Gears in Motion

by Wisecrack Idiots

G1. He wanted to give something to the mech who had given him everything. What he never realized was that love has no price tags. A Father's Day tribute.

I've always loved Prowl and Bluestreak separately - but together these two are something else. An Enforcer-turned-tactician made stoic by the war; and a young survivor forced to watch firsthand his city's downfall as part of an insurgent's message to the world. Despite the pain they both endured, they somehow found in each other what they once lost: the willingness to connect and reach out to others, and the ability to hope and come to terms with one's self. Like the best of fans I gushed over their brotherly/adopted father-son relationship, yet had to wonder how it all came to be. And what better way to solve that riddle than by writing a fic? (Apologies in advance for the excessive length. -.-)

Warnings: It occurred to me halfway through writing this that I was essentially writing a TF version of 9/11. While I normally refrain from slapping warning labels on things, I'd like to warn readers in advance that this story might have potential triggers for those who have experienced CSR, shellshock, and survivor's guilt. Glad we got that outta the way. Let's get started, shall we?

---

Gears in Motion

There was a jaunty bounce in his steps as Bluestreak walked down the hall. Upbeat rock music trailed from his speakers, encircling him in his own little bubble of sound. Apart from the electric guitar solo drifting from the gunner the corridors were quiet.

The abnormal stillness around the Ark could be attributed to the recent scuffle early that morning. Just as the sun crested the horizon an alert had come in from some important politician (Bluestreak couldn't remember his name) of a raid on the North Anna Power Plant in Virginia. Autobots had been dispatched, and by late noon the group had returned aboard Skyfire, thoroughly exhausted but still largely unharmed. Gears and Windcharger were both in the medbay, one for burn damage and the other for shrapnel in his upper torso. Blaster and his cassettes were also holed up there, keeping a close vigil on Ramhorn while one of the rhino's legs was being rebuilt.

With everyone else either on duty or in their quarters resting, Bluestreak found little else to do as he strolled through the corridors. For a Friday night the Ark was surprisingly quiet, which didn't faze him too much. It gave him the chance to catch up on a demo that Jazz had lent him.

So immersed was the gunner in his music that he was caught by surprise when he rounded a corner and found himself near one of the officer-only conference rooms. By the looks of it, a post-battle meeting had just ended, if the sliding-open doors and mass exodus of mechs was anything to go by. Optimus Prime exited first, Ironhide by his side as the two engaged each other in deep discussion. Jazz sprinted out and jogged after the two much bigger 'bots, doubling his pace to catch up as they turned down the hall directly across.

At a much more sedate pace emerged Ratchet, with Prowl in tow. Without noticing him they continued down the hall in the opposite direction.

At the sight of the Second-in-Command Bluestreak felt his spark do a happy little jig. It always pleased him to see his mentor return safe and sound, especially from a battle where Bluestreak himself hadn't been present. Suddenly eager to catch up, he hastily muted his speakers and trotted down the hall. Ten feet away he'd neared enough to catch the tail-end of their conversation:

"…will have the post-op report on your desk tomorrow," Ratchet was saying. The medic sounded cranky, and he sure as the Pit looked it.

"Another datapad to add to the growing collection," sighed Prowl. At the odd inflection in his tone Bluestreak stilled, refraining from calling out and making his presence known. "Joy."

The medic tipped his helm to the side, enough to capture Prowl in his legendary periphery vision. "And here I thought you'd be throwing enough confetti to shame Mardi Gras."

The Praxian's spinal struts seemed to sink a little―a small gesture that few would have normally picked up on, but Bluestreak, so attuned to his mentor's mannerisms, recognized it for what it was. Exhaustion. "Enjoying one's job is one thing," Prowl explained in a voice that aimed for impassive, and fell a little short. "Unnecessary surplus work, however, is another matter entirely."

"So get someone else to do it for a change," Ratchet scoffed, in his usual blunt way. Sympathy for stupidity and the blatantly obvious was something he had yet to perfect, and probably never would. "Otherwise quit bitching about it."

A sharp look was spared on the medic, quickly morphing back into a look of immense self-control. "The only other mechs who can act as substitutes in my stead are Smokescreen, and Prime. As you are well aware, Smokescreen is still off-base in Vegas"―his tone made his opinion of his brother's choice abundantly clear―"doing 'reconnaissance' on alleged Decepticon activity. And Optimus already has his hands full dealing with the Attorney General. It would be unfair of me to impose."

Despite being able to only see the CMO's backside, Bluestreak had a fairly shrewd suspicion that he was rolling his optics. "Then save it for when he gets back."

"Unfortunately, the paperwork needs to be dealt with sooner rather than later."

"It's not anything new," Ratchet reasoned with a light shrug of his broad shoulders. "I mean, it's not like it's high clearance slag. You just need a signature saying that the contents have been peer-reviewed, right?"

"Among other things," the tactician muttered.

To Bluestreak's faint amusement Ratchet moved to rib the black-and-white in the side. "Look at it this way," said the medic, the nonchalance in his tone causing Prowl's doorwings to flick in undisguised annoyance. "It could be worse."

That was apparently the wrong thing to say.

"Oh yes. Because Ultimate Minibot makes everything so much better," Prowl shot right back.

That garnered a true bit of sympathy from the medic. There was the briefest clenching of hands, as if Ratchet were entertaining the thought of a pair of necks choking in his grasp. Probably red and yellow, if Bluestreak knew any better. Which he did.

"Those little glitches are playing that game again?" Ratchet asked, his voice as smooth as a sword being drawn from its scabbard.

"If the rumors are true, then yes, tomorrow," Prowl confirmed in an ominous undertone. "As if my schedule weren't tedious enough without having to take the time out my day to issue disciplinary actions."

A sigh eased out of the medic's vents. "At least two of the usual victims are safe in the medbay."

Leaving just Cliffjumper, Huffer, and Brawn, Bluestreak wordlessly supplied. He himself had been invited several times by the twins and Aerialbots to join in on the "fun," yet always declined. Friends or not, the sniper never felt comfortable with the game, even if he privately felt that Cliffjumper deserved being taken down a peg every now and then. His only stipulations were that it aggravated Prowl every time he failed to stop them.

They were nearing a fork in the hall, where the barracks and medbay lay in their respective directions. Still largely unnoticed by the pair, Bluestreak let himself fall back several steps, still within hearing distance without drawing attention to himself. It wasn't really eavesdropping. Not technically, anyway.

Medic and tactician paused to exchange parting words.

"If you catch any of the little fraggers, make sure to send them my way." The promise of unholy wrath glittered like chips of ice in the medic's optics. Ratchet drew up his chin a fraction, the threat of dire retribution not lost in his posture. "I'll make sure to sort 'em out. They'll be right as rain by the time I'm done."

"If there is anything left of them once I've caught them," Prowl vowed, expression unnaturally vexed. He gave a deep, calming breath, and the ageless tranquility Bluestreak associated with his mentor returned once more. "I will be retiring to my quarters for the evening. Should you require me for anything…"

Ratchet offered a wry smirk. "I'll know where to find you. Good night, Prowl."

The SIC dipped his head. "Good night, Ratchet."

With that said and done, the two 'bots turned and left.

His good mood feeling suddenly unsettled by what he'd overheard, the gunner backtracked in the direction of the rec room. If Prowl was tired enough to retreat to his room, then Bluestreak knew better than to disturb him.

The depressing turn his thoughts had taken was interrupted by the sounds of playful bickering and good-natured laughter. Intrigued, Bluestreak quickened his pace.

Spike, Carly, and Bumblebee were huddled in the center of the sitting area. There were several rolls of colorful duct tape around the humans' arms like gaudy bangles. A dozen empty tubes of wrapping paper were strewn about the space at their feet, with another tube in the yellow minibot's hands. He was attempting to, and struggling with, wrapping the sheet over a massive brown box that easily came up to Carly's shoulders. All three of them were adorned in Scotch tape and pieces of discarded paper, and there was a vaguely handprint-shaped glitter patch on Bumblebee's aft.

"You've got to cut it first, 'Bee," Spike was saying to the scout. "If the sheet's not the right size, then it won't sit right or fold correctly."

"I've never wrapped a present before," protested Bumblebee as he tried, and failed, to redo the crease. He stuck his glossa out of the corner of his mouth in concentration. "And the scissors are too big for me to use!"

"Maybe we should use a chainsaw," Carly joked, her attention half on the strips of tape she was storing on her left arm for later use. "That should be big enough. And it'll certainly cut through the paper."

"And the box, and the gifts in the box, and maybe our arms, too," Spike snorted. "Besides, we already wrapped the chainsaw. Do you have any idea how long it'll take us to rewrap it?"

The little spy lifted his head, about to reply, only to catch sight of Bluestreak lingering in the entranceway. "Hey, Blue!" he called cheerfully. Carly and Spike turned, and began enthusiastically waving to the gunner when they spotted him. Smile blossoming across his faceplates, Bluestreak strode over, his optics riveted to the half-wrapped massive box.

"What are you guys doing up so late? I mean, I know your curfew isn't for another hour so you don't have to drive home just yet, but it's awfully late by human standards, and I know Sparkplug doesn't like it when you're on the roads after dark." He tipped his head to the side thoughtfully. "What's with all the paper and tape? And why do you need a chainsaw?"

It spoke volumes of the kids' familiarity with the Autobots that they could wave aside the ceaseless jabber with barely a bat of their eyes. "Dad's still at work. He's pulling a late shift, so I can stay out a bit longer," Spike answered. "And the chainsaw's not for us―it's for Dad."

"For Father's Day," Carly explained when the sniper merely stared in puzzlement. "We got him a new toolkit, too."

"And a fishing rod, since he loves going out to Bull Run Lake," Spike cottoned on. He had resumed trying to flatten the stubborn wrapping paper against the surface of the box. He was rewarded with a noise of exasperation when the paper merely sprung back up like a belligerent weed.

"And I'm helping them, since the box is so big." Delight lit up Bumblebee's optics. He looked beside himself with joy to have been included in this obviously momentous occasion.

"But if you're only wrapping a few things, then why do you need a five foot high box? Couldn't you just individually wrap them all?"

At that, the boy gave a rueful laugh. "Well, it's sort of a joke," he scratched his hair. "You see, we sort…wrapped his gifts in one box, and then put that box in another box…"

"Like nesting dolls," Carly noted, beaming. "Only without the creepy faces painted on them."

"Nope. Just lots and lots of wrapping paper," Bumblebee laughed, and for emphasis he flailed his arms, showing off the scraps of paper that had inevitably found their way across his frame.

There was a miniature earthquake as Bluestreak sat on the ground with a soft thump. "So what is Father's Day?" he queried. Despite living on Earth for years he was still discovering new things about the humans' culture every day. Funny though, that he couldn't recall the holiday. Christmas overshadowed just about every festivity, with Halloween, Fourth of July, and (oddly enough) Valentine's Day making close runner-ups. The rest of the holidays out there were either too religious in nature or just downright bizarre for most of the Autobots to concern themselves with.

At that Spike tapped his chin. "Well," he began, clearly trying to put it in a way that would make sense to a species that didn't have biological progenitors, "in most societies family is a pretty important concept. If it weren't for parents, we wouldn't be here right now. Someone had to make you, even if they weren't necessarily the people that helped raise you. Everyone has a mom and a dad…or, uh, two moms or two dads, depending on who raised you." He gave an awkward shrug. "But anyway, we owe it to our parents for taking care of us as kids. Or just my dad, in this case," Spike noted, a shadow of sadness momentarily crossing his face.

"And since my dad is dead, Spike's letting me share his," Carly added with a playful smile at her friend. Spike was suddenly cheerful again, the momentary wistfulness passing.

"Yeah." He nodded. "Basically, Father's Day is for celebrating dads and doing nice stuff for them, as a way of saying thanks for everything they do for you."

The gunner gave an absent nod, his optics distant as he thought. "And it's tomorrow?"

"Yup," Bumblebee jumped into the conversation. "That's why we're trying to get this done as fast as we can. I can't wait to see the look on Sparkplug's face when he wakes up with this big-aft box in his kitchen."

"Me neither," Carly agreed, sharing a grin with her co-conspirators.

With a flex of his doorwings Bluestreak hauled himself to his feet. "Thanks for explaining the holiday to me. But I really need to go take care of something important, so I'll just leave you guys to your wrapping so you can get it done in time." He hesitated, then bent down and picked up a spare roll of wrapping paper. "Can I borrow this?"

"Sure," Spike assured. "I think we're almost done, anyway."

Bumblebee huffed as the wrapping paper once again defied him, getting further crinkled in the process. "Not at this rate, we're not."

"You're such an optimistic, 'Bee." Carly rolled her eyes.

Unbeknownst to the laughing trio, Bluestreak had quit the room. As the gray mech hurried toward the command deck a single image kept popping up in his processor, of black-and-white armor and a resigned expression. Without slowing his pace he strode directly past his own quarters, ignoring his own comment about the late hour.

He had a lot of work to do.

---

One moment everything was normal.

The next, Crystal City was under attack.

Turret fire and laser shots broke the sound barrier. Great, piercing spires crumbled to the ground in a chorus of groaning and warping metal. Shards of glass glinted in the air as they rained upon the city, the shimmering clouds of crystal dust like something out of a fairy tale.

Or a nightmare.

Over the roar of jet engines and collapsing buildings he could still pick out the screams. The screams of the dead and the dying, their last act of desperation and defiance against the end. It was an elegy only The Fallen could have loved, a cacophony of bloodcurdling noise that no creature should have been able to make. Fear personified, death incarnate.

He started to run.

Bluestreak knew he was going to die. Knew with a deep-seated certainty in his core that there was no way he could escape the carnage. Everywhere around him Cybertronians were pushing in a hive mind scramble, searching for safety in buildings whose structures had already begun to collapse. As the dark gray mech blindly pushed past other fleeing 'bots he felt the insanity of it all crashing down around him. He was a single mech among thousands, one individual swept away in a sea of faceless individuals just like him. To the Seekers over their heads they were nothing more than the tiny insignificant worms beneath the microscope, mechs whose names would be lost, buried alive in this city of collapsing crystal wasteland.

Bluestreak knew he was going to die like the rest of them.

Yet that did little to deter him from scrabbling beneath a wedged gap between the collapsed overhang of a building and the road, cowering in what protection the makeshift shelter could afford. At least there was the faintest chance he could avoid getting gunned down by the 'bots with red optics as they tore through the streets, opening fire on civilians.

Massive craters marred the streets from where bombs had hit. Those who hadn't been immediately killed by the intermittent detonations, or riddled with holes from laser shots, could be seen crawling away. One femme had only her upper torso left as she weakly dragged herself by the elbows. A mass of sparking entrails and gushing Energon was all that remained of her legs. The femme was bleeding out on the pavement before his optics, her own half-shuttered ones scanning the vicinity for refuge.

Suddenly, their gazes met.

Every part of his processor screamed at him to run out and help her. At least give her a pair of arms to die in, an embrace to hold on to as her spark slipped into the ether.

Bluestreak couldn't move.

When he tried jerking a foot forward he only managed to half stumble, crashing to his knees at the entrance of the crevice. Paralyzing fear constricted tightly around his spark, selfishly anchoring him to the spot. It was either die saving a stranger or save himself. And as the two 'bots watched each other, Bluestreak realized with a sickening jolt that he'd already made his choice.

When the femme registered the refusal her jaws parted—perhaps to beg him. Plead for help. Energon bubbled up from her throat from ruptured internal lines, the fluids frothing around her slacken mouthplates. White noise spilled out from her malfunctioning vocalizer as her systems shut down, one by one. Try as he might Bluestreak couldn't look away.

A shuddering spasm moved across what little left of her mangled frame. Despite the excruciating pain the femme must have felt she continued propelling her body forward. Toward him.

Unshuttered optics held his before her frame finally gave away. With a desperate look at him the stranger collapsed, chin sinking to the pavement as her CPU stopped. Even death couldn't take away the panic, the pain, the carnal fear engraved into her features during the last second of her life. Postmortem and her blank optics still somehow retained a wild light to them—the final struggles of a dying animal.

Had his tanks not already been empty he would have purged.

The trance-like spell that settled over Bluestreak was abruptly shattered by the sudden shouts and sounds of transformation. Peering out and upward from his shelter, he watched as the previously-grounded mechs with red optics rocketed up into the air. Almost all of them were Seekers. Triangular formations ripped through the sky, vapor and carbon trailing from their thrusters. Their sleek aerial choreography gave them the appearance of angels of death, beautiful, deadly creatures with enough firepower to level a city.

Within moments the sky was cleared of their attackers.

Had they retreated? Was the genocide finally over?

What pathetic hope remained promptly vanished as he saw a massive, heavier silhouette darken the sky miles over the city.

Only as the ebony shuttle's cargo bay slid open, and a shell plummeted toward the earth, did Bluestreak realize what was about to happen.

Lightning-fast survival instincts had him scrabbling from beneath the overhang before his mind could process the actions. With adrenaline-fueled speed Bluestreak grabbed the dark green carcass belonging to the lifeless femme. He had just enough time to drag the dead husk back into his shelter and cover his body with it before the bomb hit.

Ashen-gray smoke projected outward from the center of the city, the shockwave alone nearly strong enough to offline him as it ripped through the broken infrastructure. Even with the collapsed granite walls and dead femme shielding him the blast stilled managed to slam him against the wall.

Then came the fire.

It was like nothing he'd ever experienced. Even with the femme's frame negating the worst of the direct contact, he still felt the heat. It blistered across his plating like magma, hot enough to melt the exoskeletal armor of the femme partially to himself. A primal scream tore itself from his vocalizer as the fire seared him. Warnings lined his HUD and obscured his vision, barely able to keep up with the onslaught of internal and environmental data ]. Bluestreak heard himself cry, heard the roaring in his audio as the bomb scorched the world around him.

And just like that, it was over.

As suddenly as it came it left. A brief internal alert informed him of the massive damage: melted and burned armor, broken Energon lines, deep gashes and cuts, an open wound on his left leg from a laser shot, and a doorwing dislocated at the hinges, half torn-off. What he didn't see in the message he felt across his neural net: Every wire, every valve, every gear burned as if someone had taken a flamethrower to his protoform, had drained his body of Energon and replaced it with acid. The effort it took to ventilate air sent waves of raw agony through him.

Despite the heavy frame pinning him Bluestreak could still turn his head to the side, enough to peer out beyond the collapsed overhang.

He wished he hadn't.

Crystal structures lay either shattered in opaque blocks, or in watery pools of liquefied quartz and other precious minerals. The tallest structure standing came up no higher than ten feet. Whatever frames hadn't been instantly vaporized by the heatwave were jagged and torn. Only the vaguely bipedal shapes separated the once-living metal from the rehashed metal of broken buildings. Energon coated the ground like an oil slick, its black-blue sheen mirroring the isolated flames still burning across the area. Fires of every color as cobalt, iron, copper and boron burned. Their reflections blended together, a sky on earth that was as dark and primordial as the soot-stained night overhead.

Crystal City was gone.

As Bluestreak struggled to take it all in, to absorb the brutality and truth slowly breaking him down byte by byte, one detail overpowered the rest:

The silence.

Suffocating, oppressive silence. A vacum, a void, that muffled the crackle of the flames and sparking of circuits.

Silence meant nobody was talking. Nobody was talking because they were all—

Desperate and frantic to disprove that reality, Bluestreak tried to scream. He drew in a sharp breath and threw his helm back, entire body shaking with the effort to produce a noise, trying to vocalize with energy that wasn't there. Even if it was just him screaming, maybe another survivor would answer him. Chase his doubts away and prove that he wasn't by himself.

He didn't want to die alone.

No matter how hard he tried to cry out he could only summon disjointed static. For minutes he screeched mutely, panting hard from the effort. At some point during the attack his vocalizer had gone offline in his frame's efforts to conserve energy and redirect it to more important functions. His injuries were only exacerbating it. He couldn't turn it back on.

His left side went numb. It was all the warning Bluestreak got before his systems began shutting down, one by one. Thousands of errors scrolled through his CPU, accompanied by the downward pull of his conscience toward stasis. In vain he struggled to move, only to wince and cry out when the pain sped up the process. Just before his overtaxed systems dragged him under the frightening realization hit:

He was alone.

---

Within joors of the attack rescue squads had been dispatched. Once the initial shock of the news had abated the Autobots quickly regrouped, organizing search parties to scour the ruins for mechs requiring medical treatment. The fastest ships were deployed courtesy of the Hangar Master, a 'bot by the name of Azimuth, who had expressed deep concern and personal investment in the matter. At his behest and through the efforts of his crew everything was ready for nearly immediate departure.

Yet even with the knowledge that the best trackers had been selected for the task, and the shuttle brimmed with as many medics and supplies as they could spare, Prowl still felt ill at ease aboard the ship.

Amongst the various scouts and demolitions mechs the Second-in-Command felt out of place. Neither his function nor his looks matched those of the Autobots seated around him, all retrofitted with mods—motion sensors, thermal imaging, drills, trackers—for finding and extracting survivors. His selection for the mission had been on the basis that he had served briefly in Crystal City's precinct as an Enforcer. Before the war his captain in Praxus had relocated him, as the two cities were relatively close to one another. Serving there had given Prowl innate knowledge of the city's layout—something which was invaluable now.

That, and pride and rank wouldn't allow him to refuse Optimus Prime's request to accompany the teams.

So there he sat, forced to endure the uncomfortable silence as the soldiers around him rode out the flight with their heads down.

Sifting through his subspace, he withdrew the datapad specifically made with all information they had concerning the attack. While the act in itself helped distract him from the troops' collective mood, tactically it didn't provide him with anything new as he read and reread the intel. Everything recorded on the slate he'd already memorized: toward the end of the last cycle the Decepticons had invaded the territory in overwhelming waves. Large droves of Seekers had launched aerial attacks, nearly leveling the city within breems of the launch. Said data had been provided by border patrols that had witnessed the bombings from several miles outside city limits. Since then, news had stagnated.

Another reason why he specifically had been asked to go: to collect and update what info they did have on the attack. They were figuratively and literally flying blind toward their destination with only a few witness reports to go off of.

Such odds were rarely a cause for hope.

"Roller to the shuttle bay. This is your pilot speaking." Heads perked up as the intercom transmitted: "The Phoenix is approaching Crystal City. Three miles from the intended destination. Our ETA is five minutes. Strap yourselves in and brace for landing."

The last part was script from the docking procedures; everyone on board was already buckled down.

A heavy atmosphere settled over the shuttle bay's interior. One or two 'bots shuffled nervously in their seats. Toward the back exit Beachcomber began flicking one of his particle scanners on and off, much to Huffer's (loud) annoyance. He wisely stopped.

For the most part Prowl managed to pass off his own unease with nonchalance, staring doggedly at one of the interior walls. More than once several Autobots shot him questioning looks, as if waiting for him to say something. Given that he was the highest-ranking officer present it made sense that they would expect their SIC to do something: brief them, provide statistics, anything as opposed to sitting. The tactician was half-inclined to think that in their turning to authority they were expecting him to provide some form of comfort.

That might have been a bit characteristically over-optimistic on their part. What did they honestly expect him to say? Any sort of data he gave them now would be redundant and pointless. And had he not long ago tucked away his sense of humor into some remote, dark corner of his processor he might have laughed at the thought of them asking him for encouraging words. By no stretch of the imagination was he good at matters of the spark. A mech who couldn't handle his own emotions, Prowl was more than content with leaving the morale boosters to Jazz. Even Optimus, who could seemingly pull rousing speeches out of his aft, would've been a better candidate than him.

Preferring to experience and express feeling in small doses, the black-and-white was truly the last creature alive to turn to for comfort. The best he could offer his troops now was a steady calm to cling to, a role model for absolute serenity in the face of the devastation sure to follow.

With the knowledge of what lay ahead of them, Prowl doubted he could have provided comfort even if he tried. Not when his own spark was clenching painfully in his chest.

"By the Allspark..." He didn't know when Hound had decided to stand up and look out the window. Only when he spoke did he make his presence, and his discovery, known. Hound's breathy exclamation was lost under the rising swell of similar remarks, as several 'bots gathered around one of the portholes.

More voices joined his, a steady tidal wave churning with horror:

"It's gone...it's completely gone."

"Ah can't see a single building still standin' upright."

"Holy Primus! Look at all the bodies!"

Throughout it all Prowl resisted the urge to peer outside with them. There was no point when he'd see the damage up close.

That thought did little to settle his frayed nerves as his battle computer threw up the worst case scenarios. His expression darkened.

"We're landing now." There was the distinct sound of a vocalizer being cleared before Roller spoke again: "There aren't any flat surfaces to set the ship so the landing's gonna be a bit bumpy. Get your afts in your seats if you haven't done so already."

Troops hastily scrambled back to their seats as if they'd been tasered. The order managed to snap them out of the hypnotic sensation they had been subjected to when peering out to porthole. Yet once seated the fidgeting returned tenfold. More than one soldier was grimacing at was sure to come, while others bore hollow, deadened stares. Those who had restrained their morbid curiosity merely swapped looks, no doubt wondering over the extent of whatever destruction lay waiting outside.

There was a jarring vibration that passed though the hull, followed by the groan of the landing strips erecting atop what was surely rubble-strewn earth. "Shuttle bay doors opening," Roller chimed from the cockpit.

Air hissed from the hinges as the bay doors slid open, depressurizing. Blindingly white light illuminated the interior hatch, cutting through the darkness. Those with hypersensitive optics quickly shielded their faces and began recalibrating the settings.

"Autobots," Prowl called. He slid from his seat, bringing those around him to their feet as well. "I want search party Alpha to patrol quadrants 1 through 5. Beta, you'll be combing through 6 to 10. Gamma, you'll be following me. Delta will cover 11 through 15. The last sector goes to team Epsilon. Aerials, you'll be patrolling over the city. Send out an alert should you happen across survivors or enemies. If anyone encounters Decepticons or other likewise threats, do not engage unless under open fire. Stealth should be your number one priority until reinforcements arrive. Medics, I want one to accompany each search team, with a minimum of at least three remaining with The Phoenix at all times. Keep your channels open. Radio silence will only be utilized if near hostiles."

Thirty pairs of optics stared back at him. It was like gazing into a kaleidoscope of emotions.

Prowl blinked, but the disorienting effect didn't go away like he'd hoped.

"You have your orders. Be thorough, be smart, be safe. Report back at 1500 hours. Dismissed!"

Affirmative nods and salutes answered, followed by a few "Yes, sir" as the units began pouring toward the hatch ramp. Prowl held back, letting the bulk of the traffic out before himself. At last the tactician moved toward the shuttle exit. Mentally bracing himself for the worst Prowl stepped out onto the ramp.

Dawn was cold when it rose over the dead metropolis.

Upon adjusting to the harsh glare of the sun his battle computer reeled, taken aback by the sheer magnitude of the damage. Metal beams and crystal structures jutted from where they had been slain, like skeletal forests, charred and blackened by the intensity of the heat. Wispy tendrils of smoke rose from some of the more flammable metals, such as lithium and titanium, with embers still struggling to reignite. As Prowl descended the ramp and padded over the ground clouds of ash and dust stirred at his feet.

Only when he caught Beachcomber glancing in his direction did Prowl realize he'd been gaping. Hastily clamping his jaw shut, the Second spun around until his optics fell on his teammates. "Hound, Blaster, Compass, First Aid, Trailbreaker, let's move out."

The first hour of the search garnered little. The bulk of their time was spent pausing to scan frames for spark pulses, or turning over debris in hopes that there were Cybertronians pinned and trapped underneath. Hound and Trailbreaker alternated between visually inspecting trails that might lead them to refuging survivors, or switching through various settings in their optics to distinguish heat signatures. Blaster—with Eject and Rewind acting as impromptu amplifiers—had hooked himself up to his symbiotes and tried bouncing resonance feedback across the public channels, hoping someone would hear the signal and bounce back. Meanwhile his remaining cassettes prowled the streets, pushing aside rubble or (in Steeljaw's case) scenting for fresh Energon. Compass, a femme who served under Jazz in Special Ops, was polarizing metal to help clear out obstructions.

As the second joor crept by Prowl found himself succumbing to resignation.

Optimistically, they had hoped to find a few hundred survivors at most.

They had yet to find one.

"Blaster, take your symbiotes and proceed south. Follow toward the end of the street and loop around until you arrive back at the beginnings of the business district. Compass, please accompany him and help remove any debris obstructing his signal. Several of the compounds contained basements—if there were any 'bots sheltering down there then they might hear your call and respond."

By the morose and mentally-exhuasted looks on their faceplates, they likewise felt such efforts were needless busy work. Fortunately they complied without protest. With a grunt the orange Communication Expert unplugged himself from Eject and Rewind, before calling over the rest of his posse. With an equally weary grimace Compass followed, gauntlets crackling with tendrils of electricity as she clanged them together.

"Where do you want us to head?" asked Trailbreaker from where he had been kneeling amongst several toppled crystals.

Icy blue optics swept across the area and took inventory before he settled on a reply: "Have First Aid accompany you south as well, and head in the opposite direction of the others once you reach the intersection. Your odds might increase, given that district of Crystal City was a major traffic zone. Follow any Energon you cross; there's a chance that the fresher spills might simply be from bleeds on still-alive civilians needing medical assistance."

"Like that thought didn't already occur to us," Hound sighed.

Trailbreaker regarded the tactician with a small frown. "What about you, sir?"

"I'll follow the street we're currently on and backtrack down it. This road comes to a dead end. I'll proceed to the business district and we'll rendezvous there."

Trailbreaker nodded. "Makes sense," he murmured, more to himself than anything. Unfocused optics stared out over the sea of rubble and corpses. For a klik the defensive strategist merely stood rooted to the spot, looking for all the world as if he couldn't bring himself to keep searching in vain.

Just as the Second began wondering whether or not to repeat his order, Hound spared him of the effort. A hand gently yet firmly placed itself on his friend's shoulder, shaking him from his haunted reverie. Quietly, the tracker urged, "C'mon, 'Breaker. Let's keep moving. We're almost done."

"Yeah..." His voice was distant when he at last found the strength to respond. "I just don't get it, though."

"Get what?" Hound repeated.

Gesturing with an emphatic hand, the black mech swept his arm across the wasteland before their optics. Neither mech noticed that behind them, while Prowl gave the illusion of appearing immersed in a data slate, his attention was completely focused on the pair. "You saw all of the supplies in the rubble. Things that the Decepticons could've pillaged and ransacked to help fuel their army. Why'd they bomb Crystal City, and take nothing? What was the point of wasting ammo on leveling this place if they didn't gain anything from it?"

"Because Megatron is crazy." Hound gave a disgusted snort and shook his helm. "Maybe he just woke up one morning and decided that he was in the mood for a little R&R, nuclear-style. Isn't that pretty much what he did in the Senate?"

"I suppose so," Trailbreaker agreed, his musing tone replaced with one of immense dislike for the tyrant. His footsteps echoed eerily over their surroundings as the scouts resumed walking with First Aid in tow. "I just hope that this rescue operation wasn't for nothing. Primus, can't we luck out and find at least one..."

And just like that Prowl was by himself. Their conversation drifted off in the wind, the formerly eerie stillness now amplified without the presence of his comrades. Apart from himself and the makeshift graveyard, he was absolutely alone.

Unnoticed by the teams scattered throughout the city, a lone shiver ran down his spinal struts. Whether from the sudden chill the wind carried or the emotions crowding in his spark, he couldn't say. Either way he dismissed the errant reflex and proceeded on his course. While keen optics roved across the landscape dexterous fingers typed into the datapad, jotting down every bit of intel he could gather.

Apart from looking for survivors Prowl was taking inventory of any valuable materials lodged in the debris. Trailbreaker had been right—there was a massive amount of supplies here, fit to be salvaged once the initial search-and-rescue was concluded. Supplies which they desperately needed. Anything not irreparably damaged in the assault could be dug out of the ruins and recycled, or broken down for parts. The engineering division was burning through supplies (no thanks to Wheeljack), while medical was in near constant demand for tools and gear. Not to mention the rather lengthy request list submitted by Red Alert...

Gazing quietly down at the empty frame at his pedes, Prowl couldn't help but agree with the black mech's earlier observation. Crystal City was more than just a tragedy—it was a waste. Nearly everything here held some sort of value, either in utility or economically. Yet here it all was, either damaged or destroyed, not a servo seized.

Why didn't Megatron simply conquer this place and use it as an outpost?

Sharp clicks and squeals drew the black-white mech out of his thoughts.

With a start the tactician drew back a foot, in time to watch several glitch-mice dart between his legs. The tiny scavengers whistled and squealed at each other as they scampered over glass and metal. One of the tiny creatures paused in the middle of the street, its wire-whiskers twitching, before it darted beneath a lean-to structure formed by a caved in building wall. Three more glitch-mice converged on the location from different sections of the area, their faces coated in Energon from gorging on corpses.

The part of Prowl not so heavily jaded by the carnage balked at the thought of where those vermin were heading, and what they intended to do. It was illogical, the thrill of disgust and revulsion that churned in his tanks as he watched them scurry beneath the overhang. But for some inexplicable reason, in that instant he couldn't bear the thought of listening to them feed on the dead.

Swearing viciously under his breath, the Praxian marched over to the lean-to and dropped to his knees, making sure that the charging whine of his acid pellet rifle could be heard. From within the shaded structure he could see several of the creatures already making a meal out of a dark green frame. Two others were prodding and sniffing at open gashes on a winged mech's side.

Scooting inside had the desired effect. With a terrified squeal the swarm took off running through cracks in the building walls. A breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding eased past his mouthplates. Drained, Prowl's doorwings sagged low on his back, taking a moment to let the weight of the destruction finally catch up to his processor. For a long moment he stared at the dead 'bots in front of him. Something about being inside the shelter-turned-tomb caused the numb feeling over his spark to alter, enough for the gravity to finally catch up. He felt...unease. Grief for the pair in front of him, who had obviously thought they would be safe inside the structure. Only to die so horrifically.

It was only when his doorwings scraped against the back wall did Prowl realize he had rocked back on his heels to sit. Unfortunately, the motion disturbed the ash collecting in the crevices. A shower of dust rained down over his head and poured in through his vents. He coughed, his throat tickling from the grime clogging his intakes. Air hissed from his internals, followed by dust as he flushed his vents in an effort to clear them.

He activated his scans to run a brief diagnostic on himself. Better be sure he hadn't inhaled dangerous particles mixed in with the ash.

As he activated his scanners, an EM field he hadn't expected to feel flared against his own. Frail. Flickering.

Alive.

Optics widened in shock. Whirling to face the two still forms, Prowl hastened to their side, liberally scratching his knees in the process. Shaking hands struggled to tear the half-melted green frame from the gray one beneath. A wrenching creak-snap signified the break between the two 'bots as he lurched back with the momentum. Throwing the half-warped frame to the side, Prowl inched closer, running his palms over the dented and gouged out metal of the gray mech's chest. Sure enough, his hands confirmed what his scanners had already detected: a shaky, sputtering pulse beneath the metal panel. A spark.

First Aid, he hailed over the comm. lines. Report to my coordinates immediately. I require medical assistance at my location.

Did you injure yourself? the Protectobot radioed back.

No.

Heavy static filtered through his end of the transmission. Did you find a—

Yes. One.

I'll be right there, sir! Give me a moment to gather my med kit and meet you there. First Aid, out.

Satisfied that the medic would be there soon, Prowl returned to mapping out the damages on the survivor's frame. He was a gunmetal gray, his frame fairly sporty in design, accentuated by a set of doorwings jutting from his back. Only a few splashes of color helped break up the overall gray layout, like the dark red chevron firmly mounted to his helm. Not unlike his own, Prowl mused.

Carefully, the SIC reached over his side to begin pulling him out from under the collapsed building. Just as his fingers tightened around an armor slate the mech's optics came online. Dimly lit, the milk-white lenses spiraled, trying to focus on his surroundings. The 'bot blinked once before his gaze finally fell on Prowl's astonished face.

The Neutral came alive. Weakened limbs lashed out. White noise crackled from his vocalizer as he struggled to defend himself despite his massive injuries.

Prowl didn't hesitate in pressing his palms against the survivor's chest, gently yet firmly holding him down. The last thing he needed was for the 'bot in his confusion to hurt himself, or his rescuer. "Easy," the tactician said, hoping his tone came across as non-threatening. "Please, desist with moving or you'll only exacerbate your wounds."

Something in his words caused the gray mech to pause. Seizing his chance, Prowl pressed on:

"My name is Prowl. I'm an Autobot. My comrades and I are searching for survivors to administer medical treatment and provide them with shelter. I'm here to help." Softly, he murmured, "I promise, I will not hurt you."

The last dregs of uncertainty drained from the gray mech's face as he let his helm fall back. Tremors passed through his marred, broken armor. He gave a long, excruciating blink, the emotions in his optics warring between fatigue and blind trust. A long swallow forced the cables in his throat to clench tight. For a moment he seemed to linger on the verge of speech, his panic-filled face transitioning through several different pained expressions as he labored to speak.

Prowl let his hand stroke down the stranger's side with the awkwardness of someone who knew he was supposed to do something, but wasn't quite sure what. He had never been particularly adept at administering comfort, and could only keep petting his side in a hope that the gesture was doing something.

A whimper, the first true noise he'd made, escaped him.

Fearing his touch had caused the distress Prowl made to remove his hand, only to stop when an unexpected burst of strength had the gray mech grabbing his arm. The now violently shaking appendage held his arm in place. Unsure what to do, Prowl waited.

A wrenching gasp escaped the 'bot as he moved Prowl's hand back to his side.

"Please..." The word was so garbled that Prowl could barely make it out. Static clicked furiously in his vocalizer as the stranger all but clung to him, clearly struggling to online his vocal processes. White optics locked onto blue optics, the intensity in them blinding. Prowl refused to look away.

Finally, he managed to choke out: "Please...don't leave me."

Surprised by the request, the black-and-white froze. He was doubly surprised when he heard himself speak before he could gather his thoughts. "I won't leave you."

The promise did it. Real, honest ease soaked into his face as his grip on his hand slackened. Through the panic and horror brimming in his optics a flicker of gratitude broke through, like a ray of sunlight piercing darkness. Seemingly safe in his rescuer's hold, the young 'bot slipped back into stasis, the emotional drain finally taking a toll on his injured frame.

When the field medics arrived they found Prowl still crouched beside him, holding the gray mech's hand.

---

At precisely 7:00 a.m. Prowl stood in front of his office.

Even though his shift didn't start for another hour the tactician had long ago fallen into the habit of showing up early for his work. Today, thirty minutes earlier than usual, given the mountain of datapads he knew awaited him on the other side of the door. Knowing how long it would take to go through all of the files gathered on his desk, he'd opted to forgo his morning Energon and proceed directly.

That didn't mean he was necessarily looking forward to the prospect.

His calm mask firmly in place, Prowl keyed open his door and stepped inside.

And did a double-take.

He was pretty sure that there had been at least several piles in his inbox and on his desk when he'd locked up for the night, with several more stacked on his filing cabinet.

So why, then, were half of them missing?

A prank was the first thought that occurred to him, and he had to physically bite back the desire to seethe in frustration. As if planning that game wasn't bad enough, someone had the audacity to distract him by making him hunt down his errant reports?

Snorting, Prowl strode around his desk and picked up one of the few remaining datapads―a mission statement which required a second signature―and gave it a precursory glance, worried he might find something tampered with. Instead, much to his amazement, the screen lit up directly at the bottom of the page, where Optimus Prime's elegant scrawl could be clearly seen underneath his own.

With a sudden inkling in the back of his mind, Prowl proceeded to look over the next datapad―and sure enough, this one (an inventory notice for the armories) was signed off on too. Every report that had required dual authorization from at least two officers had been given the go-ahead.

Suddenly, several hours' worth of overview and peer corrections had been done.

To top it all off they had been arranged on his desk and/or filed alphabetically by department.

For a long, bewildered moment the tactician could do little more than stare at the unexpected charity.

Again Prowl looked over Optimus' signature. The logical conclusion was that at some point in the night the CO had come in and proceeded to go over the paperwork, filling in what needed filling in, before taking the datapads specifically for his briefings back to his own office.

A bemused smile tugged at the corner of his lips, an honest, unrestrained gesture. Of course the Prime would have thought nothing of it, even with his own duties to attend to. That was just who he was.

The Second stood from his chair and exited the room, walking down several doors and poking his head inside the familiar spacious office.

"Prime, sir?"

Their leader looked up from whatever he'd been working on. He blinked in mild surprise before offering a welcoming nod. "Yes, Prowl?"

The tactician straightened. "I wished to thank you for assisting me in my work the night before, despite the inconvenience to yourself. It gives me the opportunity to see to my other duties." Had Prowl not turned to leave at that very moment he would have seen the shock on the CO's face. "That is all, sir. Thank you."

Not willing to overstay his welcome beyond what was necessary, Prowl continued on his way.

"But…," Optimus said to the empty room. He clicked down his battle mask and frowned. "But I didn't do any of that."

---

He got the call four days after their search.

In direct relation to the attack work had steadily been piling up. Reports were constantly coming in as the departments sent intel back and forth, in an effort to compile what little they had. All of it was underscored with increased urgency and an emphasis on fortifying bases. There was an understandable worry over whether or not Autobot bases would be targeted next, none more vocal about it than Red Alert. Despite the numerous officer meetings that had been held since their return they had absolutely no clue what the Decepticons were trying to achieve through Crystal City's destruction. Theories were volleyed back and forth, with a few halfhearted proposals proffered up to fill in the gaps. At the end of the orn the only thing Prowl had to show for it all was a sizable pile of datapads and a growing headache that had acutely placed itself directly behind his right optic.

He was halfway through authorizing ammunition transport to Simfur when an incoming communiqué interrupted him. Pausing mid key-stroke, the tactician calmly hailed the caller over his radio. This is Autobot Prowl.

It's Ratchet. The exhaustion in the medic's tone was nearly palpable. His voice sounded coarse and rough, like someone had taken a sandblaster to it. Requesting your presence in the medbay immediately.

The unexpected summons was enough to halt Prowl's typing. Narrowing his optics slightly, the tactician stared into his monitor. I was unaware that I was on the roster for a medical checkup. Did you schedule me for a malware upgrade?

No, although I should probably do that sooner than later. The survivor from Crystal City was just brought online. He wants to speak to you.

That was why he was being deterred from his work? A brief flicker of annoyance passed through him. Nonetheless he politely demurred, While I'm pleased to hear the good news, surely he would want to speak to Optimus? After all, the Prime heads our faction and could explain his situation better—

No. He asked specifically for you. First thing he did once he stopped panicking and was lucid again was ask to speak with the mech who saved him. From what the reports read you were the one who found him. Given what the kid's been through I'm not about to deny him that. Get down here now. That's an order.

With that said Ratchet cut the line.

Sighing faintly, the Second-in-Command signed off and pushed away from his desk. The trek through the base down to the medbay was an uneventful affair. Yet as he neared the CMO's domain he found a sudden leaden quality in his soles. One of the many qualities which he notably lacked was adaptability; hence his overcompensated planning skills. In any given circumstance Prowl functioned best when held all of the cards in his hand, had adequate time to prepare.

But this?

There had been no warnings, no heads-up. Just an order to haul aft downstairs and talk with the sole survivor of an entire genocide. It made him feel unsettled, even if he would never admit such a thing aloud for fear of being thought less of. He didn't know what to say. He had nothing, and had been told nothing. Couldn't Ratchet at least have had the decency to give him some kind of warning, or at least hint as to why the Neutral wanted to speak to him? A roiling churn in his tanks made the tactician feel somewhat sick with apprehension. Ruthlessly he shoved the feeling aside and slid past the crystal doors.

Medbay proper was filled with half a dozen medics scurrying about, either running back and forth with tools or tending to the few patients present. He spotted First Aid and Hoist at a glance, and caught a glimpse of Pīpō heading inside the supply closet.

A flash of red and white at the corner of his optic had him switching direction toward the ICU. Ratchet was just emerging from one of the private surgical suites when he caught sight of his commander approaching. Lips thinning in a weary look, he beckoned Prowl over. "Good. You're here. He's through this door." The medic gestured to the room from which he'd emerged. "I don't think I need to tell you he's been through a lot. Just...be gentle with him. Your usual charming self should suffice."

Prowl arched a skeptical brow at that. His expression then schooled itself into its regular calm, serene air. "I will be careful, Ratchet. Nor will I do anything to deliberately upset him. You have my word."

"It's not your word I'm worried about so much as your definition of 'tact,'" snorted Ratchet. "It's not what you say, but how you say it. Keep that in mind."

"I will not overstep my boundaries," Prowl assured. "Although I must admit, I'm pleased to finally hear that you've begun practicing what you preach. Your patients must be doubly ecstatic."

A surprised chuff of laughter left the medic as he lightly flicked Prowl on the chevron. "It keeps them honest, and me sane. No one's complained about my methods yet. And Sideswipe doesn't count, so don't even go there."

Prowl refrained from returning the bout of amusement, although he did briefly incline his head. "I wouldn't have bothered. I'm of the opinion that Sideswipe benefits from your ire, even if he doesn't necessarily retain the lesson from the experience."

"Tell that to him and his slagging brother." But the medic seemed to realize the game was over, and let the running commentary end as the tactician went to palm the door open. "And don't start badgering him for information, either!" Ratchet growled.

Prowl didn't directly respond, instead choosing to nod in acknowledgement before he stepped inside the ICU. Once the doors hissed shut behind him he turned to face the mech bundled on the berth.

The scorch marks he recalled from when he'd found him had obviously been sanded down. Old, damaged armor had been repaired, with only weld marks showing where gaping wounds had once been. Optics formerly dim with low energy now glowed fantastically bright. The Neutral shifted, and the motion caused his doorwings to fan out behind him.

Correction—doorwing.

Instead of two back-mounted panels there was only one. The damage had obviously been extensive enough to ruin the hinge or the entire wing itself, warranting its removal. Without the second appendage the 'bot looked off-kilter and vulnerable.

As soon as Prowl had entered the small mech had jerked upright, like someone had come up behind him with an electrical prod.

"Good afternoon." He watched Prowl with wide optics as he dragged a chair over and took a seat a respectable distance from the berth. "My apologies for taking so long to get here. My name is—"

"Prowl," the other mech supplied. He glanced down at the hands folded in his lap. "I remember who you are. You found me."

That caught him slightly off guard. Given how disoriented he'd been when he had discovered him, Prowl doubted how much the young survivor would have retained from the encounter.

"I know this is a superfluous question, but how are you?" There. Nice and simple. A safe place to start.

The gray Neutral looked away. "I'm not really sure how to answer that, since I don't really know what to feel. Except numb, maybe."

Never mind, then.

"Is there..." Prowl cleared his intakes. "Is there something that I may..." There was a question in his voice, an unspoken request for a designation.

"Bluestreak." The Neutral shyly looked his way. "My name is Bluestreak."

"Bluestreak," echoed Prowl as he committed the name to memory. "Is there anything that I may provide you with, or bring you?" With his rank at least he was afforded the luxury and the ability to offer him whatever he wanted, within reason, of course.

White optics abruptly turned back to him. "Everything I want I can't have," he whispered, and the words thundered through Prowl like the pounding of a waterfall. His friends, his coworkers, his exclusives, anyone he'd ever known were dead. That waterfall was frothing with blood.

He berated himself viciously for his thoughtlessness.

Again, white optics turned to stare at him, and for the first time the tactician saw in addition to the physical pain and fear a hollowness. Ghosts danced behind the lenses, specters sifting in his gaze, all the haunts and horrors as much a part of him as they were the wreckage that lay hundreds of miles away. Looking for all the world like they couldn't wait to claim the last victim.

Vaguely ill, Prowl wondered how long it would take before he died, too.

Neither spoke for a minute.

"Thank you," Bluestreak suddenly blurted out.

"For?"

"For saving me," he said simply.

"You're welcome."

Again, uncomfortable silence, with neither mech willing to look the other in the face.

"If you wish to talk...," Prowl began, clearing his intakes, "if there is anything I can do to help, I am only a comm. line away. Please do not hesitate in calling me, should you require my assistance." He sensed that there truly wasn't much more he could do, and felt a prickle of regret knowing how little he'd done. At least he could leave with the knowledge that he'd offered what he could.

The SIC made to stand from his chair.

"Wait!"

As if Prowl had never moved from his seat he leaned forward attentively, with his hands braced on his thighs. "What is it?"

Beyond the slither of fear that shone in Bluestreak's expression, there was another emotion. Prowl found that he couldn't put a name to it. "Who did this?"

There was no mistaking what he meant.

"They call themselves the Decepticons." Finally, something that the SIC could give him. Information. Closure, perhaps. "Their leader is a mech who goes by the name Megatron."

"They have red optics," murmured Bluestreak. His empty but not-quite-empty stare bore into his. "Yours are blue."

A rather obvious thing to say, but Prowl resisted the impulse to correct him. "Yes."

After lingering for a moment on some unknown decision, the Neutral lifted his hand. Gray fingertips lightly grazed the dermal metal just below Prowl's cheek, and he resisted the reflex to pull away. Something in the survivor's mind seemed to click at the contact, and his optics widened.

"You're real," he breathed out.

Lacking a proper context for the strange phrasing, Prowl couldn't find anything to say to that.

But on some instinctive level that defied words the pieces were coming together. Like a dreamer sloughing through the wisps and tendrils of dusk looking for the part that wasn't in his head, the touch was breaking through the barriers. Separating where the harsh nightmares ended and the waking world began. At last there was an anchor in the eye of the hurricane. The world that had been spinning so frighteningly fast had finally, finally, come to a stop.

Of all the things Prowl had expected, the last was seeing his reflection superimposed over a sudden rush of color in the previously white optics. The residual traces of Neutrality faded out in the spirals and glass, replaced with a deep glow of royal blue.

His hand remained hanging between them.

"Can I join the Autobots?" Bluestreak begged. "Please?"

Against all damnable logic, Prowl couldn't find an explanation for reaching up and resting his hand atop the other 'bot's in a vain attempt at reassurance. "Of course you can."

If being an Autobot was the farthest thing from being a Decepticon, then Bluestreak gladly made that choice.

---

Figuring out their patterns hadn't been easy. For months Prowl had chased dead ends, his attempts to catch the criminal element in the act coming up fruitless each time. Where he excelled in tracking down and outwitting his prey, he'd met his match in Sideswipe. The spawn of the Unmaker was actually quite clever when he wanted to be, and made it a personal game between himself and the Second to see to it that Prowl was driven up one wall and down the other.

Amongst the various activities the red hellion indulged in (black marketing, illicit brewing, infighting, and many, many other things Prowl had privately raged over), the one Prowl could never really catch in the act was Ultimate Minibot.

Somewhere amidst the insanity of the war that had destroyed their home world the twins had developed a game―the word "game" loosely describing what was really just a bunch of morons selecting a victim to punt across the field like a living soccer ball. In essence the game boiled down to

a.) choosing an agreed-upon date to play

b.) finding a "ball"

c.) and keeping the commanders from catching on.

For a time, they'd succeeded, and none of the brass were the wiser. Until a liberally dented Cliffjumper, ranting and swearing, had stormed into Prime's office and demanded blood.

Since then Prowl had made dedicated attempts to put their tomfoolery to rest. Only it seemed that neither twin liked that, and interpreted it as a challenge before upping the ante. To add insult to injury, each time he questioned them the two warriors would brandish the very rules Prowl had helped to write, and claim that since he had no real proof of their involvement then, technically, they couldn't be punished.

How the tactician loathed their love for loopholes.

But this time, this time Prowl had played his cards well. After a solid month of digging through his sources, at last, it seemed, he would be able to put the Pit-spawned game to rest.

At least, that had been the forgone conclusion when Prowl arrived at 47.5236° N, 128.6290° W, in a clearing several miles from Mount St. Hilary expecting to find the culprits setting up their game.

Instead, a small herd of deer paused in their grazing to watch the metal alien as he paused outside the grassy area. He stood there a second longer, his blank features studying the surrounding field and forest, before he calmly hailed the Ark over his comm. line. Prowl to Skyfire.

Skyfire here, the scientist replied. What can I do for you, sir?

My apologies for bothering you on your day off, but would you mind transporting me back to base? I'm quite a ways off, and the terrain is hardly accommodating to my alt mode.

Sure, no problem, Skyfire easily said. Once the coordinates were transmitted he radioed back, his curiosity evident. You realize you're practically in the middle of the forest? What are you doing out there?

Wasting my time, apparently. He failed to elaborate further on the matter, and Skyfire accepted it without a peep as he prepared for takeoff.

---

There was a knock on the door.

"Hold on, I'm coming," Sideswipe called. He paused and set down his controller, easily ignoring Sunstreaker's annoyed glare as Mario Kart Double Dash was put on hold.

On the other side of the door stood Prowl, emanating waves of pissed-off tactician.

"If you want to borrow the game you're gonna have to wait," Sideswipe said by way of greeting. "Fireflight has dibs on it after Grimlock, and I'm pretty sure even you don't want to argue with―"

"Why weren't you at your intended location?" Prowl cut to the chase.

This time it was Sunstreaker who replied, craning his neck far enough to peer behind his brother's frame from where he sat in their quarters. "Why weren't we where?"

"Your 'game,'" replied the Second. His expression, while still mild, fooled neither twin: he was mad. And he had every intention of wrestling the truth from them. He was not to be thwarted again. "I know you two were intending to play today. I even have a list of your cohorts, and the names of several anonymous witnesses who can confirm your involvement. So, I'll ask again: why were neither of you at that field?"

A knowing gleam crept into Sideswipe's optics, and Sunstreaker began to smirk. "I don't know what you mean, Prowl," began the red warrior in a lofty tone. "Sunstreaker and I have been in here, enjoying ourselves a little videogame marathon. The only thing we're guilty of is running the electric bill a little high." He gave a lopsided shrug. "Surely you're not gonna throw us in the brig for that?"

That wasn't the answer Prowl wanted, and both of them knew it. His frown deepened in a firm downward arc. "I know for fact that the two of you are the designated ringleaders for today's little tryst, and that you have been planning for well over a month." He crossed his arms behind his back. "Imagine my surprise when I arrive out there to put a stop to it, only to find no one there."

This time an unmechly giggle escaped Sideswipe, before he could smother the sound. Sunstreaker was grinning wolfishly at his commander.

"Well," he said, "since there aren't any records of us actually doing it, then there really shouldn't be any reason for you being here, sir." Sideswipe tipped him a nice smile. "Unless you're looking for some 'extracurricular' activities, in which case, step into my office." He gave a sweeping gesture toward their shared quarters.

Prowl offered a flat stare. "Your brand of 'entertainment' and mine don't exactly match up. I have no interest in your computer games."

"That's not what Smokescreen says," Sunstreaker piped up.

"If you would be so kind as to leave my brother out of this," the tactician insisted, "and stop being deliberately obtuse." His accommodating nature was being pushed well beyond his current threshold, and frankly, Prowl wasn't in the mood to humor the pair. Not after he'd been robbed of the opportunity to catch them at their game. "Admittedly, while I can't reprimand you for that which never happened, I still see such a waste on your behalves as…uncharacteristic."

An incredulous snort of laughter came from the yellow mech. "Are you telling us you're fragged off because we behaved?"

"More like his poor battle computer's going haywire trying to figure out why," Sideswipe concluded, looking pleasantly amused at Prowl's expense. The warrior leaned forward and gave his superior a pat on the shoulder, the gesture only causing his irritation to sink a little deeper.

Suddenly, Sideswipe sobered. "I'm not going to admit to anything I didn't do," he explained, his watchful optics filled with mischief, "but off the record, we might or might not have been asked to postpone, along with a few other things. Y'know, bad scheduling and all that. Rain date. Whatever."

If anything, that only puzzled Prowl even more. Not just the admission itself, but the fact that Sideswipe had said as much. While Sideswipe was many things (an extortionist, underhanded, and not above bending ethics to get his way) the warrior never outrightly lied. Sure, he played loopholes like a finely-tuned fiddle, and readily disregarded rules when they stood in his way, but his integrity was unquestionable. No matter how incriminating, he was always honest.

Which begged the question what had been good enough to dissuade the pair.

"And before you ask," Sunstreaker chimed in from where he sprawled on his bunk, "it's none of your business. As far as I'm concerned, Sides and I did nothing wrong―"

"―so if you don't mind, we'd like to get back to our game," Sideswipe finished. "I was in the middle of kicking his ass when you so rudely interrupted us."

"Mute it," Sunstreaker grunted.

The frontliner merely gave a bright, refreshing laugh in response before turning back to his superior with a grin. Prowl resisted the urge to smack it off his face. "Grab a cube, enjoy the orn off." He pressed a panel on the inside of his door. "I know the minibots are."

With that said and done, he closed the door in Prowl's face.

---

Sometimes it was so hard to get back up.

He knew that if he didn't move soon then the officer he was supposed to report to would come looking for him. And truth be told, Bluestreak really didn't want someone higher-ranking to find him huddling in the corner of the locker room with his arms wrapped around his knees as he tried not to cry.

He really, really wanted to move.

Only the sound of turrets, plasma shots, and machine guns were stopping him.

He'd heard them without needing to see them. Thunder booming across the shooting range as mortars were fired at makeshift targets. The harsh snap of a rifle recoiling when someone pulled the trigger. Flamethrowers and grenades and fusion canons releasing a deafening orchestra of genocidal music. The moment he'd entered the adjoining room that lead out to the practicing court, the noise had surged upon him. Everything in his frame had stopped on the first boom that reached his audios, stopping him almost dead in his tracks.

The 'bots who had walked in behind him for their shifts had responded with a few uneasy murmurs as they scurried around him.

"That's him. The Neutral from Crystal City."

"Heard he was the only one who made it out alive..."

"Do you think all the rumors are true?"

"Well, I'm not about to stick around and find out. C'mon."

The moment his comrades had filed out of the room Bluestreak had hunched over in the corner, simply trying to get his world to stop spinning so terrifyingly fast on its axis.

Ever since he had been released from the medbay one week ago and been issued quarters, the rest of the Autobots had been avoiding him like he was some kind of pariah. For whatever the reason very few wanted anything to do with the young survivor, save for his superiors and the medics. Maybe it was because whenever Bluestreak went about the base, his expression had a deadened, hollow quality to it. Maybe it was because he was a living representation of an attack that had claimed thousands of lives—a perpetual reminder of everything that was at stake in the growing war.

A massacre, they were calling it. The annihilation of an entire city.

For them, perhaps. For Bluestreak, it was the nightmare he couldn't wake up from.

For the first few days he'd done an okay job at trying to forget it. Simply being in a crowd was enough to keep those demons at bay, where he could lose himself and immerse in the activity and sounds around him. Even talking to himself or supplementing conversation with music was enough to fill in the void. Anything to distract him from the silence. Anything to stop him from remembering.

But not these sounds.

Burying his faceplates into the gap between his knees and chest, Bluestreak whimpered. Wracking shudders rippled over his armor as he bit back the need to cry, and instead curled in on himself, trying to physically shield himself from the ricochets just beyond the walls.

He hated the creature curled up on the floor in the fetal position. Hated the monsters that had turned him into this unrecognizable lowly animal.

Hated that the monsters were inside him.

"You gotta get up, Blue. You—You need to get up... M-Move. You need to move...!" The half-sparked little pep talk he tried giving himself couldn't extract him from his hiding spot in the corner.

It was paralyzing. Desperately Bluestreak wished for the silence as opposed to the sounds of training practice, only to stamp out that thought when he remembered what came after the gunshots.

Silence. Silence. Silence.

Death.

"Get up! C-Come on, Bluestreak, you need to...need to... They'll find you if you don't." In that moment the gray mech didn't know whether he was referring to his commanding officers, or the Decepticons. Either way, the visceral jolt of fear that it elicited was enough to ground him there. A broken, static-laced whimper left him, followed by the hiccuping of his vents.

It was only when he ducked his head down closer to his chassis that he caught a flash of red. Through narrowed optics he stared down at the vibrant ruby decal engraved on his chest, emboldened brightly against the stark gray paint of his frame.

Autobot.

He was an Autobot now.

Which meant he was supposed to be brave. Was supposed to be a hero.

A self-depreciating snort interrupted his sobs. Right now Bluestreak didn't feel brave. And heroes didn't hide in dark corners waiting for someone to come save them. If anything, the sight of the emblem sent a thrill of disgust and shame/fear through him like a shockwave. When the fire had rained from the sky and the world had come crashing down around him, all he could do was crawl under debris and watch others die. He could have saved them. And he'd chosen not to.

No wonder the mechs and femmes here wanted nothing to do with him. He didn't deserve to be one of them. Unworthy. He was unworthy of being an Autobot.

"I'm s-sorry." Primus, he wished he could stop being sorry. He wished that it could have been someone else. Anyone but him to have to bear such scars. Some other 'bot who deserved to survive. Not him.

"You know," a new voice broke through his reveries, "when you're playing hide-and-seek, you typically want to find a better place to hide."

His head snapped up.

Crouching before him was a bright red mech, hardly an inch taller than himself. The newcomer had a smoke-black helm, with splashes of white paint along his limbs and torso. Reinforced steel hover treads near his pedes indicated a vehicle alt mode with a fast build. Mods of every sort outfitted his handsome frame, the most notable being a jet pack slung over his backstruts.

"I mean," the red warrior continued in a tone that almost made Bluestreak believe that finding mechs crying on the floor was a normal thing for him. "Yeah, sure, you're gray and all, so you blend against the walls. Sort of. But honestly, wouldn't it be easier to just hack into one of the lockers and cram yourself inside? No one would think to look there!" He positively beamed at his own suggestion, and the doorwinger had a faint suspicion that he was speaking from experience.

Instead of correcting the frontliner's previously wrong assumption, Bluestreak oddly found himself going for the more absurd of the two answers. "I can't hack."

"You can't?" The red mech seemed genuinely surprised by that. His mystified frown quickly boomeranged back into a smile, his whole countenance lighting up with another thought. "Oh, well that's easy. I can teach you how. I used to practice on Sunstreaker's safe, and then take his wax and hide it. Once he caught on though he started changing the encryption and making it really hard to break. That, and he put me in a headlock until I agreed to stop. Which I didn't. I just blamed it on Cliffjumper and said the minibots did it." Almost absently he mused, "I wonder if that's going to have any negative inverse side effects. Hope not. Sunny's got a mean right hook."

At the blank look he received the red 'bot rolled his optics before elaborating: "Sunstreaker's my brother."

"Oh." After mulling over that bit of information for a few kliks he suddenly gasped. "Wait—your brother hits you?"

"On a daily basis," the stranger confirmed, and to only add on to the excess weirdness he sounded amused by the fact. "Oh, don't look like that! It's not like he actually hurts me. Sunny just does it 'cause he cares."

If that was what caring looked like then Bluestreak didn't what to find out what he did to mechs he hated.

Sensing the sudden shift in Bluestreak's EM field, the other Cybertronian hastily threw his hands up in a placating gesture. "Don't worry; Tall, Yellow, and Livid is currently on monitor duty. You won't be seeing him out there today." A wayward hand motioned in the direction of the exit leading out to the shooting range. Still smiling, he extended said appendage, and it took Bluestreak a moment to realize that it was being offered to him. "My name's Sideswipe, by the way. Got a name?"

"Bluestreak." Sickening relief surged through him as he accepted the hand and was hauled to his feet by the rather strong grip. Formalities done, Sideswipe stood back and made a show of dusting off his hands, before casting him a studious look. "You're the 'bot from Crystal City, right? The one that everyone keeps saying is crazy?"

Instead of the acidic black tug pulling him under, a sort of morbid smile lit up his face. Crazy. He probably had to be crazy to have survived a nuclear explosion. "Yeah, that's me."

A grin filled with mischievous intent lit up the warrior's face. "Excellent. You'll fit right in then."

---

When they stepped out onto the massive shooting range (with Bluesreak all but clinging to Sideswipe's shadow) they were intercepted by a massive red mech, this one heavily scarred and sporting an impressive arsenal of built-in gun components. His heavyset physique lent to his presence, which caused heads to instinctively turn as he loped past.

It took some considerable effort to not shrink away from the colossal warrior as he neared.

"Sideswipe!" the officer barked. When he came to a stop in front of the duo his height gave off the air of some rather impressive looming. And definitely not the good kind of looming (not that there really was a good kind). "Where in tha Pits have you been? Yer aft was supposed ta be out on that court nearly half a shift ago."

"Sorry, Ironhide," Sideswipe chorused, not at all intimidated by the gruff welcome. He'd certainly had worse. "I was helping Ratchet practice his aim, and then I had to wait another breem for him to buff out all the new dents he was so nice to give me." He cast a sly grin at the Weapons Specialist. "I wanted to make sure I looked all nice and pretty for you."

"Being eye candy ain't gonna make tha Decepticons any less inclined ta shoot at you. Neither will sweet-talkin' yer superior," harrumphed Ironhide. He waited another second, and then a toothy grin spread across his face, ruining the stern façade. "All right, all right, ya little nuisance. Go log some hours. I'm getting tired of looking at you."

"Aye-aye, sir!" Sideswipe gave a jaunty wave and scampered off toward his designated spot.

"An' for tha love of Primus," Ironhide bellowed after him, "stop pissin' off tha medics! You do want Ratchet ta keep repairin' yer sorry afterburner, don't'cha?"

Gleeful cackles were his only answer as Sideswipe strutted off.

Up until that point Bluestreak had watched the entire exchange with a mix of amusement and bewilderment. All of those fuzzy feelings abruptly vanished when he suddenly found himself the center of attention of the Weapons Specialist. For a mech whose entire frame was engineered to kill in some way, he had the incredibly polarizing ability to look genial and kind, at complete odds with his function. Navy blue optics softened while they traveled over the length of Bluestreak's frame. Sizing him up, he realized with a pang of apprehension. He waited for the criticism that was sure to come.

"I underestimated ya. Didn't think I would see you out here for some time, kid. That takes guts. Good job."

Praise was the last thing he expected, and Bluestreak found himself stuttering out a quiet "thank you" before he could gather his wits.

Ironhide nodded. "I ain't gonna pretend I know what ya went through. But I can assure ya that whatever happened isn't tha end. It's just tha beginning." Here he motioned for the gray mech to follow him as he began moving down the range. Bluestreak, so unprepared for the departure, was forced to double his pace to keep up with Ironhide's much longer strides. "My job is ta keep everyone here safe, an' I can't get that done by shelterin' 'bots. Much as I want everyone ta not have ta experience tha frontlines, I'd be doin' them a disservice by sequestering them away in Iacon. So I train 'em. Teach 'em how ta fight."

They stopped near a wall adorned with firearms of every build conceivable, primed and ready for combat. While Bluestreak paused to study the multitude of guns, rifles, pistols, and blasters Ironhide called over another mech. "Bluestreak, this is Crosshairs. He'll be assessing ya today an' seein' how well ya can handle a ranged weapon."

Before him stood a 'bot nearly a head shorter than himself, whose stocky frame was draped in three different ammunitions belts—two over his shoulders, and one around his waist. "Welcome to Iacon," the red-blue mech said as he offered a hand. Without prompting Bluestreak took it, and was rewarded with a handshake that nearly crippled his right arm.

"Yer in good hands with him," Ironhide promised. Creaks and pops resounded from his joints as the Weapons Specialist rolled his shoulders. "All right, I gotta go take care of a few things. If ya need me, I'll be up on tha observation deck over tha range. I'm a just comm. call away." Reassuringly the old veteran clapped a hand on Bluestreak's collar, voice low as he tacked on, "If at any point you don't think you're up to it, simply let either Crosshairs or myself know, an' ya can leave. We won't hold anythin' against ya."

Newfound determination had him squaring his shoulders. "I—I'm not going to leave."

Ironhide unexpectedly tossed back his helm with a hearty laugh. "Ya got spirit, kid," he rumbled in approval. Withdrawing his hand, the red mech nodded once before heading off.

"Ever fire a gun before?" Crosshairs asked.

"Uh, no. I've never even held a gun before," Bluestreak admitted.

"That's perfectly fine. It actually saves me the hassle of teaching you to unlearn bad habits." Ruefully the gunner said, "You have no idea how many hotshots come through here trying to tell me how to do my job, only for them to shoot their foot off."

Bluestreak found his gaze drifting much farther down the range, where he could barely make out Sideswipe animatedly talking up a yellow and black-accented minibot. "They don't all seem that bad," he murmured.

Crosshairs followed Bluestreak's line of sight until his gaze fell upon the mech in question. His broad faceplates cracked into a grin. "Sideswipe? Nah, he's harmless. Sure, he's got an ego the size of Cybertron's moon, but it's all just bravado. Believe it or not, he's actually one of the few competent shooters we got. Seeing as he's from Kaon, I'm not surprised."

Kaon. Even before it became the Decepticons' capital the territory had a reputedly ugly reputation for theft, illegal drug trades, and Cybertronian trafficking. The meaning in Crosshairs' words didn't escape him—if you wanted to survive in Kaon, then you had to be good.

"He's a little weird, sure," Crosshairs shrugged, "but so is his twin. Granted that you can put up with his antics and odd sense of humor, he's good company. But don't let that fool you—they're smart. And deadly. Probably our best frontliners."

Huh. For whatever the reason that didn't bother Bluestreak as much as he thought it would. Sideswipe had been kind to him, after all. And he was an Autobot. For all that the gray mech cared, as long as they weren't Decepticons then he could be as quirky as he wanted.

Drawn back by the weapon expert's call, Bluestreak turned, only to have a rifle shoved into his startled hands. Crosshairs drew his attention to the rifle as he popped open the magazine. "This," he announced, "is the Standard Pulse Rifle, model number nine. It's the weapon of choice for beginners: minimal recoil, decent reload speed, and energy-efficient. Now, before you get to start shooting things I want to go over a couple of rules."

His hands folded over his chest with unmistakable authority. It had the effect of capturing Bluestreak's undivided attention. "Rule Number One: I am the King. Head Honcho. Primus. Ironhide may be the officer for our entire division, but out here, when it's just us, you answer directly to me. Our superior trusts me to keep you safe, so respect that. Got it?"

Bluestreak gave a fervent nod.

"Good." Crosshairs pointed at the rifle still clasped tightly in his palms. "Two: This is not a toy. I'm pretty sure you're already aware of that, so I don't think I'll have to beat that lesson into you—unlike the rest of you jar-heads!" he unexpectedly shouted over his shoulder.

Ensuing boos and catcalls came from behind. Apparently their little lesson had begun drawing in a curious crowd, mostly soldiers composed of Ironhide's division. One or two shot back several playful insults at the red-blue mech who simply waved them off.

"Yeah, you heard me." He rolled his optics at the nervously fidgeting Bluestreak. "You're fine, kid. Just ignore them. But like I was saying, this is not a toy. It can kill. So unless you're planning on shooting someone, then keep your gun pointed at the floor at all times. Even if you're 100% sure it's unloaded, there's always a chance you're wrong. Last thing we need is to send some poor sod up to the infirmary because someone did something stupid. I'm of the mind you'll be a quick learner, so I think we'll be okay for now. Next…"

So went the lesson for the next joor, during which Bluestreak refused to let his focus waver despite the unnerving number of optics watching them. Before Crosshairs would even let him fire he wanted to drill into his CPU everything there was to know about weapons safety: What the different parts were, how they worked, how to engage the safety, how to pop open the cartridge, how to load rounds, the right way to stand, the right way to position his arms, the right way to hold the gun itself, how to judge distance, how to aim, how to lead a target, when not to shoot, and so on.

To his amusement Crosshairs tended to wax philosophical at certain points, passion getting the better of him; much to their eavesdroppers' amusement. The red-blue mech warmly received the attention and proceeded to show his gratitude by threatening to beat them to death with their own spoilers. Either way, he was a good teacher, and Bluestreak found himself nodding along as he dedicated everything he could to memory. It was strangely engrossing.

"…and that's about it," concluded the firearms expert. With a jerk of his chin Crosshairs stepped out of the row and backed up behind Bluestreak. "Now that the tutorial's over let's try applying what you learned. Set yourself up like I showed you, and pull the trigger when I give you permission. Not before."

"You want me to shoot?" he squeaked before he could help himself.

"Yep," Crosshairs confirmed. "That's what the whole purpose of this little lecture was." His unblinking stare peered hard into the survivor's face. "Unless you'd rather call it quits and try again later?"

Bluestreak furiously shook his head.

"Good. Then go ahead."

Dread coursed through his Energon lines with every pulse of his fuel pump. It felt like there was lead in his tanks.

This was it.

Throughout the entire lesson, from the moment he'd chosen to join the Autobots, Bluestreak had known that someday he would have to learn to fire a gun. Yet only as he stepped out onto the range with the rifle balanced in his arms did the reality finally hit him. Up until now the notion that he would be training to fight, to kill, had seemed as distant as the forlorn stars, a thought he'd subconsciously shuffled down the queue every chance he got.

Until now.

Only when he balanced the butt of the rifle against his shoulder and squinted through the sights did he realize his arms had started shaking again.

Damn it.

He wasn't supposed to be afraid. That had been the whole purpose of this exercise: to stop being afraid. To learn to defend himself. So why couldn't he stop shaking?

—menacing red optics likes hot coals burning through the night as they executed without mercy—

Bluestreak swallowed hard when the telltale beginnings of nausea threatened to overtake him. No. He wouldn't purge here. Not with everyone watching.

—buildings crumpling to the earth atop fleeing Neutrals, their screams lost in the crash—

The rifle in his hands was an instrument of death, so, so like the ones he'd watch slaughter in droves. If he was to fight, then it would be expected of him to do the same.

—endless silence reigning over the City of the Dead and its sole inhabitant—

Didn't that make him no better than them?

—a dark silhouette standing over him, ice blue optics and a soft touch finally severing the chains—

He didn't want to be a monster.

"I won't leave you."

He fired.

Deafening silence followed the thunderclap. There was a residual ringing in his audios, long after the rifle had been discharged. Very slowly the gray Cybertronian lowered his weapon and let it drop at his side. He cringed and waited for the criticism to start.

"Holy Primus," someone gasped.

Had he really been that bad? An optic cracked open, expecting to see some sort of catastrophe.

Nearly sixty feet away the target still smoldered from the plasma, with thin, wispy plumes trailing from the hole in the center of the target.

Crosshairs was the first one to pick his jaw off the floor. "…Wow, kid," he whistled, "that was impressive."

"Lucky shot," came a disdainful snort from a blue mech.

"Oh give it a rest, Tracks," Powerglide hollered from where he was sitting. "You're just jealous that you've never gotten a bullseye in the six vorns you've been here, while the newbie gets one on his first go."

"Mute it," Tracks hissed.

Crosshairs was still gaping at him in complete astonishment. "Sure you've never shot a gun before?"

Bluestreak nodded. His neck was starting to hurt from doing that so much.

"Encore!" The enthusiastic shout caused Bluestreak to whirl around in search of its source. Halfway off the sidelines Sideswipe was clapping his hands, a bright glow to his lapis lazuli optics and a laughing grin on his face. "Give us an encore!"

Something warm bubbled up inside. Not enough to stop the wild pounding in his spark, but enough to cause his lips to twitch. A sincere smile bloomed over his faceplates, almost giddily mirroring the red warrior's expression.

"Sure!" It was with considerably more confidence this time that he proceeded to the next row, despite the number of interested optics tracking his movements. This time he reloaded without shaking, and aimed the barrel steadily at his target. He couldn't exactly pinpoint the source of his sudden cheer. Maybe it was the way Crosshairs was nodding in encouragement, or the way cheers went up from the onlookers when his next shot pierced the center ring.

Personally, Bluestreak thought it was because he finally had something worth fighting for: a friend.

---

"I've never seen anything like it."

Eight circular targets were dropped on the table with an audible clang. Once the metal sheets stopped rattling Prowl reached out and delicately lifted one up to inspect it. Like the other targets on the table, the one in his hands had a gaping hole in the center, blackened around the edges by the force of the shot. The tactician traced the edge with a finger and lightly grazed the perfect hole that had taken out the glyph for 10. He inquired in a bemused tone, "He took out all of these?"

"Every Primus damned one." Optics glowed brightly as Ironhide thunked into his chair. The ancient mech—who had lived long enough to see suns be born and die—looked openly nonplussed. "Never, in my entire life, have I seen someone pull that off on tha first go. Some of our best snipers have been practicin' for vorns, an' only ever managed ta hit bullseyes a handful of times. Him? Crosshairs hands him a rifle an' he shoots 'em like it's no big deal. He's got optics like a cyberhawk."

"That is…impressive."

The old mech shot him a crusty glare. "'Impressive'? That's like callin' Omega Supreme 'modestly built'—an insulting understatement, Prowl."

The Second cast his peer a withering look. "I don't doubt his exceptional skill; I was merely taken aback. Forgive me for not believing it at first."

Ironhide gave a rusty laugh that sounded more tired than humored. "Yeah, I don't blame ya. Didn't believe it at first either, 'til Crosshairs dragged me down ta tha range an' had me watch with my own optics." Prowl watched as the Weapons Specialist hefted one of the targets in his hand and peered through the hole, as if he expected it to tell him the secrets of the universe. "At first I thought he was usin' some sorta experimental mod with automatic lock-on or some slag like that. Did a scan an' everything. But true ta his word, tha kid's never used a gun before."

The Weapons Specialist snorted. "Sooner than later Elita's gonna catch wind of it. Twenty credits says tha Primus fragging femme is gonna try persuadin' him into reformattin' just so she can collect him for her division. As if she didn't already have half tha best gunners on base in her clutches already, like Moonracer." He grunted something under his breath about "Pit-spawned harpies," and what suspiciously sounded like his bondmate's designation.

Knowing how competitive he and Chromia were with each other and their respective divisions, Prowl wasn't overly surprised to hear that. Nevertheless he wisely chose not to comment on it, lest he accidentally incite his temper. "He sounds like a natural," the Praxian instead observed, careful to keep his tone light. "We're certainly lucky to have him."

The red mech's gaze was shrewd (and a tad unnerving) as the optic still staring through the bullseye snapped directly to him. He lowered the disused target and peered directly into his faceplate. "We, or you?"

"Pardon?"

The perpetual frown turned into a sharp crease when Ironhide smirked at him, not bothering to even hide his reaction. "I ain't blind, Prowl. I know this ain't a social visit. You're here for tha kid."

Prowl flicked a doorwing in a dismissive motion. "So was everyone and their brother. The rumor mill all but exploded earlier today, as did my inbox when several other commanders insisted that I see for myself what the hype was about."

He suppressed the annoyed noise at the back of his throat when the red mech rolled his optics. "Tha only time ya ever take an interest in new recruits is when they're part of Tactical," Ironhide rumbled. "Bluestreak seems smart, but I know for fact he ain't what yer department wants. He's a sniper: physical, not cerebral."

Prowl inspected the tips of his dexterous fingers, rather than let Ironhide's too-knowing optics catch the brief flash of emotion that interrupted his neutral air. "As the targets have already proven." Once he was sure his faceplates were blank the black-and-white returned Ironhide's look. "I'm not quite sure what you're insinuating, but I assure you my visit is professional in nature."

"Ya sure Smokescreen shouldn't be gettin' jealous?"

"I'm sure he'll live, no matter what hearsay you tell him," came the pointed sigh. Arms tucked behind his back, the Second straightened and cleared his vents. "You were right on one account, however: this is not a social visit."

"Figured as much." Fortunately Ironhide let the teasing slide. For now. Leaning back until the springs in his chair creaked, he gave a brisk nod. "Right, then. What can I do for ya?"

"His placement." When the red mech inclined his helm in confusion, Prowl clarified: "I want him in Squad Six."

The massive warrior made a dubious noise. "Why in tha Inferno do ya want him in yer unit? You rarely see combat as it is, an' when ya do stretch yer legs it's only for premeditated battles where Prime needs ya by his side ta provide him with constant tactical input so he knows where ta place troops." Cocking his helm to the side Ironhide said, "Surely you can see tha value in keepin' him on field missions with tha rest of tha soldiers. We need cover fire, an' he seems ta be shapin' up into tha best we have."

"Which is exactly why I want him, Ironhide." In a gutsy move few ever tried with the warrior, Prowl leaned across the table with his palms braced on its surface. "In addition to analyzing and assessing the battle from a distance, my squad gets dispatched to areas where Autobots require backup to help even the odds. It didn't take the Decepticons long to realize that my providing tactical aid has weakened their fronts. For the last few battles I've been present in we've been under heavy fire, which is concentrated on us once the Seekers get a good aim. Having a sniper assigned to guarding our unit will make it harder for them to launch air strikes at us."

After a klik of contemplation Ironhide at last crossed his arms and grunted. "…I hate you an' yer battle computer," he sighed in mock defeat. "Usin' logic ta rob me of all tha good sharpshooters. You're almost as bad as tha femmes. Fine, tha kid's yers. I'll make sure ta update tha roster."

"And I will handle the transfer papers," Prowl swiftly agreed. He offered a hand in gratitude, which Ironhide shook in time-honored fashion. "Thank you."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever."

The professionalism of the order helped obscure one other important detail, a more personal one that Prowl vehemently did not want made known: the new placement would keep Bluestreak off the frontlines. Out of harm's way.

---

"...has to be an ulterior motive! The two of them simply wouldn't bow out to someone else's demands unless there was either something in it for them, or they were intending to turn around and do it anyway once the coast was clear."

Even rarer than the sight of Blades and Slingshot without their hands around each other's throats was seeing the elusive SIC sitting in the rec room. With literally nothing to do, he'd been driven from office. On the few occasions he did know he wasn't scheduled to work, he normally arranged to head out and assist the Portland police, or retreat into his quarters to read.

However, he simply couldn't bring himself to relax. Nothing about the day's events was making sense, and he simply couldn't enjoy the unscheduled peace when the cause for it continued to be an enigma.

"I think you're overreactin', Prowl, man," Jazz flippantly said from across the table. Of all the 'bots Prowl chose to confide in, the Special Operations officer was chief among them. His best friend offered him an easy grin as he kicked his feet atop their shared table and indulged in a long guzzle from his Energon. He paused to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand (a human gesture he'd picked up, much to Prowl's disgust), before resuming their conversation: "Besides, you know that Sideswipe don't lie. It ain't his style. I'm kinda inclined t' believe that someone really managed t' dissuade 'em."

"Even so..." The tactician found himself trailing off uncomfortably at all of the implications left unsaid. "But why?" he pressed, not for the first time that day. "Direct orders have never stopped them before, and Primus knows the brig is hardly a deterrent. So what made them finally cease?"

"The End of th' World?" Jazz offered. The Praxian shot him an unimpressed look, to which Jazz threw up his hands and laughed. "Hey, you never know. Maybe they Googled th' phrase 'Mayan calendar' an' realized that since th' end is nigh, they needed t' start repentin' if they wanted t' get back in Primus' good books."

"If that were even the slightest bit true, then I'd be more inclined to think that they'd try getting back in Ratchet's 'good books.' I've heard him threaten to storm the Matrix if Sideswipe dare die without his expressed permission first."

A bark of laughter escaped the Porsche as he rocked the chair on its back legs, dangerously close to toppling over. "That's the Doc for ya—he'll kill you with one hand, then bring you back from th' afterlife with th' other, just t' do it all over again."

With a chuckle Prowl raised his own cube in a toast to the saboteur, who cheerfully returned the gesture. Lightly sipping from his own drink, the Second peered over the rim and watched Jazz with a half-smile peeking out from behind his cube. "You sound awfully certain about all of this. I do wonder about that." Expression turning shrewd, the tactician invited, "Care to divulge your sources?"

A knowing gleam shone from the blue depths of Jazz's visor. Just as Prowl predicted the saboteur shook his head, although he did offer him a sympathetic look when his fellow black-and-white frowned: "Sorry, Prowler. You know a spy never reveals his secrets."

"It would be nice to have proof that my fears are unfounded." His elbows supported his steepled hands as he leaned forward, peering unblinkingly at his friend. "Especially since the answer is sitting within arm's reach."

Jazz's face curled in a sly smile. "You'll just have t' trust me on this one."

Prowl snorted, making his opinion of that very clear. "After hearing rumors for weeks of them preparing for that slagging game of theirs, and suddenly, to just drop it at the last second?" Both optic ridges rose. "I would have to be a special kind of fool to believe that."

There was the minutest shift in the Third as he mentally weighed his options. Clearly coming to some sort of decision, Jazz hopped from his chair and snatched his cube. "A'right. Fair point." Even with a visor on he still gave the appearance of shifting his gaze left and right in a "covert" manner. Conspiratorially he leaned across the wooden surface, and whispered, "Maybe the twins' are workin' by someone else's calendar for a change—an' I don't just mean th' Mayans'."

Interesting. Curiosity piqued, Prowl leaned in to meet his friend halfway, their faces dangerously close. To an outsider they would have looked like they were discussing either something Top-Secret-Grunts-Need-Not-Ever-Know, or a juicy piece of gossip. "What do you mean?"

To his annoyance Jazz reared his head back and cackled gleefully, like he knew the best joke in the world. Too bad Prowl wasn't laughing.

Now openly smirking at his commander's bemused/annoyed face, he reached over and lightly patted Prowl on the shoulder in a "there, there" manner. "It's not my business t' tell. Don't worry; I'm sure you'll figure it out soon enough."

"Jazz—"

"Hey, I got an idea for ya: why not go down t' th' shooting range an' blow some steam? Trust me, buddy, you could definitely use it."

"Wait—!"

Not even bothering to heed the order, Jazz gave him a jaunty wave before exiting the rec room, stage right. The tactician stared after his friend with a mixture of incredulity and mild annoyance, before finally admitting to himself that interrogating the saboteur wasn't going to get him anywhere. If Jazz didn't want to cough up information, then nothing in the universe would pry it from him. Still feeling somewhat unsure about the entire business, although admittedly less than before, Prowl rose from his chair.

If he couldn't get himself to unwind, perhaps he should take up Jazz's suggestion and practice his shooting.

And maybe while he was at he could replace all of the targets with red and yellow Lamborghini heads.

---

Condensation beaded on his armor when Bluestreak woke up gasping.

For a wild moment reality struggled to overtake the visions from his dreams. Past and present collided, memories filing themselves away in his processor as his recharge protocols ended. Once his systems were no longer furiously whirring did Bluestreak finally lay back on his berth with a groan.

Five fortnights. It had been nearly a quarter of a vorn since the Crystal City Massacre, and for every one of those fortnights Bluestreak was forced to relive the attack. Always the same dream. Always the same ending.

When the gunner reluctantly pushed himself upright his vents hissed in discomfort. There was a sticky saturation that slid between his armor slates, hot and wet from his cooling fans working overtime while he slept. Even though the attack had been all in his head his frame was still responding physically to it.

After the fifth episode Bluestreak had reluctantly come clean to Ratchet, asking if there was any way to manually go into his head and reprogram his recharge sequence so it would stop giving him such vivid nightmares. To his dismay the medic had been unable to do much, concluding that the nightmares were an internal coping mechanism that existed outside the realm of intervention. With an apologetic sigh Ratchet had patted him on the shoulder, before suggesting that he try talking about his experiences. Not quite therapy, but simply confiding in others might decrease the frequency of his nightmares.

Fake smile already in place, Bluestreak nodded once and agreed.

Of course, that was a lie.

Despite his tendency to chatter away the sniper could never bring himself to talk about what he had been forced to witness. Not because there were no 'bots willing to listen—quite the opposite, in fact. Sideswipe had tried multiple times to lure him into the discussion, with carefully baited traps and opening lines. Sunstreaker, despite his sociopathic tendencies and inability to cope with his own emotions, had made the offer once or twice. For all the yellow frontliner's icy detachment, there was still a shred of humanity buried away in his spark. It just took an incredible amount of coaxing to draw it out. Several other friends had promised to listen if ever asked, but Bluestreak simply let the offers slide.

Because how did one manage to look someone in the optic and tell them that the screams of the dying still lived in his head? How did a 'bot say aloud that the sole survivor of an entire city had been its greatest coward? A coward who had watched mechs and femmes die right in front of him without ever once trying to help, and had the audacity to use their dead frames to keep himself alive?

Some ghost stories were best left alone.

Only once his disarrayed thoughts slid back into their regular places did the silence descend upon him. That was the worst part. In his mind quiet was still the ultimate cincher, the undeniable proof that had confirmed what he'd already known seconds after the attack: Death. Isolation. Aloneness.

Even before his legs had stopped shaking Bluestreak had already palmed open his door and left his quarters. Somewhere, anywhere, it didn't matter. As long as he could find someplace to be with noise, the one true antonym that brought him some modicum of comfort.

Unfortunately it was still the graveyard shifting, meaning the barracks were empty. Most of the Autobots were still recharging, trying to sneak in what sleep they could before their shifts began. Which meant that the hallways were unbearably devoid of life as Bluestreak trekked through them.

Although the sniper never talked about the contents of his dreams, he still sometimes sought out other 'bots to keep him company. He ran through a mental list of friends who might be awake.

Sideswipe and Sunstreaker were at the top of his list, and unfortunately among the few he knew were completely unavailable. Right now they were offline in the medbay, recovering from several nasty explosions from a recent battle. It had been a close call for the two brothers, and they needed all the rest they could get. Besides, it was unwise to prod sleeping beasts.

Hound? From what Bluestreak could recall, the tracker was currently on temporary transfer with Trailbreaker, his other go-to mech. Both were needed in Axiom Nexus to help scavenge out several underground sites which could yield new Energon reservoirs. Fuel was in constant demand, and neither could afford not to go.

Bumblebee, along with Mirage and Bumper, were still away on a mission in Kolkular. Inferno was scheduled for monitor duty with Red Alert, and he somehow doubted the Security Officer would be thrilled to have their shifts interrupted simply because Bluestreak wanted to talk to the firetruck.

A vacuum of fear swallowed his spark. He was running out of options, fast.

Well…there was one other option—

No.

No matter how badly he wanted to see him, Bluestreak could never bring himself to visit Prowl. Everything about the commander screamed do-not-touch. From what the grapevine had reiterated over and over, the Second was to never be approached, under any circumstances. By reputation alone he was antisocial, unsympathetic, and hard-pressed to express any emotions whatsoever. A prick.

Yet every rumor clashed with the Prowl he knew, the mech who oversaw his unit and trained weekly with him. Despite all of the unflattering things floating around Iacon Bluestreak could never, truly, cast the Praxian in a bad light. He was…comforting, in his own way. Like a firebrand for wayward photomoths. It was one of the reasons why he liked involving himself in Sideswipe's mayhem: because of the inevitable visit to Prowl's office, where the Second would discipline and then issue punishment. While he never voiced his thoughts aloud, in a way Bluestreak liked having a reason to be in his office…even if the consequences tarnished his résumé. Only slightly. Barely a scratch on his service record. Infinitesimal, really.

It was out of the question, however. Prowl would not be troubled.

Which left him uncomfortably alone.

In the silence.

Settling on the most direct route Bluestreak made a beeline for the rec room. There was a chance, however slim, that there would be Autobots filing in and out of the room between duty shifts. Even if his immediate friends weren't awake, at least the presence of another 'bot would ease his frayed nerves.

Upon entering he discovered the spacious room bare.

No worries, then. Someone was sure to come by soon for some Energon, or relaxation. No matter how ungodly the orn was.

So forced smile firmly plastered to his faceplate, Bluestreak hopped in a vacant chair (never mind that they were all vacant) and settled in for the wait. Surely some 'bot would poke their head in, and fill the room with sound. It didn't matter who. Bluestreak was positive that it would be okay.

The first ten breems passed by. Then another twenty.

By the end of the joor Bluestreak was beginning to panic.

No one was coming.

—fires of every color illuminating the smoky skies as metal of all kinds burned—

It would be okay, Bluestreak tried desperately to reassure himself. So what if the room was empty? It wasn't as if that meant they were all dead.

—Energon spilling over the pavement in an endless river of blood—

Bluestreak didn't know when he'd unsubspaced his rifle, only that he was suddenly clinging to it with metal-denting force.

—jet engines screaming, thrusters roaring, screaming, screaming, oh Primus why couldn't they just stop?—

"Bluestreak?" Without warning a pair of optics were right in front of his face as someone crouched in front of him. "Are you all right—"

Bluestreak pulled the trigger.

---

Command was in pandemonium when Prowl strode through the doors.

"Can you triangulate his coordinates?" Blaster asked Jazz, from where he was seated at the communication deck.

"Negative," replied the Special Ops officer. He typed furiously into the keyboard connected to the port at the base of his neck. "He's disabled his comm. line, an' somehow managed t' either cloak or rip out his internal GPA tracker. I'm not pickin' up his signal on base. Either he's gone AWOL or somehow masked his signature."

"What about his quarters?" Optimus Prime asked. His normally serene features were a thunderstorm.

"'Fraid not," Ironhide called from the table he'd been leaning over, Ultra Magnus and Ratchet flanking him on either side. A 3D rendering of Iacon's layout hovered over the table, with various red blimps indicating the location of every Autobot's location in tandem with the schematics. "Crosshairs and Nightbeat just reported back an' said he wasn't there. My guess is that he's hidin' somewhere."

"Attention all Autobots." Red Alert was his usual paradoxical self as he broadcasted over the PA system—paranoid in times of peace, calm amidst the whirlwind of activity when danger was afoot. "This is a Priority 1 Alert. Bluestreak has attacked a fellow Autobot and gone rogue. Current status: unknown. Be on guard and prepared to apprehend him alive. Proceed with extreme caution."

Alarm and shock were the first reactions Prowl had. There was a deep wrenching in his midriff, as if someone had reached in, grabbed the circuits, and pulled. "Optimus!" he barked, gaining the Prime's attention as he strode toward him. "What's going on? Did I hear correctly—that Bluestreak attacked another Autobot?"

"Full-blown treason," Red Alert interjected before Optimus could explain. "At 0400 hours he shot Seaspray in the rotator cuff, and from there proceeded to flee from the scene of the crime. He took out several cameras as he retreated, so we only have a few clips of him committing the act before he ran for it."

Prowl spun around to face the Security Director. "Surely there must be some sort of mistake? Bluestreak wouldn't—"

"We got it all on camera, Prowl," Jazz lamented. He swiveled in his chair and motioned toward a screen on his left. Warily the tactician came to investigate, and felt his fuel lines freeze when the footage did indeed show the talkative gunner piercing Seaspray's shoulder with a bullet. "Red's cameras don't lie, man. One moment, he was all calm an' quiet. Next, he shoots someone."

"Gotta get a search party ready," Ironhide informed the CO, throwing yet another curveball at the already-whirlwinded Prowl. "Ultra Magnus and I are gonna comb tha base between tha two of us. Get some 'bots together, an' see if we can track him down 'fore he hurts someone else."

"Hoist is already seeing to Seaspray's shoulder," Ratchet growled. The red-white medic stared keenly at Optimus. "If things get out of hand I'm going to authorize lockdown protocols on the medbay so Bluestreak doesn't get in and potentially hurt the patients already in there." The finality in his words made it clear that it wasn't a request.

The Prime gravely inclined his head. "Of course, Ratchet."

Hundreds of plans, thousands of speculations, flashed through his battle computer. None of them were adding up. "Optimus," Prowl appealed, his voice struggling not to rise an octave, "something isn't right. I know I have no evidence to submit at this time to validate it, but I don't think—"

"—that Bluesreak is responsible?" Red Alert interrupted for the second time. It took a considerable amount of effort to not scowl as the other officer exaggeratedly swept out a hand. The small crystal apertures on his helm flickered brightly. "You saw what he did, Prowl. He shot someone! An unprovoked attack! Surely you're not going to try and defend him?"

While the two were rarely at odds, it was getting more and more difficult to not resort to yelling. His engine gave an agitated rev. "By no stretch of the imagination do I deny the attack, nor do I condone his actions. But nothing about this situation is making sense." To Optimus, Prowl pressed, "I've been training with him long enough to know him well. This is beyond out of character. Surely you can see that?"

Regret—and was that pity?—glittered in the Prime's optics. "I understand your concern," he murmured, resting a placating hand on Prowl's shoulder. The tactician willed himself to not flinch away from the touch. "But without any evidence to contradict the attack, we have no choice but to capture and place him in the brig, until such time as we can determine the appropriate course of action. For the safety of everyone here, we have to act." More quietly, he rumbled, "If there was another option, then I would gladly take it."

"Prowl." Wheeljack's face was filled with unease. He grimaced, as if he didn't want to say what was about to come out of his mouth. "I know the kid's special to you, but you've got to see the facts. None of us like it, but we need to bring him in. He's our best sniper. Imagine what sort of damage he's probably caused by now."

"Special to you"?

Rather than dwell on that particular thought, Prowl stepped away from Optimus and shot a cool look at the CMO. "You know as well as I do his psychological profile. Surely this outburst could be attributed to Combat Stress Disorder, and he is merely under extreme emotional duress?"

"You think I hadn't thought of that?" Ratchet snapped. He scrubbed tiredly at his faceplates. "It could also be the exact opposite: like a wire finally snapped. All that bottled up aggression and panic finally caught up with his CPU, and literally caused him to lose his mind. It's happened before."

Something akin to desperation shot through his frame like a lightning bolt. Angry now, Prowl began pacing down the length of the control deck. "He's the survivor of the single largest genocide in Cybertron's history, and you're all surprised by what has happened?" He paused and let his icy gaze sweep over the assembled commanders. "I refuse to believe that Bluestreak 'snapped.' I've spoken with him enough times to know that he is sound of mind. His behavior dramatically contrasts with his personality, and the characteristics he has thus far displayed. Do you honestly think"—Prowl looked his CO directly in the optic, and Optimus solemnly held his gaze—"he would do to another that which was done to him? Bluestreak is many things, but a killer? Never."

"Prowl…" Ultra Magnus, who had remained quiet up until this point, gently spoke up. "We understand your obvious concern for him. But perhaps…" There was no hint of judgment in his words, just deep sadness. "…perhaps your attachment to the youngling has clouded your ability to see the situation for what it is."

Was this seriously happening? Storm clouds brewed in his faceplate as Prowl turned to face the leader of the Wreckers. "To my understanding," he began, a tad icily, "battle computers don't factor in emotional involvement. I can assure you that right now my theory is based solely on data and evidence compiled from the various observations on Bluestreak to date. From an empirical standpoint, the attack doesn't make sense."

Light glinted in the medic's optics. "Perhaps—"

"Hot Spot to the command deck," the Protectobot leader radioed over the main monitor.

Optimus reached the machine in two strides and leaned over Blaster's shoulder before the Communications Expert could hail the transmission. He pressed a button on the keyboard. "This is Optimus Prime. Go ahead, Hot Spot."

"We just located Bluestreak. He's holed up in one of the storage rooms on Deck 3, near the main hangar. My team is assembled outside the entrance. Permission to move in and form Defensor should we become under attack?"

"Permission denied," Prowl snapped into the receiver, before Optimus could formulate a proper reply. In the back of his processor the tactician knew that what he'd just done was a gross breach of rank, in addition to socio-political hierarchy. Right now, he didn't care. "Hold your position until I arrive."

Obviously confused, nonetheless Hot Spot accepted the order. "Yes, sir." The Protectobot signed off.

"An' what was that all about?" Ironhide demanded.

The Second turned to face the imposing form of his leader. It was now or never. "Let me go down there and speak to him. If I'm right, Bluestreak is simply running scared. He acted purely on reflex, and is trying to hide from the emotional backlash."

Quietly, Red Alert ventured, "And if you're wrong?"

Prowl didn't respond. Instead he gazed up at the Prime. Waiting.

Searching optics held his as Optmus studied him. Every part of Prowl screamed at him to instinctively submit and bow out. He refused. For what felt likes ages the massive mech held the stalemate, until finally a vent eased out of his mouth. "Go," he said, not unkindly. "And good luck. I hope you're right on this one."

"Me, too," Blaster piped up. Jazz heartily echoed the sentiments. While the disgruntled Weapons Specialist crossed his arms and muttered something under his breath, Ratchet stared hard at the tactician. Ultra Magnus had returned to looking something over on a datapad. Wheeljack nodded in earnest.

Fighting back the reflex to swallow, Prowl gave a curt nod and turned on his heel. He tried not to dwell on what Red Alert had said, or what he might find when he got down there.

---

All five Protectobots were stationed outside the room when Prowl arrived on scene.

"Keep guard outside," Prowl ordered as he strode past Hot Spot. He paused to cast him a brief glance. "If something goes wrong I'll call for backup. Should such a need arise, you are to restrain him, with as minimal damage as possible."

"Got it," Hot Rod breathed. He relayed the instructions to his teammates, who looked generally unhappy about it but willing to comply. Nodding once to the gestalt, right hand poised over the blaster at his hip, he palmed open the door and stepped inside.

Pale blue optics blinked several times as they adjusted to the gloom. As a storage room it saw minimal usage, save for when a 'bot needed to retrieve something, or, in in the case of certain 'bots, stash away contraband. This one in particular, at several decks below Main Iacon, was little more than spare space. It showed in the broken light fixtures, one of which gave a halfhearted flicker as the door closed behind Prowl. For the most part the room was poorly-lit, borderline pitch-black in spots where the lights no longer worked.

As his vision finally became accustomed to the dark a noise at the edge of his hearing made him pause. Someone was crying.

Footsteps light, Prowl moved deeper into the room, motions slow and precise. Right now, sudden movement was the last thing he wanted, so he took care to angle himself behind crates and supply cabinets. Clinging to shadows, careful not to blow the figurative fuse.

The hiccupy crying was coming from the far back of the room, the sound partially masked by the reverberating hum of a generator. Carefully the tactician peered around a crate, audios straining to pinpoint the sound. As his gaze roved over the floorspace he caught a flash of movement beneath the heavy machine in the corner. Like a shadow in a shadow, hunched in itself to look as tiny and insignificant as possible.

"Bluestreak?" Prowl questioned softly. There was a sharp jerk, and the crouched form under the generator scrambled wildly until the muzzle of a rifle could be seen poking out from underneath. Trembling gunmetal gray hands clutched the weapon as if his life depended on it.

"It's Prowl," he identified himself with haste. If he didn't calm the sniper down then he would be forced to arm himself—an option which he vehemently didn't want to consider. Vocalizer set to its lowest register, Prowl moved out from behind his hiding spot and crouched at Bluestreak's level. They were still ten feet apart. "I'm not going to hurt you."

Wide optics continued to watch him, eerily like those of a caged animal. They shone from the depths of the darkness like twin stars.

"We would like for you to rejoin us, so we can make sure you're all right." Without any idea of what to say, Prowl was forced to rely heavily on stating the facts. The small part of him which knew he was expected to offer emotional comfort balked, simply because he had no idea where to start. Spark-to-sparks had never been one of his strengths, and the Praxian found himself grasping for something to say. Why had he agreed to this? "No one is planning on penalizing you for what happened. It is entirely understandable."

A broken sob escaped the young gunner. Static burst from his vocalizer in a clear effort to stop himself from crying, and instead achieving the exact opposite.

Just as Prowl debated over what to say next, an indecipherable noise drifted from under the generator. Unable to make it out, the black-and-white mech crept a little closer. "What did you say?"

"Don't." The single syllable wavered, nearly distorted by the thick rasp in his voice. "There's nothing you can do, Prowl. There's nothing anyone can do."

"Bluestreak, it was an accident. Seaspray will not hold it against you, nor will the commanders. The problem can be solved once we explain—"

"No," Bluestreak bleated. He shook hard, drawing his hands up around his shoulders. "You don't understand. You can't fix it for me, you can't make this better, 'cause if Ratchet couldn't find an answer then there's nothing anyone can do to stop it."

None of what the gunner was saying matched up with what had happened. Meaning the issue lay deeper. Prowl probed on. "I fail to see how this can't be solved. Once the confusion has been cleared up and Seaspray has been repaired we can put this behind us and move on. No one is going to blame you for this."

A pained moan left the gunner. He shuttered his optics, taking away the only other source of light in the dark corner. "…You can't," Bluestreak protested. Another wracking sob followed. "The problem isn't out there, Prowl. It's not in the guns, or th-the silence, or the Decepticons." He coughed violently as his frame tried to cycle air. "You can't make it better because it's impossible. You can't fix it when it's in my head."

Prowl stopped.

"You can't make the pain go away, or make the monsters stop when they're all living inside me. You can't reach inside me and find the part in me that's wrong. You can't make the voices stop screaming, or the silence from following me everywhere I go! You can't!" The last word came out as a wail: "You can't fix the problem when the problem is me!"

Whimpering, Bluestreak tucked his head into his chest and curled his arms firmly around his helm, sealing himself off from the world as bodily as he could. "I'm sorry I'm not brave. I'm sorry that everyone has to look at me and remember what the war did to them. I'm sorry you found me out there when it should have been someone else. I'm sorry I'm the one who survived."

For an agonizing moment Prowl sat there, unable to look away from the crying creature huddled in the dark, uncannily like the first time he'd found him. He heard a low grunt of pain, and it took an extra klik to realize the sound had come from himself. This time when he swallowed, the gears in his throat stuck, the cables too-tight, the stutter-thump of his spark pounding a bruise against his chestplates.

He didn't know what to do.

"Bluestreak," he tried again. The harsh sobbing had dulled to static-laced cries, and at the sound of his own name Bluestreak managed a breathy gasp. Uncomfortably the Second glanced down at the hands braced against the concrete floor, speaking on autopilot. He barely recognized the tone he was using in addressing his subordinate, bemused to find it nearly at a whisper. "Please don't say that."

A single optic peered out from under his arms. "Don't say what?" he rasped.

"That it should have been someone else in your place." The plea startled them both. Prowl continued to peer down at his hands as he spoke: "What happened to you wasn't something you could control. You shouldn't blame yourself for something so illogical. What the Decepticons did to Crystal City—what they did to you—came at a price no 'bot should have had to pay. And yet, you did."

A brittle noise was his only answer.

"When the Autobots first landed in the city, we didn't think anyone could have survived. The damage alone was enough to make us believe that. And then, I found you."

Two bright blue optics were staring at him intently.

"You were right: when others look at you, they are reminded of what happened to Crystal City. But not for the reasons you think."

A weak voice whispered through the darkness. "Then what?"

The bowed helm still refused to meet the sniper's stare. "For two reasons. The first being that as Autobots, we failed to keep you safe, and in our shortcomings your home was destroyed."

"But you didn't—"

"The second reason," Prowl cut across Bluestreak's protests, "is that just when moral had hit an all-time low, and we had begun losing sight of why we were fighting a war that was killing our species, you reminded us why. More than one 'bot suddenly had a new reason to hope again, after we found you buried in the rubble, still clinging to life."

Any other time, it would have been satisfying to render the garrulous mech speechless. Now Prowl only felt a tight clenching in his spark.

"I don't think I could ever find the right words to describe what you feel, and I doubt anyone ever will," he admitted aloud, hating how useless the vain reassurance sounded. He heard a soft scrape of metal on metal and guessed that Bluestreak had backed away even further from him. Such notions didn't surprise him, but the thought still managed to hurt. "It may take cycles for the pain to stop. Vorns. It might not ever stop at all." Cycling air through his vents, the tactician carefully said, "Before the war, I was an Enforcer in Security Response. On the door to the captain's office there was a quote engraved in it. I…I never paid it much heed, because at the time I wasn't ready to understand it."

Taking the silence as encouragement, Prowl recited, "'Courage is not the absence of fear, but acting in spite of it. The darkness we fight is within us.'"

One second passed. Then ten. Not wanting to draw it out, but not wanting to push away Bluestreak either, the Second finally glanced up. A faceplate ravaged by emotional upheaval was gazing back, mouth slightly open and arms hanging limp at his sides.

"I don't know how to make the pain stop," he confessed. "But if you come with me, I will try."

Still Bluestreak hesitated. How to assuage his understandable doubts and fears?

"I promised I would not leave you. Allow me the chance to make good of my word."

What happened next would stun the tactician for vorns to come.

Quivering gray metal crawled out from beneath the generator, doorwings catching and scraping painfully on the underside as he squeezed through the cramped space. With no warning Bluestreak closed the distance between them at a fairly impressive speed, launching himself into Prowl's chest. The black-and-white grunted at the force and began to steady himself, only stopping when he realized that the gunner had thrown his arms around him. Bluestreak cried with renewed vigor into Prowl's chest, the proximity nearly obscuring the mantra heard between outbursts:

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

Awkwardly at first Prowl let Bluestreak cling to him, too uncomfortable to do anything else and too unwilling to go so far as to push him away. Close proximity was one thing, but physical contact was well beyond his comfort zone. Even Smokescreen could rarely get away with hugging him, and that was only because the other tactician had spent quite a few vorns trying to "normalize him."

But hearing the petrified gunner sobbing into his chest, Prowl couldn't bring himself to deny Bluestreak this one small act of comfort. No matter how damning.

He lifted his arms enough to encircle the other 'bot, encouraging Bluestreak to burrow his faceplates into the crook of his neck. Together they held each other on the cold floor, both coming to the same conclusion:

It didn't hurt as much as they thought it would.

---

The more he thought about, the more the idea appealed to him.

It had been a while since he had focused on ranged weaponry. As of late the Praxian had taken to refreshing his old Diffusion training, relying more and more on close range attacks whenever trouble started brewing. And even then the skirmishes he participated in were somewhat far and few in between. His functions as Head Tactical Adviser and de facto human diplomat were more cerebral than most—not unlike the science division—thus reducing the number of opportunities to test his firearm skills.

While he certainly wasn't getting rusty by any stretch of the imagination, it never hurt to improve. "Practice makes perfection," Sparkplug had reminded his frustrated son when introduced to the horror that was long division.

There was just one problem.

He'd made it as far as the weapons lockers when he remembered exactly why he hadn't used his firearms as of late.

Unlike the other Autobots Prowl preferred using weaponized acid over plasma. It was one of the few relics from his Enforcers days, much like the chevron and doorwings on his frame. While ionized superheated particles could pierce a Cybertronian's armor, acid simply corroded it—superficial damage, albeit very painful superficial damage. It had a much higher probability of incapacitating a Decepticon over killing him, allowing the Autobots to capture and interrogate him for enemy intelligence.

The brand of acid he used, while not overly rare, was still hard to come by given that only a select few manufacturers existed, and all of them were on Cybertron. Since their reawakening on Earth Prowl had been entirely dependent on the shipments coming to and from Cybertron every few months. Wheeljack, when made aware of this problem, had happily requisitioned hydrochloric acid and C4 to make what he'd lovingly called "engineer's moonshine." Soon as Ratchet had caught wind of his friend's attempt to "help" he firmly put the kibosh on that plan before he could get as far as filling out the second line on the request paper. He was surprised that Homeland Security hadn't showed up at their front door when the medic's screams could have been heard for miles.

Which still left him with one problem:

The shipments wouldn't be coming in for another month.

So much for training.

The tactician tried not to feel disappointed over the fact. Whether he admitted it or not, a part of him had actually looked forward to getting in practice and "blowing some steam," as Jazz had so eloquently put it. While the world certainly wasn't going to end just because he couldn't use his gun (Mayan calendar or not), it did dampen his good mood a little. A nonexistent sigh blew past his lips as the black-and-white mech headed over to his locker anyway. Might as well maintenance his gun and make sure it was still clean and in functioning order.

When he opened his locker, however, he did a double-take.

Acid cartridges.

A dozen of them.

All neatly stacked against the back wall next to his blaster.

Suspicion instantly took over. Warily the SIC reached in and plucked one of the acid packs from pile, turning it over in his hand. It would be someone's idea of a joke to rig a fake cartridge and implant it in his locker, so that his blaster would do something it hadn't been built to do when fired. He still hadn't forgotten the time a bored Air Raid had swapped out Ironhide's ammo with confetti. Needless to say, Ironhide didn't find the prank funny. Neither had Silverbolt, once he'd gotten his hands on all the various pieces Ironhide had left his subordinate in.

Yet as he examined the cartridge he couldn't find anything amiss. No sign of tampering. No evidence of anything rigged to go off the moment he fired. Even the faint green glow of the acid inside looked normal, if his scanners were to be believed.

For a long moment Prowl stared at the surprise in his hand. Suddenly, a faint smile cracked his normally cool features, warming his expression slightly. With a mental shrug he reached inside and grabbed his blaster as well, taking a moment to weigh it in his palm. It looked cleaner than he remembered with a distinctive polish to its exterior. Even when he tested the trigger it clicked as fluidly and smoothly as if it were brand new, without sticking.

Funny. He didn't recall replacing any of the strips or gears in his gun recently.

Suddenly excited, the tactician hastily closed his locker and turned on his heel. Without glancing back he snapped the cartridge into place and strode out of the room onto the firing range.

He'd investigate the locker break-in later.

Right now, he had some targets to decapitate.

---

Something had gone terribly wrong.

When the decision had been made to siege and raid a Decepticon outpost for supplies, utmost care had gone into the preparations. Fort Scyk in the Stanix region had been the forgone choice, given its relatively average size and the embarrassing ratio of greenhorn cadets to actual competent soldiers. From what espionage could tell the place was pretty much a dumping ground for the 'cons unlucky enough to get stationed there, with its wildly fluxing electromagnetic field and polar storms. The ambient electricity surges had been the reason the High Council had originally selected Scyk as one of the main nodes in the Communication Grid.

Simply put, the place caused headaches. "And not the fun kind, either," Sideswipe had been heard telling anyone who would listen to him.

However, the base provided a unique opportunity: not only was there a sizeable amount of fuel there, but conquering it would give them a solid foothold in the Decepticons' main territory. Tactically, Scyk was a dream come true.

And war had finally made them desperate enough to take it.

The weeks leading up to the attack blurred by as troops were prepared, databases were hacked by their spies, ammo was stockpiled, and so forth. There was an atmosphere of steely determination mixed with, oddly enough, optimism. All of the variables for once were falling in place. The planets were lining up. The universe was holed up in its bunker waiting for the explosion that would carry the Autobots to an easy victory. With everything to gain and nothing to lose, and everything running so smoothly in the final stages of preparation, confidence and moral were running high, and it was infectious.

Maybe that should have been the first warning sign, that there weren't any hitches. That everything was going too smoothly.

Bluestreak had dwelled on the thought a few times during drill practice before easily dismissing it. It was a matter of proportionate input-to-output, he kept telling himself. That all of their compensation and intensive labor was logically going to pay off, as decreed the law of the blatantly obvious.

So when they were staked outside the perimeters of Fort Scyk waiting for their infiltrators to sneak in and cut the power, there was more than a smidgen of worry that nothing had happened yet.

Bluestreak turned to the 'bots closest to him—Sideswipe and Sunstreaker—and watched as his squadmates crouched motionlessly in the direction of the massive compound. They had a predator's grace, and could sit without twitching a muscle. That was provided that they wanted to, of course. But feeling the sniper's gaze on him was too good a temptation and Sideswipe eagerly shifted to face him.

"You think something happened? I doubt that Sneakspeech got lost since he had the blueprints to this place, but he's taking pretty long." He frowned. "You don't think…?"

Sideswipe waved away the speculation, then shrugged. "You're insulting him, Blue. The guy's like one of the best spies we got. He's probably just taking the scenic route."

"Because ventilation shafts are so scenic," intoned the yellow melee warrior on Sideswipe's left.

His twin elbowed him playfully in the side. "You just can't appreciate the sight of dirt and rust."

"No," Sunstreaker snorted, "what I can't 'appreciate' is you forcing me to go crawling through them, and then having to spend the rest of my orn picking slag out of my joints."

Bluestreak gave a nervous twitter of laughter, nearly outright giggling when Sideswipe attempted to rope Prowl into the debate: "What do you think, Prowl? Ever enjoy a trip through the vents?"

"Not nearly as much as I enjoy dumpster diving," he deadpanned. A cool look was shot at them out of the corner of his optics. "Are you quite done effectively breaking rank? You're supposed to be holding your positions, not gossiping."

A red finger tapped his chin, like he was engaged in deep thought. "Well," Sideswipe asked, "what if we talked about battle strategies?"

"So long as 'battle strategies' doesn't mean 'new ways to piss off Prowl,' then by all means," sighed the tactician. The black-and-white mech paused to turn fully this time, instead of staring directly ahead. "Please try not to corrupt him too badly." He nodded to Bluestreak, who shyly looked away. "The last thing I want to see is him practicing Jet Judo."

"Us?" Sunstreaker placed a hand over his chestplates. "Never."

Prowl's only answer to that was a thick snort, before he resumed his staring contest with the horizon.

The three Autobots swapped looks at that, and promptly dissolved into poorly-contained snickers.

Shouting broke out near the front of the battalion. The chilling sound was enough to immediately silence them, along with any surrounding conversations taking place. Near the frontlines the goliath figure of Optimus Prime could be seen lifting a clenched fist into the air. The unspoken order rippled through the ranks: Be ready to fight.

A hundred yards from where the Autobots hid amongst the half-ruined outlying buildings came a slow exodus from Fort Scyk. Nearly four hundred 'cons in total, moving as a synchronized mass until they stood in perfect line fifty yards away. A screech filled the air, the harsh whine of thrusters like an avalanche of cascading rock. Gliding menacingly over the heads of the opposing army flew an acai jet with off-white and acid-green accents. Mid-flight the Decepticon transformed and landed squarely at the front.

Sneakspeech's decapitated helm was held tauntingly in the jet's hands.

"Looking for something?" he asked.

Bluestreak felt his fuel lines run cold. There weren't supposed to be this many Decepticons. They weren't supposed to know about the attack.

Optimus held the jet's gaze without flinching. "It's been a while, Sixshot."

More than one Autobot gasped; and for good reason. Very few Decepticons were feared as much as this one. Next to the torture specialists who had taken their designations after the Fall of the First Five, Sixshot was regarded as a harbinger of death. Apart from possessing six different transformations, he was fast, ruthless, and violent. Rumors told that he alone had been responsible for the loss at Pax Amora—the second highest death toll following Crystal City.

The Six Changer inclined his head in acknowledgment, before letting the spy's head fall to his pedes. It rolled across the ground in front of him before lolling to a stop. The sparking remnants of a spinal column jutted out at the neck stump in a pool of Energon.

"Indeed it has." Bloodred light flashed across his visor. "Tell me, Prime—did you miss me as much as I missed gutting your soldiers?" he inquired with mock politeness.

Optimus crossed his arms in an X before flinging them out, his Cybertanium sword and battle axe sliding out of the sheathes beneath his wrists. "How did the Decepticons discover our plans?" he growled.

With his upturned palm extended, Sixshot beckoned his opponent. "Come get me, and I might just tell you."

"So be it." Optimus' battle mask slid into place.

Like continental plates slamming together the two factions converged.

Through the ensuing chaos of entangling limbs and laser shots Bluestreak had a hard time looking for somewhere to safely shoot from, let alone trying not to get killed. Still, he managed well enough, though not without having to fend off an attacker or two when they got too close.

Red optics filled his vision, and Bluestreak shouted as he was shoved to the ground. Clawed hands dug into a seam on his chest and pulled, tearing away a gray slate. His spark pounded wildly at the dangerous proximity to his sparkcase. Instinctively he reached for the Decepticon's facelate and grabbed at a cranial crest, pulling toward the side while swinging a leg over the other mech's thigh. The momentum sent them rolling, allowing the gunner to reverse their positions. It winded his opponent long enough for Bluestreak to discharge a pointblank shot into the Decepticon's head. Even over the ricochet of the blast the 'con could be heard screeching.

Bluestreak staggered slightly as he rose to his feet, wincing at the soreness near his abdomen. With a rough grate he moved through the fray, defending, parrying, sniping whenever a chance emerged.

They were vastly outnumbered. The longer the breakout persisted the more evident that became. It wasn't just Sixshot present, either—a brilliant flash of yellow overhead followed by the roar of jet engines indicated Seekers. Namely, Sunstorm.

Air whistled past his head. It was all the warning he had. Fortunately, it was all the warning Bluestreak needed.

A well-timed duck saved him from a fate similar to Sneakspeech's as a blade sailed over his head. In retaliation he turned blindly and fired a shot. A satisfying yelp followed the blast as his would-be attacker crumpled to the ground with Energon pouring from his caved-in skull.

"Bluestreak!" Hearing his name called, the gunner turned and felt his spark melt in relief at the approaching sight of Prowl. Save for a few deep scratches in his arms the tactician was unharmed.

Ice-blue optics narrowed as he fired a shot into the nearby crowd. "Get to higher ground," he ordered. A fresh cartridge was shoved into his hands. "Take out as many Seekers as you can. If we can't cripple their aerial front then we'll lose this fight."

"What about you, sir?" Bluestreak slipped the rounds into subspace.

Prowl squared his shoulders. "I'm going to locate Mirage and have him enter Fort Scyk. If anything, we can use its temporary vacancy to our advantage. There's a chance we can overrun their base and cut them off from it." His gaze slid from the battle to the gunner's smudged faceplates. "Avoid Sixshot at all costs. That's an ord—"

A massive white head shot forward and clamped its jaws around Prowl's waist. The Second had enough time to meet Bluestreak's terror-filled gaze before razor-sharp teeth crushed his armor. A shout of dismay left him before he was lifted high, higher, high into the air in the mouth of a bestial Transformer. The gryphon roared and flung its head, sending Prowl flying over the crowd sixty feet. It watched with thinly-veiled satisfaction as the black-and-white disappeared into the chaos.

Bluestreak couldn't stifle a whimper at the sight of his mentor being ragdollized.

Suddenly, it fixed its yellow optics on him.

"Have you never seen a beastformer before?" inquired Sixshot. The gryphon lowered his massive head, the orbital lens level with Bluestreak's face. He could see his own reflection in the merciless yellow optic. "I suppose not," he mused, more to himself than anything. "There are so few willing to model their alt modes after the extinct Predacons." He curled his lips, revealing rows of sharp incisors. "Their loss," he hissed.

Bluestreak moved to lift the arm still clutching at his rifle, only to freeze at the ultrasonic rumble of laughter coming from the Six Changer.

"Are you really going to shoot me?" the gryphon marveled. "How cute." Sixshot dropped his helm, bring his muzzle mere inches from Bluesreak's face. Every time the beastformer vented, his hot, rancid breath buffeted his cheek. "Allow me to demonstrate, child," he said, "why Megatron calls me S.T.A.G."

Before Sixshot could turn him into his personal chew toy a pair of shouts came from overhead.

Both glanced skyward, and the Six Changer's knees buckled under the sudden weight of two red and yellow Autobots clinging to his back.

"Thanks for the lift!" Sideswipe called after the Seeker careening off in the distance. The jet's only response was to continue its death-spiral into a nearby infrastructure.

"Don't think he can hear you, Sides." Sunstreaker's arms fastened around the gryphon's neck as he proceeded to buck them off.

"What a pity." The frontliner grunted as he grabbed at one of Sixshot's wings, seeking for a perch on the thrashing and roaring Decepticon. "Hey, Bluestreak! Would you mind—"

Whatever he'd been about to say was cut off as the 'con dropped to his side and rolled over. The twins' astonished faces vanished beneath Sixshot's bulk as he steamrolled them into the dirt.

"Annoying little glitches, aren't you?" Sixshot commented as he transformed back into his bipedal form. He planted a foot onto Sunstreaker's back, smiling when a wounded grunt drifted from the yellow mech. With his hand he lifted Sideswipe by the arm, letting him dangle limply off the ground. "You look fairly heavy. I wonder if you'll fly as far as the other 'bot did." Sixshot's narrowed optics peered into Sideswipe's still face. "Shall we test that?"

A laser shot bounced off his shoulder. With a snarl he whirled around and glared.

Bluestreak's gun was still cocked, poised in the Six Changer's direction.

"My, my. Look who wants to be a martyr." With a startled yelp Sideswipe was dropped right on top of his brother, causing the latter of the two to curse loudly. Sixshot took a calculating step in Bluestreak's direction, and actually looked impressed when the shaking gunner didn't back up. "You're either stupidly brave, or in a hurry to die." Sixshot's mouth curled into a vicious smile. "If it's the second one then I can help with that."

Just as the general lunged forward Bluestreak turned and transformed. Engine revving, the gunner tore across the ground. The sound of colliding gears and realigning cables indicated Sixshot had transformed as well.

Heat licked at his axles. He swerved, barely avoiding the thermate blast from the tank's cannon.

Not more than ten kliks up ahead he saw the rickety structure of a building, its side walls torn and in shambles from erosion and neglect. Gunning his engine, Bluestreak barreled hard toward it. While Sixshot was fast, his mass compared to the smaller Autobot's still weighed him down, giving Bluestreak the opportunity to dart inside. In his haste he nearly tripped over himself mid-transformation. With considerably little grace he made a running dash behind several crates, and activated his signal dampener.

Not a moment too soon. A massive shadow fell over the entrance, accompanied by the tectonic footfalls of the Six Changer. Bluestreak heard, rather than saw, the Decepticon move inside the building and proceed to search for him.

"So this is the game you would like to play?" he queried in a low tone. "Very well. I will play."

Bluestreak tried not to shiver at the sense of displayed air behind his hiding spot. Primus, he was close. Too close.

There was a soft scrape nearby, and Bluestreak nearly jolted, only to still once he recognized the warm frames pressing against either side.

Miss us? Sideswipe radioed.

Bluestreak heard Sixshot call, and felt something heavy plummet down in his tanks. Like you have no idea, he said fervently.

Since this place looks like a strong breeze could knock it over, Sunstreaker grimaced at the peeling paint on the walls, I take it you have a plan? At the least, a sane reason for being in here?

The sharpshooter concentrated on not making a sound as he popped open his magazine and replaced the rounds. The support beams for this place look unstable. I'm going to shoot them out and, if it works, it'll bring the whole building down on him.

So, Sideswipe mused, you want us to keep him "entertained"?

Thoroughly.

Then consider it done. Sunstreaker smacked a fist into his palm with ominous intent.

Bluestreak nodded. On my signal, get out of here.

Sideswipe's bright grin lit up the dark. He withdrew his Cybertanium knife. Let's raise the roof, then. Or should I say, bring it down.

Sunstreaker cast him a flat look. I hate your puns. They're not funny.

Well, if it makes you feel any better, Bluestreak chirped with an undercurrent of nervousness, I would have laughed if I wasn't afraid of getting my head blown off.

Sideswipe leaned over and patted him on the shoulder. Now I remember why I keep you around.

As one the twins leaped over the crate and launched at the unsuspecting Decepticon's back. Their banshee battle cries clashed spectacularly with Sixshot's outraged yell as he attempted to dislodge the pair.

"This looks important!" Sideswipe cackled gleefully as a clever hand dove under a crevice in his neck, and proceeded to rip out as many wires as he could. To his delight, it was his motor relay that he snapped with a flick of his wrist.

Despite his friends' skill, Bluestreak knew how serious the gravity of the situation truly was. They were buying him time, and every second was precious. Even their fearsome might would do little more than stall Sixshot. Training his rifle toward the ceiling, he peered through the scope. Sure enough, he could see rust along one of the main beams. He opened fire, letting off every damn round in his gun until the room echoed with the sound of explosion after explosion.

"Now!"

Like Velcro they peeled themselves off the enraged Sixshot and transformed mid-leap. Hover treads roared to life as Sideswipe and Sunstreaker shot through the exit, with falling cinderblock and metal raining down. Fragments of ceiling clinked off the 'con's faceplates, and his visor brightened once the reality sunk in.

"You," Sixshot hissed. A dented hand snatched for the gunner before he could race after his comrades. Fingers constricted around his frame as the general brought them face-to-face. Warnings lined his HUD, informing him of the increasing pressure in his systems. He felt the "pop" of a capillary bursting open in his arm.

Any final words Sixshot could impart were lost as heavier chunks of ceiling smacked into him. A roar of fury clawed its way out of his vocalizer. The only thing Bluestreak could concentrate on were the rupturing fuel lines and the increasing internal alarms informing him of imminent systems failure. There was little he could do as the groaning building finally collapsed atop the Decepticon and Autobot, plunging them both into the hungrily lapping darkness.

---

"Any sign of him?" Sideswipe's shout echoed loudly over the barren and body-littered landscape.

"No," Sunstreaker snapped. "Keep digging."

After a full three joors of fighting the enemy forces had finally suffered a sizable dent, enough for them to call a retreat. Albeit being a victory, there was little to celebrate as the scattered Autobots struggled to collect their dead. Of the three hundred 'bots that had entered the fight, so far only one hundred and sixty-nine were accounted for.

One of which the twins were struggling to locate in the pile of rubble.

"Sideswipe, Sunstreaker!" came a familiar bark. Both turned to watch as Ratchet limped purposefully toward them. For all his efforts to meet Primus in the afterlife and give him a piece of his mind, the medic somehow always walked away from combat with barely a scuff.

It seemed El Diablo wasn't quite done thirsting for blood, if the livid look in his optics was anything to go by.

"I commed you two thirty minutes ago," Ratchet growled. He crossed his arms and glared with enough heat to melt a lesser being. Fortunately for the brothers they weren't lesser beings. That didn't lessen the effect of being glared at, though. "When I tell you to march your miserable spoilers down to triage I slagging mean it. I do not have the entire orn to go hunting down a pair of glitched half-bits who think medical treatment is beneath them."

Oddly enough it was a relief to be yelled at by the medic. Somehow it gave the surreal atmosphere a sense of normalcy. "Sorry we didn't run into your arms as soon as the last 'con kicked it," Sideswipe said. His voice was distracted-sounding as his focus returned to digging. "You're gonna have to wait, Ratch."

The CMO fumed. "Why, pray tell, should I have to wait?"

"Because Bluestreak is being crushed alive by ten tons of galvanized steel," Sunstreaker retorted. He lifted his head to glare at the medic. "We're a bit busy trying to rescue our teammate right now."

The red-white mech's face went slack. "What do you mean? What happened?"

"Brought a building down on Sixshot," Sideswipe explained. He blinked in surprise when the medic came over and began helping push aside concrete and cinderblock. "We waited for Blue, but he never came out. He's in here somewhere."

"Primus," Ratchet swore, feelingly.

Sunstreaker didn't glance up as he began shoving aside a particularly large chunk of wall. "He better be alive—"

A bright red visor glowed up at him.

Sunstreaker started backpedaling, withdrawing his guns as he went. "It's Sixshot! Run!"

Before either mech could act a powerful tremor moved through the mound. Rocks and metal cascaded off the massive Decepticon's battered frame as he erupted from the center of the debris. Deep dents and gashes marred his frame, along with a steel pole that was directly piercing his right arm. With a gravelly snarl Sixshot grabbed the pole and ripped it out.

The dual whine of weapons charging caused him to pause and look down. Sideswipe and Sunstreaker both had their guns pointed at his helm, while Ratchet wielded a laser scalpel.

Sixshot bared his denta. "You will…set an example for…those who dare challenge me," he hissed.

"Try it and get your axles ripped off, Deceptifreak!" a new voice shouted.

Surprised, Sixshot lifted his head…and froze.

As it turned out, their shouting had caused quite a bit of commotion, enough to draw in a flock. Twelve more of the wretched vermin encircled the rubble, and off in the distance he could see seven more galloping toward him. While such numbers normally weren't a problem for him, in his injured state, with several vulnerable wires ripped out and one of his transformation cogs damaged, the odds weren't looking good.

Sixshot cast the trio an icy glare.

"You lucked out this time," he spat at them. With what little energy remained the Decepticon hefted himself up and leaped, transforming as he hit the air. His engines stuttered, but he managed to take off. A sonic boom followed the roar of thrusters, and within kliks, he was gone.

Sunstreaker watched the retreat with smug satisfaction. "I hope he's out of commission for the next month."

"Longer, if we have anything to say about," Sideswipe joked. He opened his mouth to make another wisecrack, only to stop when his optics fell on the crater from which Sixshot had emerged. "Look!"

Lying at the bottom of the hole was Bluestreak.

---

Apart from the lone tactician limping down the halls, Iacon was asleep. Even the graveyard shift's roster consisted of a much smaller handful of 'bots than usual. Given how large of a thrashing the Decepticons had received earlier that orn, Optimus Prime had noted that a retaliation would be unlikely.

Tonight was a night for mourning the dead.

Or the living, in Prowl's case. A soft curse left his mouthplates as he braced an unsteady hand on the nearby wall. Letting it take the brunt of his weight, he stopped and cycled air heavily through his intakes.

The worst of the superficial damage were diagonal slashes and puncture wounds from combat. Internal was where havoc wreaked. The impact had jarred his right-hemisphere CPU enough to malfunction, resulting in a loss of equilibrium, blurred vision, and a splitting headache. Every few meters Prowl had to stop and let his systems catch up with his skewered pace, offset by the limp in his right leg, and try not to stagger from the way his vision shifted and swayed.

Fortunately, the walk wasn't a long one. By the time he could see straight the SIC had arrived at his destination. To his irritation his hand shook when he typed in his personal override code. Damaged neural circuits were having a hard time transmitting anything more complicated than blinking thanks to his encounter with Sixshot. It took a humiliating minute to finally enter the password, but at least he made it in.

Prowl had opted to postpone the delicate surgery, arguing that mechs in critical condition needed the attention over his own wounds. Self-repair would take care of his optical center, and he could still do deskwork as long as he used his left hand.

Once the doors slid open he stepped inside, waiting until they closed behind him before he trekked deeper into Ratchet's lair. An alarming amount of medical berths were occupied, and more than one cryo chamber glowed pale blue as it sustained its occupant's life support systems. The thought was enough for a twisted grimace to cross his face, followed by one of physical pain when his foot protested a particularly awkward movement.

One by one he moved through the aisles, searching for one 'bot in particular.

He found him on the last berth near the window, his gunmetal gray frame bleached silver by one of the moons hovering over Iacon.

Despite the discomfort it caused him to drag a chair over, Prowl managed without falling flat on his face. He settled into it with a wince, and once he was sure he wouldn't purge at the fresh wave of dizziness the act cost him, turned his attention to Bluestreak.

Like a monochromatic sentinel he sat by the berth, glacial blue optics focused on the unconscious mech beside him. A hand rose, and after a moment of hesitation, it dared to reach out and engulf the much more slender, fragile appendage in its own. Despite having read the medical report and been assured multiple times by the CMO, he still pressed a thumb against the sharpshooter's wrist. Only when he felt the rhythmic pulse of Bluestreak's spark did Prowl relax, however marginally. Rather than pull away, the tactician indulged in squeezing the limp hand trapped in his, not overly keen on letting go just yet. With uncharacteristic care he brushed his thumb over the inside of his palm, gently tracing a transformation seam.

Something akin to affection darted across his faceplates, only to be summarily banished by agonizing concern as he studied all of the damages across Bluestreak's frame. He assigned his battle computer to cataloging what he saw, accounting for every weld mark, every dent that his optics took in.

His mind raced, again and again going over the battle hours earlier. In an attempt to place some emotional distance between himself and the gunner, Prowl began reciting the data and information he'd gathered. It was a focusing technique he'd developed in the early stages of the war, a way to help him keep a level head. Information, statistics, logic always aided him in making clear decisions. Things like emotions only clouded his judgment. Unlike the crystal black-and-white clarity that logic afforded him, emotions were wild, unpredictable, and relied so much more on feeling than fact.

Feeling didn't save 'bots.

Fact kept mechs alive.

Yet for all of his meticulous planning, here he was, sneaking into the ICU for reasons unknown to watch over a mech who his plans hadn't kept safe.

Staring hard at the unconscious sniper, Prowl found himself reconsidering. For years he'd argued in his defense that emotionally repressing himself had been the only way to maximize his own efficiency. Even if it came at the expense of alienating his teammates, if it meant that he could keep them safe, then surely it was worth it?

Now, with each passing day Prowl found it harder and harder to maintain his former stance. Especially when the bright and young Autobot next to him, so full of life, seemed so determined to challenge the notion in every little thing that he did. He...didn't know what to do anymore.

No amount of logic or reason had kept Bluestreak from almost dying today.

And through it all Prowl felt.

Anguish. Loss. Worry.

Fear.

In response to the thought the cables in Prowl's throat tightened. It wasn't a notion to be contemplated. Not when the Autobot beside him had teetered so close to that precipice. Not when all of Prowl's careful planning had backfired. Not when Bluestreak had come so close to death.

Dark, fathomless optics continued to gaze into the shadowy recesses of the medbay, long after midnight had come and gone.

---

With a wrenching gasp Bluestreak bolted upright. For a moment the gunner hadn't caught up with reality, his mind still anchored to the rapid pace of battle. Reflexes already attuned to a fight he was no longer in lashed out, hands slashing wildly at the first sign of movement at the corner of his optics.

"Oi! Watch it!" came an angry bark. Ratchet ducked into view, swerving out of Bluestreak's reach and waving away the errant hands with a clipboard. With speed that bespoke of a warrior, not a medic, he sidestepped the second knee-jerk flail and moved forward to ensnare the gunner's wrists, firmly pinning them to his sides.

"Bluestreak!" Ratchet called. The medic loomed closer, peering hard into his faceplates. "Bluestreak, calm down! You're sending your vitals chart into the triple digits! Breathe."

Shakily, Bluestreak exhaled. As his surroundings began to make sense again the tension sapped out of his limbs, his frame deflating under Ratchet's hands. Chest heaving, he struggled to sit up, tried to piece together how he'd gotten to Iacon's ICU. He raised a hand to scrub his faceplates, only to freeze at the sight of heavy static bandage wrapped around it.

"Ratchet?" The lenses in his optics spiraled wide. "What happened to me?"

There was a slight twitch in the hands resting at his sides, as if Ratchet were only thinly holding onto the tenacious grasp he had on his legendary temper. It was starting to bother Bluestreak that he hadn't started yelling, as was his prerogative whenever he had the misfortune of getting injured in battle. "Your frame was crushed beneath a high level of pressure. The force ruptured nearly all of the capillaries, and two of your coolant pipes burst open. Not to mention the oil that got into your lines from the rupture. We drained your tanks until they were nearly depleted, and had to get enough donors to replace the poisoned Energon while we worked on your frame." Exhaustion bled into his report, a testimony to the medic's faculties being pushed, once again, blithely past his limits. "It was a close call. You're lucky you're alive."

So close… He held up the hand in front of his face, looking without really seeing the high-fiber metalmesh bandaging in his circuits. His optics dimmed in thought, before zeroing in on Ratchet with renewed energy. "Did everyone make it out? Are they okay? How bad were the casualties? What hap―"

Ratchet held up a hand, effectively shutting him up. "Ten words per sentence," he ordered. "Maximum. Otherwise you're going to get your systems running fast again, and then I get to pump you full of even more drugs."

The gunner pouted, and took a moment to compose himself. He actually had to hold up his unbandaged hand and tick off on his fingers each word. "What happened after I went offline, because I don't remember." There. Ten words. Nice and easy.

"You mean after you brought down a building on top of yourself?" He tried, and failed miserably, not to flinch. "We hit a lucky break, if you can even call losing over a third of our troops 'lucky.'"

"A third―?"

"Yes," Ratchet cut across, not at all happy with the interruption. "Anyone who wasn't lying in a scrapheap was either critical or walking wounded. Once Sixshot was out of the picture Espionage was able to seize Fort Scyk. We boxed them in, cut them off from their supplies. After that the fight went pretty quickly."

"So we won," Bluestreak couldn't help but marvel. One hundred dead was never an acceptable loss, but at least the Autobots finally had control within Decepticon territory. They were finally pushing back.

"It won't be easy to keep our prize. Winning it was just the first step," Ratchet harrumphed. He moved around the side of the berth and began organizing the medical cart near his monitor with utmost care. "But yes," he conceded, his tone less gruff than before, "we won."

It was with some considerable relief that he slumped back against the berth. "Thank Primus," Bluestreak sighed.

A piercing optic flickered in his direction as the CMO worked. "Don't sound too happy. You're off duty for the next few orns, and on light duty once I finish fabricating and reinserting the new capillaries. You'll be keeping me company for a while yet. My luck," Ratchet muttered under his breath.

Bluestreak was unfazed by the comment. After vorns of being carted into the medic's loving arms, he was used to his fits of histrionics, like every other Autobot conditioned by his "tough love" philosophy. "Thanks, Ratchet," he thanked, already in the midst of lying back down. With the sedatives chugging through his systems he felt sleepy. His optics shuttered.

"Ah, ah!" He frowned when red knuckles rapped on his shoulders. "You've got a visitor."

Puzzled, Bluestreak let his unfocused gaze drift in the direction of the medic's pointing finger.

Prowl sat in a chair against the wall, hands folded in his lap. There was no trace of warmth in his faceplates, no welcoming ghost of a smile. Just barely-withheld anger. All of it directed at him.

His spark skipped a beat.

Straightening from his work, Ratchet turned on his heel and briskly strode toward the exit. "I believe I'll leave you two to speak." Halfway out of ICU he flashed a warning glare at the tactician. "I just spent a week patching him up. Undo my work and I'll crack you open and reassemble you around your desk. Are we clear?"

"Perfectly," Prowl replied. His unwavering gaze was still fixed on the gunner.

"Good," snorted the medic. Without preamble he exited the room, taking a good degree of the temperature with him. Or maybe that was just his spark that felt like a ball of ice. Bluestreak clamped down on the irrational urge to call the medic back, to beg him to not leave the room.

Prowl, adorned in five different shades of Not Happy, rose from his chair in the same direction as Ratchet. For a moment Bluestreak felt a twisted sort of hope in the pit of his chest, and wondered if the tactician was simply going to leave and forgo the confrontation. That pathetic little hope shriveled and died when Prowl moved toward the door and punched in none-too-gently his override code. The door locked with a loud click.

Without turning around Prowl spoke, the one word Bluestreak dreaded: "Why?"

When Bluestreak tried to move a leg, he discovered that the neural circuits had been disabled―probably so Ratchet could repair them without getting kicked in the head. He was trapped. "I―I thought I could stop him, and buy us some time. Prowl, I didn't think―"

"Didn't think what?" This time, he couldn't stop himself from shaking as his mentor stormed over. His normally neutral faceplates were brewing with anger, simmering with a blackness that probably burned straight to his core. And for once, he was the subject of Prowl's ire. Three feet from the berth the Second stopped, his doorwings flared out in a rare display of emotiveness. "That your reckless behavior would endanger the lives of your fellow Autobots? That one 'bot alone would be able to stand down a Six Changer, without requesting backup?"

The gunner fanned out his own doorwings in a subconscious effort to make himself look bigger. He frowned back at the black-and-white mech, trying not to squirm. "There wasn't time to call for help. I wouldn't have been able to outrun him forever, and to be fair, sir, I technically did have backup―I mean, if you can really call two mechs 'backup'―shortly after…"

Shortly after Sixshot grabbed you.

He couldn't bring himself to say the words aloud, simply because the mental image haunted him, of his superior being catapulted into the sky in the jaws of a monster. Fortunately Prowl understood. If anything, that reminder only seemed to incense him more.

"Precisely. After I ordered you not to engage the Decepticon." His optics narrowed. "Believe it or not, when I give my soldiers a command, it is not so they can play truant with it. I would have thought, that of all the mechs present, you would have understood that best, Bluestreak."

It was like a verbal slap in the face.

Over the overwhelming hurt his commander's disappointment caused him to feel, however, Bluestreak felt suddenly angry. He couldn't quite explain the reaction, only that his Energon was suddenly boiling, a slither of indignation beginning to rear its head and protest the unfair treatment.

"And what if I had let Sixshot go?" he protested. "He would have continued ripping apart our forces until there was no one left. I know I took a risk, but it paid off, and that's what really counts, and if it helped us win the battle, then surely it was the logical choice."

Prowl's expression darkened. "You gambled Sideswipe's and Sunstreaker's wellbeing by ignoring my orders," he growled. "Does that fact not compute?"

"They agreed to it!" spluttered Bluestreak. "They believed in me and trusted me, and bought us enough time to take him out! I'm sorry I broke rank, I really am, but it worked didn't it? So what if I got hurt―"

A fist slammed into the medical cart beside his berth, scattering tools onto the floor. Bluestreak jumped.

"Your life is as equally important!" He'd never heard Prowl shout before, and it was enough to shut him up. Bluestreak tried to crawl back from the enraged mech, only to be backed into the guard rails along the edge of the berth. Emotion flashed in the SIC's optics, so many intermingled that Bluestreak couldn't discern rage from worry, anger from fear. "I did not have you placed in my unit so you could look for an opportunity to squander it! When I give you an order with the intention of keeping you alive, I expect you to pay it some heed."

Ringing silence followed. Neither mech uttered a sound as they held each other's gaze.

Finally, the fire in Prowl's optics died down. He was still upset, but not nearly as out of control as he'd been a second ago. There weren't any walls for the tactician to hide his emotions behind as he gazed tiredly at the gunner. In that instant he looked old. Experience, the past, every horror he'd ever witnessed bearing down on his shoulders. "You could have been killed," Prowl murmured. "You could have died out there."

"We all could have died out there," Bluestreak reasoned, still wary in case he provoked another outburst. Instead Prowl's gaze fixed on him with laserpoint-intensity, stare unwavering. The sharpshooter sounded braver than he felt as he pointed out, "We're at war, sir. Every battle and skirmish could be our last each day we go off to fight, and Fort Scyk was no different, even if there were a lot more 'cons there than we'd planned on, and really, who plans on a Six Changer being there―?"

"Our information was leaked." Disgust crept into his voice, no doubt holding himself somehow accountable for the lapse in security. "Somehow they managed to hack into Teletraan and intercept our intelligence regarding Stanix. But had they not managed to discover our plans―"

"Nothing would have changed." Firmly, but not without sympathy, Bluestreak told the other 'bot, "You can't account for every variable out there and guarantee anyone's safety every astrosecond of every orn, no matter what your battle computer says." He tried to smile, but it came out more as a grimace. "I can take care of myself, sir. I'm the best sniper in Iacon and one of our best marksmech out there, and I've handled myself in firefights worse than this―"

"No, you haven't," Prowl interrupted, a hint of steel in his faceplates. His fists clenched. "You have never fought a mech of Sixshot's caliber. He has massacred entire battalions on his own without support from other Decepticons. You saw what he did to me." Indeed, Bluestreak had, and it took a good deal of self-control not to cower at the memory. "He swatted me aside as easily as someone would throw a cube, and thought nothing of it." Fingers wrapped around the guard rails as Prowl hovered over him, their faces dangerously close. "Do you think he would have spared a thought if he took your life?"

"It had to be done, even if the risks were higher than normal―"

"Are you not listening to me?" snapped Prowl as he loomed closer. "You. Could. Have. Died."

Bristling now, Bluestreak shouted, "So could've Sideswipe! And Sunstreaker! Anyone, for that matter! If someone didn't do something then we would have lost Fort Scyk!"

"And what if I had lost you?" Prowl retorted.

The gunner recoiled at the question. "What?"

A brittle sound crackled from the tactician's vocalizer, roughened by the deeper, repressed feelings he worked so hard to deny. "We've gotten along fine without Fort Scyk for vorns―outposts are replaceable. You, however, are not." He gave a steady vent before he resumed: "There are many things I have given up over the course of my life for Optimus Prime, and for the Autobots: My career. My home." Glacial blue optics softened as he stared at his wayward charge. "You cannot ask me to give you up as well."

Bluestreak felt his spark break of its own accord.

A tentative hand closed the gap between them and wound around Prowl's, their fingers twining together. The lenses in Prowl's faceplates widened at the contact but he didn't pull away.

"You can't keep me safe forever," the gunner whispered. He gave the hand in his a reassuring squeeze. "You need me out there to help fight. But that doesn't mean that you have to give me up." Embarrassment lit up his features as he looked away, engine giving a nervous rev. "I know it's dangerous out there, and that there's always a chance neither of us will come back. But I promise that I'll do everything I can to stay safe." He willed himself to look his superior optic-to-optic at his last words: "You'll always have me, no matter what happens."

Seconds later a pair of black arms were wrapping around him.

He gave a startled squeak at the force in the embrace, the heavy thrum of the tactician's spark as their plates pressed together. Bluestreak didn't dwell on the humiliating noise, wrapping his arms tightly around Prowl's midsection and pressing his face firmly against his chest.

It was the first time Prowl had initiated the hug, instead of grudgingly reciprocating it.

---

A shy rap on his door jerked Prowl out of his reading.

Rather than deign to spend the rest of his afternoon in his quarters, he'd opted to unwind in his office. Although he technically had no work left to do, he still drew comfort from sitting there, with its garishly orange walls and single window that gave him a spectacular view of Mount St. Hilary's dirt. Apart from simply being conditioned to take breaks there, Prowl had concluded that if he was needed, it would be easiest for his comrades to find him.

Setting aside the datapad he'd been immersed in, the Praxian turned his attention toward the door. "Come in."

It slid open, and to his surprise it was Bluestreak who cautiously traipsed inside. The silver gunner looked uncharacteristically nervous, even more so when Prowl greeted him with a friendly nod. Both hands were tucked behind his back in a pose that would have looked commanding, had it not been so gloriously flubbed by the tremors permeating every inch of his frame. Instead of the tidal wave of chatter that served as his fanfare, there was a thick, anticipatory silence.

"Good afternoon, Bluestreak." Prowl's optics narrowed slightly. "Is everything all right? Did something happen?"

Bluestreak didn't bother to elaborate. Trembling feet carried him almost unwillingly to the front of the desk, like a condemned facing the guillotine. Even without looking into the sniper's expressive face Prowl saw the obvious fear radiating off of him like a stars emits heat.

Now visibly worried, Prowl made to move from his seat. "Bluestreak, what is—"

A package was shoved in his face.

Prowl blinked. And again, just to be certain that it really was there, and wasn't a hallucination from hitting his head during training practice.

For a long moment the tactician simply stared, so surprised by the gesture that he couldn't formulate an immediate response. To make things even more awkward Bluestreak continued to stand there with his arms outstretched, like he was offering up a steak to a lion and was too afraid to see whether it would go for the steak or his arms.

Sensing that his charge wasn't going to be providing an explanation any time soon, Prowl delicately lifted the gift out of the sniper's hands. Despite being the size of a basketball it had to easily weigh 100 lb., if not more. Shiny blue wrapping paper covered every square inch, and when he placed the present on his desk a shower of sequins and glitter sprinkled from it. Prowl inwardly winced and tried not to dwell on how tedious it was going to be removing the mess from his workspace. Instead, he distracted himself with the truly perplexing shape of whatever was inside. There was a solid base to the gift, while the top half jutted out in a variety of geometric angles that would have made even a hardcore mathematician reach for the chill pills. The best guess he could come up with was that the gunner had tried wrapping a dozen snorkels together, with extremely limited success.

"Did Spike and Carly help you wrap this?" Prowl wondered. No reply came, not that he'd been expecting one. They both knew it was a rhetorical question.

Curious to see what was inside, the Second reached out and began stripping off layers of wrapping paper. Because of all the peculiar sharp protrusions, the gift had been wrapped multiple times, to keep whatever was inside from ripping through. It gave the tactician the appearance of peeling a rather large blue onion. All the while Bluestreak stood and watched, his optics avidly focused on him as he pulled away the paper. His doorwings arched then flared out, twitching in that nervous way of his.

With a final tear Prowl removed the last of the wrapping paper.

It was a pale blue crystal.

Not an Earth-based mineral. A Cybertronian crystal.

While Earth was undisputedly the more biodiverse of the two planets, Cybertron wasn't without its own share of fauna. Unlike the geology of their current home, many of the metals and ores on Cybertron were living organisms. When exposed to the unique energy that sparks gave off, the crystals began to grow through a process comparatively similar to photosynthesis. They were unique in that they had cores, and could regenerate mass up to a certain extent. Before the war they had flourished in a select few places only, and when those critical habitats became threatened by the constant battles the species as a whole was listed as endangered. Since their world had died sightings of them had become astronomically small.

There were only a select few places where they'd grown: Vos, the Poles, the Sonic Canyons, and...

Prowl's gaze snapped up to Bluestreak, who had been wringing his hands together and watching for his reaction.

The tactician rarely found himself at a loss for words. But now, staring at the well-preserved treasure on his desk, he couldn't find the appropriate thing to say. A hundred different thoughts flitted through his CPU as he tried not to openly gape. His voice was quiet and thick with awe as he regarded it. "Where did you get this?" he whispered.

As if breaking some sort of spell Bluestreak's idiosyncratic chatter returned, noticeably quicker than normal. "It's from my hometown. I used to take care of them as a hobby, and I occasionally carried one around in my subspace to show my friends because, y'know, it was like Crystal City's thing. It was sorta like a point of pride and we liked to trade them with each other like the humans do with—what did Brawn say they were called?—oh that's right, Yu-Gi-Oh cards. And we'd also exchange different tips on how to prune and fertilize them, like there was this one guy I knew who swore that venom extracts from oxide sharks could turn a crystal green, but I don't think that's right because most crystal species are idiochromatic. I mean, I never tried it because the venom glands were so expensive and I liked the blues and pinks better anyway."

Prowl could only manage to stare.

When he didn't respond Bluestreak's prattle turned even faster, now laced with growing distress: "I know that you're not overly materialistic. I remember hearing you once complain about how cluttered Jazz's quarters are with all his knickknacks and stuff, but I still wanted to get you something and thought that the crystal would be okay, since it's really easy to take care of and it won't take up a lot of space. And I can show you how to keep it healthy and stop the edges from getting dull, because it'll start to look sick otherwise—"

Prowl held up a hand, and immediately the gunner stopped. "Bluestreak," he began, choosing his words carefully. "I am...touched by the thoughtfulness, but I cannot accept this." Halfway through the gunner's explanation it had dawned on him what the crystal must mean to his charge. It wasn't just some pretty little plant bought from a florist: it was a priceless artifact, a remnant of the Cybertron before the war, when Crystal City's scientific institutes and academies had still stood. More importantly, this was a part of Bluestreak's past, and it was painfully obvious that this well-loved crystal was the only thing he had from his former home.

No. He couldn't take that away from him.

Prowl scooted his chair forward and rested a hand on the crystal, gently pushing it toward the sharpshooter. "This belongs to you. I couldn't possibly—"

"Oh yes, you can." To his surprise (wasn't today just full of them?) Bluestreak pushed back until the crystal sat on his superior's side of the desk. Uncharacteristic stubbornness creased his faceplate. "I want you to have it. It's a gift."

"Bluestreak," the tactician pressed, "this crystal... I can't even begin to fathom the sentimental, if not the historical value it has for you. Why would you want to give it to me instead of keep it for yourself? I have no claim to it, and I certainly can't deprive you of the one thing that connects you to your home." He doubted he could ever keep it without being constantly reminded of what Bluestreak had lost, especially without feeling guilty over owning it. He simply had to make him see reason.

Still Bluestreak insisted. "Of course it's important to me," he chirped, seemingly unperturbed by Prowl's pained expression. "That's why I want you to have it." Almost shyly the little 'bot looked away, refusing to meet his superior's optics. "If...If you don't want to look at it as a gift, then you could always think of it as a trade."

"Trade?" the black-and-white mech echoed blankly. "In exchange for what?"

The wringing of his hands returned, and now the other doorwinger was all but staring a hole through his office wall. "I know you don't really keep up with holidays unless it's Christmas and you have to put up constant reminders for everyone to stop hanging up mistletoe, but I found out today is Father's Day—"

"Maybe they're working by someone else's calendar."

Jazz's parting words came crashing back with all the dignity of a fifty-car pileup.

"—and I wanted to do something nice for you since you've always done nice stuff for me. I mean, I know we don't have the same sort of relationships that an organic parent has with its offspring, since we don't reproduce, but when Spike told me about today everything just—just clicked. I thought about you, and me, and how you've done so much for me even though you didn't have to, and I couldn't think of any other word for it except for..." He flinched, as if he was afraid to finish the thought for fear of how the tactician would react. "...except for what the humans have. Like a dad."

Prowl sucked in a sharp breath.

The shaking had gotten to the point where Bluesreak's armor now audibly rattled. Were it not for the lifetime spent learning how to pick apart Bluesreak's chatter, Prowl wouldn't have been able to make anything out: "And since today is dedicated to f-fathers, I wanted to try doing something for you for a change—"

The completed paperwork.

The cancelled game.

The restocked ammo.

"—to show you how grateful I was. So maybe I could finally pay you back for everything you've ever done for me."

Ringing silence followed. A feather could have been heard dropped on the floor.

An agonizing breem passed as the dumbstruck officer regarded the mech in front of him. Meanwhile said mech was doing everything in his power to imitate a statue.

Just as Bluestreak began debating whether or not to retreat from the office before any more damage could be done, he froze at the sound of a chair scraping against the floor. Timidly he raised his head, his features turning from worried to shocked as Prowl moved around the desk and stood next to him. A pair of black arms enfolded the gunner and pulled him close. He was unresisting as Prowl gently coaxed him into the hug. For a moment Bluesreak simply allowed himself to be held, too unsure of what to do other than yield to the embrace.

He'd only ever hugged his superior a handful of times, and it went without saying that Prowl hadn't improved much since the first time. But the action was sincere and sparkfelt and Bluestreak couldn't find a complaint in the world as he happily snuggled against his chestplates.

"Bluestreak." The normally composed, calm tones were unmistakably affectionate as Prowl spoke into his audio. "As much as I appreciate everything you did for me, you don't ever have to 'repay me' for looking out for you. I thought that much would have been obvious. To my understanding, love has no price tags."

Stunned, Bluestreak could only nod and loop his arms tightly around Prowl's midsection.

"If anything," Prowl continued, "I should be the one thanking you. I do not make this admission lightly when I say that I wouldn't be the mech I am now if you hadn't come into my life."

Bluestreak told himself he wouldn't cry. He wouldn't. Not in front of Prowl.

The tactician momentarily pulled back from the embrace and studied the other Autobot, his gaze as open and honest as he ever dared make it. There was a soft glow of pride in his optics. Placing a hand behind Bluestreak's helm, he tipped it forward and tapped it lightly against his own. Their chevrons were pressed firmly together.

"Thank you," Prowl whispered.

And Bluestreak contented himself with a day well lived.

---

Happy Father's Day, Dad. (Ignoring the fact that Father's Day was over a month ago. Better late than never, right?)

Fun Fact: One year for Father's Day my sister and I, 'cause my dad hates Pokémon so much, gave him a Nerf gun and set up a bunch of paper targets with Pikachu on them. He won a gift every time he shot one. The icing on the cake however was when we strapped a plush Pikachu to a remote control car and had him run after it trying to shoot its furry yellow ass.