitty." His face displayed a wide toothy grin. I smirked back.

A dry, hot breeze shimmered down the long cement ramp where all eight F-16 Fighting Falcon fighter jets sat. Red "Remove Before Flight" streamers teased out by the dust laden wind. It lashed our faces with desert grit and stung our eyes with searing heat. I turned toward the hangars at the other end of the ramp to shelter myself.

More of an all purpose training facility, the biggest hangar lay directly in front of me. That was where the aliens were supposed to be hiding. Our virgin eyes were shielded from the sight of them by the ominously closed doors and assumed soldiers lining the shadows. The rest of our unit had "put their birds to bed," as the expression goes—weapons all safety-pinned, streamers in place, and protective covers on. They'd passed us by without a word or an offer of help and surged off the flightline, headed towards their new dorm rooms. We would be getting a briefing early in the AM and then gradually be introduced to the aliens.

I let loose a long stream of breath. First day and the odds were already against me. Being the only female in the Eggressor Unit is awkward at best. The group atmosphere had been frigid when I boarded the C-17 bound for our highly classified base. We were part of a predominantly male team called NEST. Silly name, but the military was never one for clever acronyms. Creativity does not come in standard issue.

My gaze wandered to the side, drawn by the sight of a red striped, black Caddalac Escalade ponderously pulling up in front of a F-35 fighter jet in a desert camoflauge paint scheme. I remembered seeing the bigger aircraft taxi past us during all the chaos of "bedding down" our own jets and wondered why there was only one. Two was always the rule; every pilot had a wingman. Maybe this was some kind of experimental jet—it's a highly secretive base after all. The truck came to a stop facing the two of us as we walked toward the hangars, but no one got out. Don't blame them, I menatally snorted, It's frickin' hot out here. Enjoy that AC boys. Beads of sweat evaporated from my brow as quickly as they formed and a bit of jealousy tinged my thoughts of Air Conditioning.

"Who's that, ya figure?" Wash was watching the black truck too.

"Dunno," I shrugged, gathering up the forms and securing the tool box drawers.

"That bird's not bedded," he pionted out. "Sup with that?"

Shaking my head, I said, "Let's go give 'em a hand, how 'bout? Make some new friends. Maybe."

"Sarcasm! Suits you," He nodded, pushing the toolbox in the direction of the F-35. When we reached the truck, nobody got out to greet us, the windows didn't even roll down. Stony silence. If I hadn't known better, it almost seemed as if the entire vehicle leaned away with an air of cautious observance. But that was a silly notion.

Waving at the uncovered jet, I said, "No covers anywhere. That engine's gonna be so full of sand by morning." I clucked my tongue and continued, "Well... We can at least pin up the landing gear. You get that side, I'll get this one."

Wash ducked into a wheel well as I circled around the fuselage headed the other way. Nestled in one corner of the underbelly was a small white box that should have held the landing gear safety pins I was searching for. When I popped the lid open, the entire jet shuddered. I froze for a second, but decided the heat was playing tricks with my mind. From the other side of the fuselage, I heard Wash utter a startled "…uhh."

My tiny hand slipped into the box, finding nothing but air. A booming voice shouted, "OUT! Get OUT of there!"

"RUN!" I screeched. Wash was already in motion. He bolted from under the jet's shadow. I backed into the landing gear door, banged my head hard, and swiveled underneath it, scrambling out sideways. We both circled around to the lee side of the black truck.

Wash flattened himself against the Cadillac and I followed suit, both of us breathing hard. "What the fuck?" His attempt at a whisper agitated into a hoarse register. Unable to find my voice, I shook my head.

Then the same voice spoke again, a gentle pleading, "Hey. I didn't mean to scare you. Hey, you can come out, I won't hurt you. I promise. It's just… kinda rude to go poking around on somebody you don't even know."

I mouthed the words,"What is that thing?" and Wash gave me a wide-eyed shrug.

"Aw, come on out, little humans. I'm sorry I frightened you."

We exchanged a look. Wash hooked a thumb over his shoulder toward the jet and mouthed, "Alien."

I answered with a nod.

The truck we sought refuge behind gave us a heavy nudge that nearly tossed me to my hands and knees. Spinning around I gaped as another disembodied voice joined the first. This one seemed rather amused. "I think you scared the slag out of them, Breakaway." It chuckled. I stumbled another step backwards, sliding behind Wash.

"I didn't mean to."

"Remember what Colonel Lennox said. They're not used to us yet. That's why we're all supposed to stay in our alt modes until tomorrow. Of course, breaking their audial receptors didn't help, I'm sure."

Wash stammered, "You're—you're the aliens."

"Oh look at that," the truck quipped. "It speaks."

"I'm not an it," Wash's bravado was coming back to him. "I was wondering where you guys were all hiding." The Senior Airman dragged a cocoa skinned hand along the paneling of the Cadallac. It shivered at his touch and leaned away. He glanced up at the windshield and back down to the hood where a large, red, squarish face was emblazoned. "Awesome."

"You like?" the truck preened.

"Yeah."

"What about you, femme?" Wash smiled at the truck. "You won't get her to talk. She's not good with new people." Catching himself in a cultural fuax pas, he snapped his fingers, "Oh! I'm Senior Airman Jordan Washington. But everybody just calls me Wash." Swinging a hand back toward me without taking his eyes off the truck, "That's my supervisor, Staff Sergeant Luccianna Smith. Smitty for short. Or sometimes Lucci, but only off duty." The last he added like a confided secret. I frowned at him. That was more information than I was willing to divulge just yet. "Lucci" was reserved for close friends, not new people. Or aliens. Whatever.

"Trailbreaker," the truck said. "That's Breakaway. We're new here too. Been here a few… what's the word…?"

"Months," the jet supplied.

"Yeah. Months." A pause, then, "So… why doesn't she speak?"

Wash grinned devilishly from the front of the truck. Squeezing my eyes closed, I awaited the humiliation. "She's shy," he snickered. My cheeks burned bright red. Time to exit stage left before Wash spills all my dark secrets. Once I was gone, he would talk about anything else; he only did this to tease me. It kept up appearances. We imparted a pretense of not-so-secret lovers to cover the fact that he played for the other team. Don't ask, don't tell. And don't let anyone on a highly sought after top secret assignment have any ammunition that would take you down. Competition can be a cruel bitch. Waving the forms at my counterpart, I pushed the toolbox back to the hangar, leaving Wash to chat with the aliens.

When the sounds of metal scraping metal and grinding gears told of some sort of transformation behind me, I peered over my shoulder. Stunned I stared at the distant forms. They both stood bipedal.

The jet was enormous. Maybe 25 feet tall. Wings folded over the back and the tail fins crested the shoulders. Bright Blue glowing eyes and an adorable little head peered out from within a segmented cockpit, the canopy hung over it like a hoodie. It put me in mind of a cross between an ewok and a gremlin before midnight wearing sweats. Even the jet's countenance was soft and fluffy despite the aggressive alternate mode of an F-35 fighter jet.

The Cadillac was only a few feet shorter than the jet. Black arms, hands, and red elbow joints sprouted from the broad black chest that was once the vehicle's hood and bumper. What appeared to be some sort of generator slash grenade launcher thing rested on the back and peeked over the shoulders. A black helm sported a silvery gray face with a wide, glowing, orange visor band instead of individual eyes. The thighs were silver, red knee guards covered the joints, black calves and that same bare metal colored feet with no segmentted toes like the jet.

They were incredible. It took my breath away. Literally. After a moment of gawking like a fool, the truck, Trailbreaker, caught me. One large black hand waved me to return, but I shook my head without a second thought and rushed to the hangar to lock up our tools. Maybe it was my imagination, but as I turned away, the corners of the alien's mouth tugged down. He frowned at me. No, that had to be my mind succumbing to the desert heat. What I needed was a bottle of cold water and some time in the AC.

Civilians chuckle at the term "Oh dark thrity." It's actually something like: Oh, my god it's still dark out, and, by the way, report thirty minutes prior to the briefing for roll call. Translated into civilain-ese, it usually comes at about four thirty in the morning. Breifings are at five.

We stood in the cool, dry air of the biggest hangar, surrounded by tall catwalks and narrow stairways, machines out of a Sci-Fi author's wildest imaginations, and many different vehicles—most of which were completely out of place in a military hangar. A sliver Corvette, a yellow Camaro, a red Ferarri 458, a Mercedes Benz E550, a yellow-green Hummer, a black GMC Topkick truck, a red and blue semi, and a few others in the back ground I couldn't quite see. And, of course, the F-35 fighter jet and red trimmed Cadallac Escalade.

Well, that explained the eccentric car collection—they must all be aliens. As if to answer the direction of my thoughts, Colonel Lennox began his very short briefing by introducing Optimus Prime. The semi rolled forward and metal plates slid over themselves, gears appeared and submerged, the entire form shifted and resorted itself into a thirty foot towering robotic form on two legs with a wizened blue framed, silvery face and glowing, blue eyes that took the measure of each individual as they passed over us. I glanced at the tall, broad shouldered Colonel Lennox, taking note of his close buzzed golden brown hair and matching brown eyes, in an effort to avoid cringing under the alien's scrutiny. He looked too young to be a Colonel, but the lines around his eyes spoke of the experiences that had brought him here.

Optimus Prime greeted us as the leader of the Autobots and gave a quick synopsis of their war, their purpose for opposing the Decepticons here on Earth—namely to save us all from enslavement and extinction—and welcomed us to the group. He then handed things over to his Chief Medical Officer, Ratchet, whom I quickly realized was not actually a doctor like I thought of one. He was more like a mechanic slash engineer slash IT guru. But I guess if you're a twenty foot tall sentient robot with a fantastical computer processor as a brain, that qualifies as a "doctor." Which begs the question, am I a medic too in their eyes?

Ratchet explained that the aliens were as varied in personality as we were and they had all been cautioned on our frailties. We were warned to stay clear of the aliens' feet as they would be afraid to move if humans were too close. Understandable. I was rather afraid of being too close for the same reasons. Each Autobot had a specific talent that leant to their position within their unit and heavily influenced their choice of alternate mode. They would not often be seen in bipedal form out in the open as their presence on Earth was so highly guarded. We could ask questions, but must expect questions to be asked in return. It was a learning process for all of us across the board, and we should try not to be offended by anything done or said by the aliens. There was much more, but my mind began to drift at that point.

Next up was the Weapons Officer, the black Topkick, Ironhide. He had a wry sense of humor. A bit of John Wayne meets Dirty Harry. He blustered a bit about the bots' capabilities in combat and emphasized that they were absolutely NOT to be sharing even the simplest of their technology with any of us—so don't even bother asking. He also stated that should we have any problems with any of the Cybertronians, we should run it up our own chain of command, or, barring that availability, come straight to him or Ratchet. Whatever the matter, it would be settled immediately. And then a great big spot light was shone on me as a pedastool rose to place me under a magnifying glass while a myriad of giant TV's broadcast my face from every angle around the room.

Okay, not really, but that's exactly what it felt like. I was standing somewhere near the middle of the crowd when the black truck stated, "I understand there is a femme medic among you." Washington elbowed my ribs while I tried to sink through the floor. Blue lights for eyes focused in on me. I swallowed hard, feeling the blood from my face pool in my feet.

Ratchet interjected, "I believe the humans refer to it as a woman, Ironhide."

The truck glanced at the medic, shrugged, and spoke directly to me, "There are not many human femmes here for us to socialize with." The Medical Officer stepped to front of the room, picking up the theme, "What he means," and here the black bot was given a small shove and a stern scowl making the other move aside, "is that we have not had much interaction with females of your species. From the research I have done, I understand that human females are treated in a different respect in regards to speech and physical contact. Very few of us here have had the opportunity to see a human female, such as yourself, in the… ah… flesh, as it were. We will do our best not to offend you, but we ask that you have patience as we learn and adjust to your presence." And then all eyes were on me, waiting… for God only knows what. I have never prayed so hard to suddenly be struck anemic so that I could just pass the fuck out.

From off to the side, amidst the throng of aliens disguised as vehicles, Trailbreaker piped up. "Um… she's… shy, Ratchet."

Oh fuck my life! I buried my face in my hands and shoved both into Wash's back. I could feel his body tremble with stifled laughter. Metal shuffling sounds came from ahead where the Medical Officer grew impatient for a response and finally gave up. "Very well, then." Followed by the Weapons Officer's muttered, "She needs to get over that."

Laughter rippled through humans and aliens alike—at my expense—and Colonel Lennox returned to the stage redirecting the breifing to safety concerns, cover stories, nearby townships, and areas to avoid. Wash pulled me around to his side, my face still pressed against his uniform shirt.

"Are they all still staring at me?" I whispered.

"Pretty much, yeah. But just the aliens."

"Great. Shoot me when this briefing is over?"

Chuckling, "You'll live." He lifted my face from hiding, smiling softly down at me, "Look at it this way, you're famous! Everyone of the aliens knows who you are now. All us guys are going to be clamoring for their attention, but not you. You will be fending them off with a ten foot pole."

"Not helping."

His smile broadened. "Could have been worse." Mischief crinckled the corners of his eyes. "They could have asked you to get up there and explain the differences between genders to 'further their research' or maybe clarify some very specific issues for them, biologically speaking."

"Oh, gods!" I swatted at his arm. From the front of the room, Colonel Lennox pointedly cleared his throat. We both straightened, facing forward, and the breifing went on.

Every squadron has a show bird; the one jet that is put on static display for parades, dignitary visits , and special occasions. We were completely off the public grid out here, but there would still be internal opportunities to show off our jets. There were always VIP visits.

Being a newly formed unit the official show bird had not yet been selected, the position was still up for grabs. This crossed my mind as the bucket of cool water sloshed against my leg, spilling onto the cement of the ramp, and immediately sizzling into a blurry mist. I adjusted my grip on the handle, while shuffling aircraft soap and scrub sponges in my other hand.

The briefings finally ended late in the morning, but already the day's heat was burning mirages into my retinas. Something about the desert sun was entirely too bright, as if we were under the light of different star altogether. Blinking furiously against the stinging onslaught, I wondered if adding an extra layer of black window tint to my sunglasses would help the situation. Worth a try.

Off in the distance, just beyond the row of F-16s a streak of red flashed across the runway and disappeared. The air around it rippled and warped until the colored object evaporated into nothingness. Maybe it wasn't the heat after all. I frowned and shook my head; I'd hoped to escape the presence of others—all others—after the humiliation of the briefings.

Thankfully, that CMO, Ratchet, hadn't tried to chase me down for more "research." Wash's parting words flittered through my mind, "Watch out for aliens. Being the only 'femme' here, you're in danger of being abducted as part of some ongoing social experiment." Yeesh. The whine of a high performance engine screaming at it's redline wafted faint across the shimmering desert thermal reflections and a bright red oval warped into existence before whipping around and vanishing again. Aliens. At least whoever it was had taken their game of hide and seek to the other end of the flightline. I could spot clean my jet in peace. The soothing exercise of wiping grease away and polishing shiny metals relaxed me. It centered my mind and granted precious solitude in which to just exist. And think.

Starting at the back of the plane, the aft, I began to work my way forward, wiping, scrubbing, rinsing. Just like the Karate Kid, "wax on, wax off." A smile tugged at my lips over the silly internal joke. When I reached the main landing gear, I pulled out a lube gun and began greasing up the joints in the white scissored bars that locked the gear into a fully down position.

The strains of racing engines kept surging around me from far off as I worked. They came closer and closer until they passed by in zips of Doppler affected sound before waning again. Apparently I wasn't the only one that found the midday desert solitude enticing. Crouching to reach the axle joints, I had a clear view under the fuselage of my jet of the fuzzy creatures frolicking on the other end of the tarmac. Heat radiation was distorting their forms in my vision. Two black smudges and a green one had joined the intermittently vanishing red smear.

The squeal of tires heralded a splash of silver that glided in circles between the others. An opaque canopy burst to life over one of the black smudges and the other one transformed, slamming a massive fist onto the concrete and narrowly missing the silver smear as it came around. I smiled at the concussive echoes that washed over me; I would have been annoyed too. There was a series of low decibel sounds that must have been an ensuing argument in their native language. The air around the red smear rippled heralding it's disappearance and the silver smear spun away again, chasing it's tail into the desert oblivion.

Turning back to my work, I realized that, had I been anywhere else, my uniform would be soaked through with sweat by now. The locals referred to the arid desert's thermal affects as a "dry heat." What that amounts to is all the water evaporates off your skin leaving behind the accompanying salt and minerals in an itchy, white crust. I knew I should return to the hangar soon and get some water to drink, no telling how much I'd been sweating if it dried off as fast as it came out. Already I was feeling the lazy drag of heat exhaustion. Wailing engines ripped through the stifling atmosphere; the aliens were playing nearby. I gathered my supplies, deciding to finish the other side tomorrow. No sense in putting myself in a coma over a potential accolade.

"Staff Sergeant Luccianna Smith."

Wham! I jumped straight up inside the wheel well, smacking my head against the landing gear door behind me. Curses streamed from my mouth as I craned my head around the offending door, rubbing the knot on my skull, "God DAMN—that fucking hurt! Son of a mother fucking bitch!"

"Your assimilation here will be without difficulty."

"Whaaat?" Was I about to be abducted? What did she mean by assimilation? Was that a she? Before me stood three ten foot tall robots, each identical in all but color, each balanced on a singular motorcycle wheel instead of bipedal legs. Green and Hot Pink were shoulder to shoulder, blue eyes staring at me with their heads cocked, while Blue was positioned directly in front of them, blue eyes narrowed and frowning at me.

Blue spoke, waving one hand in reference to the two behind her, "We are Arcee. We have been requisitioned to… 'relate' to you. Female to female."

I blinked several times. Must have hit my head harder than I thought.

Moving out of the wheel well, I kept to the shade under the jet's wing. Green Arcee rolled forward, handing me an icy bottle of water, then moved back into position behind Blue. Glancing down at the gift in my hand I noted it's deliciously cold feel against my scorched skin. "Thanks," I murmured. All three Arcees stared at me; I shifted my weight from foot to foot. She'd been ordered to "relate" to me? My gaze dropped to the ground between us. Wash's warning in jest about social experiments came back to me.

"So…" squinting up at the triune alien, "the males can't figure out the females in your species either?"

"Affirmative." I smiled at her.

"Maleness must be universal."

"Very much." She returned the smile with all three faces.

Swinging my arms front to back, I glanced around at the dusty landscape surrounding the flight line. I felt like a bug pinned to a board and put on display. Blue rolled a few inches on her wheel. Green and Pink exchanged a blank look.

"Okay. So…" My voice was quiet and timid.

Green whistled low.

Pink stared at the ground.

Blue muttered, "Yeah."

Flashing a toothy grin, I cracked open the water and gulped it down. She waited while I gathered my supplies, in a silent, awkward stance, three sets of arms akimbo, eyes ever watchful. Blue and Green then transformed in quick succession.

The Pink one hesitated, her head tilted to one side, "If you need a female to… 'relate' to…"

I snickered with an agreeable nod.

One corner of her thin mouth twitched upward into a playful smirk. She transformed and zipped off to join the other two.

Cadence calls drifted through the heat from further down. A squad of men were running in formation. Glancing over at them, my attention was caught by the aliens gallivanting down the runway. The three trucks carried a ponderous pace in comparison to their sports car counterparts. Red and silver vehicles, joined by a yellow newcomer, streaked toward the hangar in a dangerous game of tag. The line of trucks moved to the side in a hopeless effort to avoid becoming obstacles in the others' play.

Red aimed straight at the squad of men, vanishing with a wicked warp of visual light not more than fifty yards from them. Silver increased his speed, transformed in a flash of shining metals, flipped through the air, and landed in his corvette mode without missing a beat. The gray shirted men all crouched along the cement, heads swiveling to follow the acrobatic display. The soldiers then scattered at the sound of Yellow's tire screeching, sideways slide. The Camaro halted facing a few degrees off from exactly opposite the direction he had been traveling in. He fishtailed, whipped around and launched after Silver. No sooner had he passed by, but Red reappeared right next to the men picking themselves up off the ground. More than a few pebbles were thrown in his direction, but he paid them no attention, careening after his cohorts.

Shaking my head at the reckless display, I tried to resumed my trek to the comforts of the Air Conditioned Hangar, only to pull up sharp. Directly in front of me, all three trucks crossed the ramp to the desert wilds beyond. The big black Topkick, Ironhide led, red trimmed Trailbreaker followed, with a green Oshkosh Defense Medium Tactical Vehicle taking the rear. Ironhide grumbled that I should watch where I was going as he sauntered by, Trailbreaker gave me a cheery, coming through, and Hound chirped, "Pardon us Ma'am. Heavy Metal takes a while to haul around."

I chuckled at the green machine's quip but my attention was captured by the striking contrast of red pin striping down the sides of the glossy black Cadillac. Catching myself staring, I dropped my gaze to the ground, immediately steeling another quick peek at the friendly Autobot. If a truck could preen while doing nothing more than rolling forward, I was certain he was doing just that. The supplies dropped from my hand as I quickly covered my snickering smile.

A ripple of air announced the red Ferrari's fly by, and hot on his heels, the silver corvette slipped into donuts nearby. "Somebody's got an admirer!" he singsonged. My cheeks burned bright. As the trickster swung sideways into full throttle, a deep metallic pulsing sound bounded around me. I wasn't sure whether he had been commenting on my ogling of the truck or the truck's appreciation of said ogling, but his laughter made clear he'd gotten the reaction aimed for.

Four thirty in the morning. Again. Wash and I had worked out a schedule where I worked the day shift and he came in on the swing shift. Swings is traditionally a maintenance heavy shift and there would be plenty of training opportunities for him. Day shift is usually slower. I was intent on studying for promotion to Technical Sergeant. So it all worked out.

Mornings in the desert are deceptively cool, and I was thoroughly enjoying my walk from dorm to hangar. My quarters were in the building furthest back, which led to my weaving between maintenance buildings and around the two large Hardened Aircraft Shelters, known as a HAS, that housed NEST's C-17s. In between the two HAS's was a twenty by twenty square of grass with a solitary tree planted in the center. A singular bench sat under the expansive branches with a plaque on the backrest. Curiosity drove me to it.

"Jazz Park.

Dedicated in memory of the indomitable Autobot Second In Command, First Officer Jazz.

Mission City.

2008.

May your spark eternally light our way."

The aliens lost one of their own here on Earth? And one of such high rank? This put things in a new light for me. It brought a sobering sense of comradeship. Made them feel more… real? Human. They had suffered losses fighting for us. I felt an indebtedness to this Autobot Jazz that I had never met. Also a sadness that I had never had the chance to know him and could not carry his memory forward. Snapping my crispest salute to the plaque in his honor, I wondered at who he had been and felt the pang of a soldier lost. No matter the war, or the species, it was always tragic to lose a warrior.

"Rest In Peace, Jazz," I whispered, dropping my salute and moving on toward the hangars.

The jets took off and landed on schedule, completing their orientation flights and returning with minimal maintenance requirements. Tomorrow would start the real training exercises, but for now, it was nice to end the day early and with little effort. I wiped the grime off my bird and then pushed my tool box to the hangar feeling eager to get home and finish unpacking my meager belongings. With such a mobile lifestyle, I kept my worldly possessions to a limited few. My room could use some fluffy bath rugs and a new comforter for the bed, though. There was a small BX, on base, the military equivalent of a Wal-Mart, and my mind began wandering through happy thoughts of shopping in the next hour. Thus distracted by my own musings, I entered the main hangar.

A long line of Army soldiers stretched above me on one of the catwalks. In rapid succession man after man took off at a full run down the catwalk, leaping off the end with a whoop. They sailed through the air for a second striking various poses before a brilliant light bubble would rush over them, slowing their decent to the ground. Alongside the catwalk stood Trailbreaker. Appearing for all the world like a gunslinger the mech threw force field bubbles from a hole in the center of each palm. All banter halted when an anonymous voice decried my presence with, "Ice Queen alert!"

Nice. The black and red mech did a double take at me before frowning at the soldiers. I pretended not to hear the insult. To my surprise, the Autobot turned and cheerfully chirped, "Hey, Sergeant Smith. Want a turn?"

I shook my head, not bothering to look up at him. Height is not my friend.

This, apparently, wasn't an acceptable answer. "Aw, come on! I won't drop ya. It's fun!"

Another head shake.

"The guys are enjoying it."

Because that makes all the difference. I rolled my eyes and let out a sigh. He was gearing up for a more drastic persuasion. Bracing for it, I felt my shoulders tense.

"I promise it's fun," he wheedled. "Here! I'll show you." Before I could open my mouth to protest, a burst of light encased me in an iridescent bubble. Suddenly airborne, I stared in horror at the receding safety of the floor. Each hand and foot slammed against the curved walls of my floating prison to keep myself firmly in place. My rapid breathing echoed inside the force field and sound from outside carried that underwater distortion to it. As I rose painfully higher, my heart lurched inside my chest and my whole body slipped forward, rotating the bubble until I was upside down. Trailbreaker brought me bodily even with his own head-which was now the wrong way up.

I screamed.

The grin fell from his face plates, replaced by confused panic.

From across the hangar, and through the sound distortion, I could hear Ratchet bellowing. Either he spoke in Cybertronian or the force field just warped his words that much. Trailbreaker startled out of his concentration. The bubble around me popped. Air rushed passed. My hair lifted back and streamed behind me as I plummeted. Another scream ripped from my lungs.

The floor came at me with a mind boggling speed. It made no sense to me. I had been on the floor, perfectly safe, only seconds ago, and now I was about to splatter head first across the cement like a broken egg. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the yellow-green medic lunge, but he was too far away. Black hands fumbled after me, and missed, knocking me into a sickening head over heels spin. I wanted so badly to close my watering eyes, but the horror of my looming death kept them pinned open against my will. Bright yellow digits closed around my waist, bringing my decent to a gentle halt and setting me—right side up—on the ground. I clutched at the hand that held me, my legs not taking my weight at first. Swallowing hard against the waves of nausea, I looked up into a pair of bright blue optics nestled in a yellow rimmed silvery face. Bumblebee let out a low whirring whistle. I took that as a question, are you okay? I nodded, jerky and wide-eyed. The fingers uncurled, releasing me. I stumbled a few steps. Then the full impact of what just happened hit me. My eyes narrowed at the floor. My fists clenched. My jaw tightened. My teeth ground.

A hush fell over the entire hangar. You could have heard a pin drop as I radiated bloody fury. Whipping a fierce glare up to meet Trailbreaker's frantic gape, I stomped over to the mech's feet. "What. The. Fuck." I hissed through my teeth. "I said no!" My volume picked up with each word, "What gives you the right to just… just… pick me up like that?!"

Giving into the overwhelming urge, I began punctuating the syllables with a kick of my steel toed boot. The bot leaned away, but, true to the briefing, didn't dare move his feet. "How could you think that was a good idea?! I AM NOT A TOY, you inconsiderate, over reaching, excessively deranged, spare parts rejected, disaster zone quarantined, mechanized PENCIL SHARPENER!" I had to stop there. My toes hurt. Letting out a screech of rage, I whirled on the balls of my feet and raced out the side door, three gawking mechs and a several Army soldiers staring after me in stunned silence.

The blinding desert sunlight washed over me like visual bleach. Tears stung at my eyes and I couldn't be sure if it was the drastic change in brightness or anger mixed with fear at the manhandling I'd just received. I leaned back against the metal siding of the hangar scrubbing my hands over my face. Heat soaked through my uniform shirt searing into my back, but I had no intention of moving. With a metallic creak, the door next to me opened; I didn't bother to see who'd been sent on a welfare check.

"Sergeant Smith, is it?"

I peered through my fingers at Colonel Lennox. Jumping off the wall and into the position of attention, I snapped a salute. "Yes, sir!"

He returned the salute, "At ease, Sergeant." He glanced around, squinting in the late afternoon glare. Cocking his head to one side, he drew a deep breath. "Trailbreaker is…" He shifted his weight, searching for the right words. "…enthusiastically friendly. He didn't mean any harm—I'm not belittling what you just went through, but he hasn't been around humans for very long and…" Deep sigh. "He was just trying to impress you. He wouldn't have dropped you—"

I opened my mouth to protest that, but the Colonel held up a hand, halting my statement of the obvious.

"It takes a lot of concentration to project those force fields. When Ratchet yelled at him, it broke his concentration." Lennox looked down at his feet, then peered up at me through his brows. "If Autobots could cry, he'd be balling his optics out right now." He smirked. "He's horrified at what happened."

I stared impassively at the Colonel, my face a carefully schooled blank.

"He asked me to tell you how sorry he is."

I shook my head. I didn't care. He dropped me.

Lennox straightened up, moving back into CO mode. "Look, we all have to work together here. I understand if you want to be reassigned after this. But I do ask that you give it some time before you make that decision. They're a lot like us, but they're still aliens. This assignment isn't for everyone. No one will think any less of you if you back out."

My eyes narrowed. That was low. He knew I couldn't leave now. I'd be forever branded the little girl that got scared and ran. Heaving an explosive breath, I replied, "I'm not going anywhere, sir. I'm not a quitter."

He smiled. "That's what I was hoping to hear. Welcome aboard, Sergeant Smith." He clapped a hand on my upper arm and returned to the hangar. As soon as he was gone, I muttered to myself, "That doesn't mean Trailbreaker's off the hook, though."