Title: In Search of a Cause

Author: Dragon of Dispair (dragonofdispair)

Continuity: Bayverse (crossover with Guardians of the Galaxy)

Rating: T

Characters/Pairing: (currently unrequited) Bluestreak / Prowl

Warnings: Nothing as yet. Violence and plug'n'play and/or spark interfacing may come up in later chapters.

Summary: In which Prowl and Bluestreak save the galaxy from both Decepticons and Unicron. You'd think the galaxy would be grateful, but instead Nova Corps keeps trying to arrest them for war crimes. Go figure.

OR: A buddy-comedy version of Indiana Jones IN SPAAACE! but with two giant alien robot war criminals instead of a gainfully employed archaeologist-looter. Because Decepticons are totally the same as Nazis and Bluestreak is still a morality pet.

Notes: This is a sequel / continuation of my oneshot Without a Cause which was about a Decepticon version of Prowl. It was fairly short, but some things may not make sense without reading that first. Also, the tf-bunny-farm is a horrible place to just go look for ideas. Blame that for the occasional bout of wacky dialogue (and the GOTG crossover in the first place…).

.

.

PROLOGUE:

.

.

Once upon a time, Cybertron was a relatively peaceful planet. I say relatively because had Cybertron been truly peaceful, 'bots like me would never had been created. Now, I don't view my own creation as a bad thing, per see, but given my current situation, I believe I could be forgiven for wishing that my home planet had been a bit more, ah, diplomatic with our neighbors a less prepared to kick them in their organic teeth. Not that it was a bad policy at the time.

But then thousands of vorns of devastating civil war practically killed our home planet, scattered our militaries into easily picked off groups searching for the Allspark, and reduced our numbers to the point that we became easy prey for these new upstart organic species that had suddenly taken our place as the masters of the galaxy. Ultimately this lead to my current uncomfortable situation -

"So what do we have, Corpseman?"

"Transformer. Energy resonance scans identify it as the one called 'Prowl'. An Autobot, which only means that slavery and deliberate genocide aren't anywhere on its list of war crimes. We caught it hacking into the main military servers on Xandar."

- which was caught and held captive by Nova Corps. Seriously. It was embarrassing.

I decided to blame Megatron. And Starscream.

After all, if Megatron had only been willing to negotiate with his thrice-damned, over clocked glitch spawn of a brother once the senate had been eradicated the war would have been over thousands of vorns ago and we'd still be in control of this corner of the universe. With a rallying cry like "freedom is the right of all sentient beings", the glitch spawn wouldn't have been able to outright refuse peace overtures without looking like the complete hypocrite he is.

If Megatron is to blame for the overall state of our race and our much-reduced place on the galactic stage, then I blame Starscream for my specifically being here because if he hadn't been such a compulsively treacherous glitch and betrayed me the orn Praxus was razed to rubble, I'd still be a fragging Decepticon and engaging in deliberate genocide rather than chained up waiting for a rescue and ignoring these two squishies as they blather on about my impressive (to them) list of war crimes. Apparently a hundred and forty-four vorns is enough time to rack up a few charges whatever your faction. I flicked my door-panels dismissively; they glanced at me, then back down to their computer just as dismissive.

Dismiss- How dare - I'd show them an impressive list of war crimes if only… I stripped a gear in my transmission in annoyance, attracting a worried look from the severely dressed older Xandaran with a stupid looking purely decorative crown/helmet thing on his head.

"Are you certain it's secured, Corpsman?"

The other alien, a pretty generic Xandaran dressed in the standard NovaCorps excuse for armor, looked up from his computer console and regarded me critically. "As certain as anything, Sir. Those restraints are Asguardian make, designed to hold eldjôtunn, and as long as it's in that inhibitor field it won't be using its comm systems or any of its weapons."

The elder alien narrowed his eyes at me. You'd think he didn't trust me or something. "I admit I'm more worried about a rescue than a break out. These things don't often travel alone."

"We've scanned every vehicle in the city, and we've enacted a vehicle lock down. No vehicles or ships entering the city without being scanned." Which wouldn't keep a pretender-class infiltrator, a drone-class mini spy, or a kronoformer-class stowaway from rescuing me. Not all of my kind are vehicle sized killing machines. Just my luck that I haven't even seen a bot of of any of those classes in a hundred vorns. I'd have liked to show them the price of that particular brand of arrogance. "If it has a partner, it's in no position to enact a rescue."

I smirked, and the man narrowed his eyes more. "I want extra precautions taken anyway, Corpsman. This is a very delicate situation."

"Of course, Sir."

What those precautions may have been, he didn't get the chance to say. An armor piercing cap exploded against the supposedly indestructible glass and sent shrapnel everywhere, blowing its payload through the window. The round lodged itself in the far wall and spewed a thick, bluish gas, setting off shrill alarms throughout the building. As the Nova Corps officers and guards started coughing and falling into their drugged comas, my sensors automatically analyzed the vapor: it was a complicated chemical harmless to my systems, colloquially called Narcojet. A commonly available sedative, delivered via a Cybertonian long-range sniper's missile pod. There was a disadvantage to being in the largest building in the city: snipers. Granted hitting a specific window from the distant mountains that were the closest line of sight to this floor was beyond the skills of most snipers these organic upstarts had to deal with, but Cybertonian snipers are in a class all their own.

And Bluestreak was in a class above even that. He showed it with a pair of particle beam shots that hit the two targets the size of one of my fingers, vaporizing controls for the inhibitor field and the controls holding these ridiculously elaborate chains closed, electricity crackling and shorting out several more systems in the room including the lights..

I glared red optics at the two Xandarans still fighting for consciousness, calculating. I weighed the consequences of leaving them alive to pursue us, vs killing them now. Either way, Nova Corps would continue chasing us and I was no one's prey. I should kill these lesser creatures, this pretender-Prime, if only for the offense of believing me such, but I decided it wasn't worth the piteous look Bluestreak would have in his optics when we reunited. Instead of smashing their squishy guts into paste, I collected up the spent round and flung myself out of the window.

Now… I'm not an air frame. Not a seeker, a shuttle, or a cyclo-craft. I'm a tough, medium armored military ground car with a top-end sensor suite, a couple of useful stealth mods, enough internal support on my struts to consider ramming into other vehicles a viable combat tactic, and one of the best tactical processors ever manufactured by a Cybertronian assembly line. Which was why when we were on that one planet where all the hover cars compatible with our frame-types had flight-grade repulsorlifts, I made sure Bluestreak and I both saved the Pit-damned specs.

.

.

(tbc…)

.

.

Prowl and Bluestreak's default (b/c robots in disguise y'know are often disguised) vehicle forms are Buirk'alor-class airspeeders. Yes I know those are from Star Wars. Don't care; they're cool, besides flying cars are MCU cannon (Transformer!Lola would be awesome), this just makes them alien flying cars.