The sun was out, and Sunstreaker resented the Earth a great deal for it. The amount of times he heard his nickname, Sunny, increased ten-fold on bright days. This meant that clear days were terrible days for the rest of the Autobots, but especially for the minibots.

The minibots were dim-witted assholes. Sure, they were semi-reliable in battle, but their near-constant prattle and insatiable ego meant that they were almost always too injured to actually participate. Perhaps this made them smarter than the average mech. It was too soon to tell.

Because the minibots were assholes, knocking them around was the official unofficial base sport. Officers turned a blind eye to infractions because they too indulged. With apathetic officers, the shortest mechs only antagonized louder, and in return received harsher beatings. The medics liked to pretend they were concerned. In reality, they appreciated the opportunity to critique the deftness of skill it took to make certain dents. The two and a half medics were sure that the dents that resulted from minibot beatings comprised a new art form created by the war-torn psyche. Nurse First Aid had, in his non-existent spare time, written a thorough overview of the movement which Hoist, the ex-medic, had dubbed Dentistry.

Hoist was an alien ex-medic, and therefore didn't realize that dentistry already existed on Earth. Not that it would have mattered: both were practiced by beings who dedicated their lives to causing people pain.

Hoist was an ex-medic, that is, he had once been a medic. Formerly. He was no longer a medic because he'd let someone die. It's a war! he argued, unsuccessfully. His infraction had occurred in the early days, when dying just didn't happen to mechs you knew. So a board of officers acting as judge and jury convicted him of a great load of things, including but not limited to malpractice, impersonating a doctor, and being excessively green. On his way to prison, the officers remembered that there was a war going on and medics, ex or not, were hot commodities.

"Why," one young hopeful named Pipes said, "I'm positive that having a medic will get you promoted, Sergeant." Pipes was right: having a medic would have promoted Sergeant. Hoist, however, was an ex-medic. Sergeant was not promoted. Pipes later died after being stepped on and forgotten, and subsequently and promptly bled out.

First Aid was neither a medic nor an ex-medic, though he desired to be both. He worked under Ratchet, Chief Medical Officer of the Entire Slagging Autobot Army as his official title went. Ratchet had a killer sense of humor, which, in an ironic turn of events, had killed no less than five mechs. First Aid was sure it almost killed him once or twice, and had justly considered bringing him up on charges. Fortunately for the Autobots, First Aid had decided Ratchet was a bitter old mech who deserved his gallows humor. Ratchet, having murdered five mechs in cold blood, refused to tell cocktail party jokes ever again.

Ratchet had not once been court-martialed for these deaths for several reasons. Firstly, as stated prior, medics were hot commodities; two, sometimes it paid to be the Prime's personal physician; and C) medics were crucial come battle. Which was where Sideswipe and Sunstreaker found themselves currently.

War is hell, the human soldiers would concede once they came back from it, bloodied and delusional. Cybertronians could not "come back" from war, and resented the humans so much that there had been several close but plausibly deniable hit-and-runs.

Currently, life was hell. The battlefield, a small vale in southern New Zealand, was sunny, breezy, and utterly horrendous.

For a society war-torn in half, you might think they'd be somewhat organized in their fighting. Not so – Cybertronians were chaotic in battle. From an outsider's perspective, no one seemed to know what the hell they were doing or what they were supposed to do.

Grand, stupid things happened on that field, including Hound being shot twice after slipping on a pond, Motormaster getting a kick in the ass by Rewind, and Sideswipe being crushed and nearly decapitated by Devastator. A lot of things happened after that part, but you don't need to know any of it.

What you need to know are two very important things: one, that Sideswipe had stood in that spot under Prowl's orders; and two, that Sunstreaker broke.

Bots assumed that when Sunstreaker finally did break there would be a lot more cursing and violent death. Well, they were wrong. He stood there and didn't make a sound. Half of his arm was missing, but so was half of Sideswipe. The Decepticons retreated, and he stood there. Ratchet had Sideswipe airlifted, and Sunstreaker stood there. No one approached him. He didn't see them, anyway. He stood there.

It was at this moment that Sunstreaker decided to quit. The Autobots, that is. He considered deserting, but only for a few breems. The likelihood of them both surviving for more than a vorn in the vast and unforgiving space that was outer space was laughable.

Sunstreaker always prided himself on being a survivor, and along with him, Sideswipe.

They could become mercenaries, but he considered that idea for no longer than two kliks.

Which only left him, and by extension, his brother, one option. To defect. The decision stung more than a little. The Autobots were after all a group of his closest co-workers.

Of course, the Decepticons would also try to kill them, they'd just be less efficient than Prowl. They'd be more forthcoming about it. After all, in every speech Megaton gave he urged Cybertronians to die - not for him, but for Cybertron. Megatron did not deceive. Prowl, however, was the reigning master.

Two months later, after Sideswipe was once again resting in their shared quarters, he brought it up.

Sideswipe's first response was a scowl. A few astroseconds later, it morphed into a pensive frown.

"What changed?"

"What?"

"Don't 'what' me," Sideswipe snapped. "What was so different about this battle?"

"It could have been our last!"

"Every battle could be our last!" Sunstreaker shoved Sideswipe.

"I know that, idiot. You almost died."

"Yeah, for like the two thousandth time…" Sideswipe scratched his neck, and winced as the ache started back up. Sunstreaker scooted over on the bottom bunk and gestured for his brother to lean back. He did, and Sunstreaker wound his his fingers through the stressed cables of Sideswipe's neck and shoulders.

"That's the point."

"Then what is the point, Sunstreaker? You gotta spell it out for me. I'm all high on sedatives."

Sunstreaker sighed. "Prowl is trying to kill us."

Sideswipe hunched forward as a choking sound forced its way out of his vocalizer. "What the fuck, bro? That doesn't clear up anything! Do you know something I don't?"

"He was the one who ordered you over to Devastator!"

"Sunstreaker, I love you, but I think you've finally lost it. No way Prowl is part of Devastator. He's not the one who crushed me." Sideswipe chuckled.

"I haven't lost anything," Sunstreaker said. He tweaked one of Sideswipe's horns. "I… " He paused. Then, softly, "I just really think we need to go. Now. Soon. We're gonna die here."

For the next hour, they were both silent. Sunstreaker finished massaging Sideswipe and then set to polishing him. He helped his ailing twin onto the top bunk. When he was about to cycle into recharge, he heard Sideswipe whisper into the darkness.

"Sunny, if we're gonna do this… "

"We have to do it the right way?"

"The rightest way." Sunstreaker frowned.

"Don't ca–"

"Yeah, good night, Sunny."