Title: Stand Again

Chapter(s): 1/?

'Verse(s): AU; loosely based off of the Dreamwave G1 continuity (as according to Wikipedia…).

Rating: T

Pairings: (Main) Eventual Blue/? (Minor) Prowl/Jazz

Warnings: Brief mentions of violence and slash.

Summary: The attack on Praxus had been brutal, but it was a thing of the past, so no one had ever thought to bring it up again. After all, the Autobots already had enough to deal with. But when an injured mech literally appears at the Ark's doorstep, how will the Autobots deal with the painful memories his presence brings back? Why is it only now that he decided to set off this chain of events?

Disclaimer: I own nothing, except for my OCs (thanks to LogicIsTheUltimateWeapon for helping me with some names!).

A/N: Most of my info about the fall of Praxus comes from TFwiki so please bear with me. *sweatdrop* Anyways, please enjoy! Constructive criticism is welcome, flames will be used to roast marshmallows.

...

"Thoughts"

::comm. link::

Beware of POV changes (it changes every time there's a break)!

...

Prologue

It was the dead of night when I'd been on my way to the recreation room to get my energon ration because my shift had just finished. Granted, it had officially finished hours ago, but I had some reports that had absolutely needed to be completed today. And, given that I wouldn't accept anything less than perfection, I'd continued working past the end of my shift to conclude them. My systems had alerted me once or twice about being low on energon, but I'd ignored them. I have worked triple-shifts on less energon and recharge than this and I've been fine, so no worry or doubt had crossed my mind when I'd come to the decision of powering through my shift and into the night.

Grabbing an energon cube and filling it with the warm, pink liquid, I sighed in contentment. Taking a long sip and letting the energon roll around in my mouth, I savoured the taste, doorwings dipping into a relaxed position. I turned and saw one of the many couches lining the walls, and decided that sitting and watching some earth television couldn't hurt for just half an hour or so. The only mechs awake at this time were those on shift, so I wouldn't have to worry about my reputation as an emotionless, cold-sparked, glitch being ruined.

Giving a dry chuckle at the thought, I made my way to the couch and sat, doorwings draped over the arm and legs comfortably stretched out on the seat in front of me. Tilting my helm back slightly in thought while mindlessly surfing the channels on the TV, I went over my day.

It had been most like every other day at the Ark. Sideswipe had pulled two pranks (and was currently sleeping in the brig because of it), Ratchet had thrown a fit over Bumblebee, who had been knocked offline in a bad sparring accident with Mirage, Optimus and myself had gone over some backup security measures with a fidgety Red Alert, Sunstreaker had gotten into a fight with Tracks over who was the better looking mech – I just thanked Primus that both were unwilling to get into an actual fist fight, lest they wanted to mess up their finish – but none of those were the highlight of the day. Not even close. No, the best part of my day had come all bundled up in a package of another black and white that mirrored my own paint job.

Jazz.

I wouldn't consider myself sentimental, but it really had been the best part of my day. He'd come into my office, which, though not unusual, was a pleasant surprise. Carrying two cubes of energon and a stack of finished and unfinished reports, the smooth saboteur had plopped himself, rather ungracefully, into the seat in front of my desk and claimed that he'd rather much finish his reports in the presence of his best friend. I had shaken my helm in exasperation at the time and tried to convince him to return to his own office, but he was relentless.

It might not have been the most eventful time of the day, but, to borrow a phrase, simplicity is bliss.

And, though I'd never admit it to anyone if asked, I was slightly disappointed when my counterpart left.

Snapping myself from my thoughts, I finally settled on a channel hosting mostly documentaries of different subjects, and took a second sip of my forgotten energon cube. I liked relaxing, I really did. It's just that I always needed my processor to be occupied by something, work or otherwise. Why?

It kept my past demons at bay and away from my CPU.

An overwhelming feeling of sadness filled every part of my chassis at that, ghost aches and pains making my doorwings flinch. The only thing that kept me from crossing the threshold into oblivion was the familiar ache in my processor and the incessant pinging of my comm. link.

::Prowl! It's an emergency!:: Red Alert.

I grimaced, and not just because of the dull pounding ache in my helm.

I sighed. ::Yes, Red Alert, what is it?::

::Decepticons! It's the 'Cons! I know it, Prowl, they-:: Abruptly, the link was cut off, leaving me slightly exasperated. If Decepticons were really attacking, the red and white SD would have pulled the alarms long ago. Something had to have been holding him back.

Sighing, and sitting ramrod straight on the edge of the couch, I let the current TV show become background noise as I comm.'d Optimus.

::Prime? We have a situation.::

The voice that answered me was tired, and I felt a sense of empathy for my leader as he sighed, ::Yes, Prowl. It's been noted.:: A brief pause, ::I'm currently here with Red Alert in the med bay.::

I raised an optic ridge. Why would Prime be in the med bay? I winced, trying to quell the thousands of scenarios that ran rampant throughout my overtaxed battle computer, on the verge of glitching. Taking a moment, I then asked, ::Has something happened to Ratchet? Or one of the other soldiers?::

This time the Prime's sigh was heard over the channel before he answered, ::I think you should come and have a look for yourself.::

Perplexed, I stood and subspaced my gradually cooling energon cube. I frowned; regret filling the back of my mind.

Perhaps I really should have refueled and recharged right when my shift had ended. I have this horrible foreboding feeling that this "situation" will forbid me from doing so anytime soon.

...

When I first rebooted and woke from my forced stasis, the first thing that came out of my mouth was an endless stream of pleas. I was begging for them to spare my life, and was in so much pain that I couldn't even recoil into myself as usual. My optics hadn't powered on correctly, and the blurry forms in front of me were moving too fast. Everything was too bright… and it hurt. Everything just hurt.

A gruff voice suddenly growled, "Primus fraggit! Help me hold him down before he hurts himself any more than he already is!"

I cried out at the proximity of the sound, and started shouting again and again for my creator.

"Creator!" I called, "Creator- help!" A strangled cry escaped me, "Help!"

I felt restraints close over my wrists and ankles, and sobbed. My doorwings were pinned under me at an awkward angle, but the soft berth underneath me merely molded to them instead of hurt them.

"Don't hurt me, please!" I sobbed, arching off the berth despite the strain in my ankle, wrist, and knee joints. I forced my optics to reboot despite my depleted systems that were starting to deem them unnecessary, and the first mech I laid eyes on filled me with a sudden relief.

"Doorwings. Doorwinger. Good. Praxian. Praxus. Unharmed?" Confusion filled me at the almost-pristine looking black and white chassis, but that was at the back of my mind. "Doorwings. Doorwinger. Safe. Help. Friend? Trust? Doorwinger. Safe."

Apparently my jumbled thoughts were good enough for me, because words were once again spilling out of my lipplates before my sluggish CPU could even register them, "Please! Please, doorwings! Praxian! You! Black and white, oh primus, please help!"

In the back of my processor, I noticed that my fellow Praxian looked extremely uncomfortable before he made the few steps towards me. He lifted a hesitant servo and slowly placed it on the side of my helm. I whimpered, pressing into the touch. I wanted – no, needed – the physical reassurance that everything was going to be okay. That nobot was going to hurt me.

His voice was soft, but calming and incredibly soothing as he comforted me, "Shh… everything will be alright. No one is going to hurt you here." I whimpered again, trembling.

A small sigh could be heard, before he placed his hand on my forearm, caressing it idly.

I couldn't tell how long it was before I'd finally calmed enough to talk to him coherently.

I still lay on the berth, but a red and white medic bot had taken off my restraints. I couldn't be more grateful for that.

The other black and white Praxian – who I learned was designated Prowl at one point or another – sat at the foot of my berth, and glanced at me. His optics were full of emotion. Confusion, sympathy, sadness, and another that I couldn't really place. It was intense.

He looked to me from under his chevron.

"What's your designation?"

I blinked, shifting slightly at the attention.

"Sharpshift."

He then smiled (the simple expression sending waves of reassurance through me), "Okay, Sharpshift." A brief pause as he mused. I internally braced myself, no doubt he'd begin asking me endless questions about myself and why I was here.

And to my surprise, this wasn't the case.

"Are you feeling better?" He murmured, his optics drifting to my chassis, worry making his optic ridges furrow.

I nodded, not trusting my vocalizer to work for me under the intensity of his stare. It was only then that I realized I was still shaking.

It seemed that he noticed my discomfort as he slid off the berth to face me. He took my servo in his and squeezed, before letting go.

He mumbled, "It is late now, Sharpshift. I understand you're still tired, so get some recharge. We'll get all of this sorted out in the morning."

I stared at him, transfixed. "I… I don't think I'll be able to recharge."

"Why? Is there something wrong with your systems?"

"No… it-it's just…" I looked at him, pleading for him to help me. "…nightmares."

He nodded, understanding, and smiled.

"I'll stay with you for the night then." My jaw dropped, and my systems stuttered in shock. "So recharge, hm?"

I nodded, smiling the brightest I have in so, so long.

"Yes!" I'd already initiated my recharge cycle, "Thank you… so much."

"You're welcome."

...

I watched as he fell into recharge in front of me, and sighed. Who'd he been begging to spare his life in the beginning? 'The Decepticons' were the best answer, as supplied by my battle computer. I frowned.

I turned to see Optimus looking at me, his attention now on me since Red Alert had headed off a while ago.

"So this… is the 'situation' you were telling me about, sir?" I asked, doorwings twitching.

He nodded, "We found him at the entrance of the Ark. Literally. He was disoriented and gravely injured, and we have no idea how he passed any of our proximity sensors. Imagine our surprise when we learned he was just a youngling as well."

I nodded, letting my battle computer take the information in and make sense of it. I glanced back at the mechling on the med berth.

"You know," Prime murmured, "he's around Bluestreak's age, isn't he?"

I looked at him in surprise at the mention of my adopted creation. Why was that relevant?

"Yes, sir. He is." It was saddening… to see one so young suffer so much. Though, the only indication that I felt anything even close to remorse was the slight droop of my doorwings.

"Prowl?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Get some rest. I'm sure Ratchet would happily let you recharge on one of the med berths here." There was some miniscule amount of teasing in his tone as he addressed the med bot at the other side of the room, "Right, Ratchet?"

He huffed, "Yes, yes. Just be glad that there's nobot else in the med bay right now or I'd be much rougher on you two." He smirked, "Now get on up a berth and recharge before I forcibly initiate the cycle."

I sent him a glare, but it lost any venomous effect at my amused chuckle.

"Yes, carrier."

A pause, before the med bot jumped off the counter he'd been sitting on and addressed Optimus.

"By Primus, if I didn't know any better, I'd say Prowl just made a joke."

A rumbling, baritone laugh resounded throughout the room, "Are you sure you're not just hallucinating, old friend?"

"Smartaft."

I chuckled to myself again as I sat on the med berth just beside Sharpshift's. I was just about to lay down when the mechling in front of me shifted onto his side, back facing me.

It was only then I noticed the doorwings.

"…"

I rebooted my optics.

Sharpshift's a Praxian?

Vaguely, I could feel my processor overheating and the aforementioned dull ache become a piercing pain, but my main focus remained on the twitching doorwings in front of me.

And just before my CPU shut down, I could just make out both Optimus calling my name and Ratchet cursing Cybertronian and English profanities.

...

Just as the black and white doorwinger hit the ground with a large 'crash', Optimus sighed. Slowly turning to Ratchet, he practically deflated under the glare that could peel paint off walls with its intensity alone.

The red and white growled, "Optimus."

"Yes, Ratchet?" Was the Autobot leader actually being – dare it be said – sheepish?

"You forgot to tell him that our new arrival was a Praxian, didn't you?"

"Well, in my defense, no one could have seen that comi-" THWACK! "Ouch! Easy, Ratchet!"

A growl as the medibot waved his wrench in front of Prime's face, "Don't 'easy, Ratchet' me! I don't have to take it easy! In fact, you are going to let me rant all I want because I'm the one who's going to be fixing Prowl's sorry aft! By Primus…" Ratchet continued muttering.

Optimus sighed. This was going to be a long night.

...

A/N: Should I continue?