Steve Reeds is many things.

Air Commander, Second in Command of the Nemesis, best pilot ever, cunning, annoying, cocky… And some more things he could tell and even more others could add.

But one thing he isn't is superstitious.

Or religious, for that matter.

He was a scientist before an Air Force pilot, and it is as much a part of him as being airborne is.

He doesn't believe in past lives.

And he doesn't believe that a fever as high as Sanders' was can make people think they're someone else, either, more so if it's a flu fever.

There have been some cases and he's sure there will be more, so, despite being surprised by Sanders' idiocy in trying to keep up with his routine while sick, he's not surprised he caught it too.

He didn't think much of him being called a different name. Or codename, whatever that was. But Sanders calling himself a different name, one that sounds like one of Grant's bad jokes, with the same no-nonsense tone of voice he uses to give orders?

That doesn't sound plausible.

So, he's the first to be down in the Med Bay when his shift is over, and, once more, is not surprised at the stunned face of the doctor when he walks through the door as calmly as he does the bridge.

"Air Commander? Is something wrong?" the white-haired man asks gruffly, already approaching him with his signature glare.

"Not this time, Doctor," he answers, waving a hand to try and calm the man, something not that easy seeing that he feels, and probably looks, like something that's fallen from the Civilian Government Building's roof.

Sanders' absence meant taking on his post as well as his own, and he really could have done without the extra work, more so seeing he spent quite a long time in the labs the day before, cutting his sleep time in half.

The nonplussed look the older man gives him tells him he's not being believed.

"Just tired, and no, no other symptoms that would point to the flu, and yes, I will come see you if I even start suspecting of having caught it. I'm here for Sanders," he answers, and the frown on the paler face grows darker.

"If it's to drop work on him—"

"Come on, Shepherd, I'm not that much of an asshole. No, I'm here to visit, believe it or not," Steve cuts, scoffing at the accusation.

Their stalemate goes on for a minute before Ryan 'The Hatchet' Shepherd backs down.

He has to fight to keep his smugness to a mere smirk, but he manages.

"Well, I guess it's alright then… If you don't mind the risk of catching the flu, too. You wouldn't happen to be looking for that, would you?"

His patience snaps and he turns on his heels with an annoyed huff, ready to walk away and come back when the Chief Medical Officer is not there.

"Alright! I'm going then!" he growls, walking to the door with big strides.

"Hey, wait! It's alright, I'm sorry. I just couldn't keep the joke in," the doctor calls, stopping him, and, still annoyed, he glares at the man over his shoulder until his amused smile vanishes under his usual scowl. "Don't bother him. His fever was quite serious and he needs his rest," he explains, and Steve nods, relaxing, and follows to where the Communications Officer is lying seemingly asleep on a white bed. "Ten minutes."

"And if he's still sleeping?"

"Better luck next time," the older man answers nonchalantly, and the Air Commander nods and sits in the chair near the bed while the doctor goes back to whatever he was doing when he came in, leaving them alone.

He frowns softly as he studies the pale and sweaty face, cheeks tinted pink with a much lower fever.

'Soundwave', he said, and 'Starscream', he called him.

What do they mean?

Why those names? Why different names to begin with?

He looks down at himself and slowly, as he lets his thoughts fly, he takes off his blue gloves, straightening them on his thighs and brushing off any wrinkles.

Sanders' flu aside, it's been a calm day, the usual bustling activity in the Military Base Nemesis under the Ark Protectodome, without even a whiff of the Black Beasts.

Steve's frown softens as his eyes darken, the sight of his perfectly straightened gloves on his thighs lost to him as memories start scrolling through his mind.

No one knows how or why the Black Beasts came to their world, to their little meaningless Earth, but they did.

And they carried with them the Black Plague.

The reason why Protectodomes like the Ark exist is because of that foul epidemic, turning people into masses of black goo that release fumes as black and sticky as tar, contaminating the atmosphere as a fouler and deadlier smog, taking Earth's organisms down when a significant part of their bodies gets covered by the tar-like drops that conform the misty Black Plague.

It's been centuries since those monsters came, but no one knows anything about them, only that they came and unleashed that deadly pestilence.

That's why they're called Black, because they're as mysterious as anything hidden in the darkness.

Humanity is alive today because of the Protectodomes standing between them and the Black Plague, but it would be a lot different if it wasn't for the Cybertronian, the Military Force's specially designed crafts.

They are manned by humans brave or stupid enough to waste years training to get into these technological marvels and be sent outside the Protectodomes to fight off the Black Beasts when they try a more direct attack to destroy their defenses.

There are far too many that get lost in their first outing.

And if you're lost out there, you are lost forever.

Dead or alive.

Steve's alive because he's one of the best pilots ever. His Wingmates are because their rides are the work of the best.

Oh, Grant and Ted are good, real good, excellent in fact, but sometimes that isn't enough, and there have been too many times when they've come back just because of Grant's light-speed bursts that make it look almost like he's teleporting, or Ted's sonic booms winning him enough time to hightail it from deadly situations.

Or teamwork.

Because they are a Wing, and everybody knows his Wing is the best.

Not even Combiners, massive Cybertronian built to be stronger, faster, better than normal ones, are as good.

Not even the flying Combiner Superion.

They lost too many good men the day Superion fell.

Steve's own flying Cybertronian, known as Tetrajets, is nothing special. In fact, she's special because she has nothing, seeing as every other craft has been modified in some way. Steve's not only untouched by the technicians, but old.

That's why he keeps her.

With all the new modifications needed to survive, none of the newer Tetrajets are as fast.

And none of the other pilots can steer Steve's beauty with enough skill to get the best out of her, to survive the traitorous odds and twists of fate.

Some joke that Steve Reeds doesn't pilot a Tetrajet, but has a symbiotic relationship with one.

He always scolds them, but it's mostly an act.

When he's airborne, Steve's free, one with the winds and currents and the metal all around him, to the point he can almost feel the air outside the hull.

And, since fighting the Black Beasts is something they can't do visually, but through radar, lidar and scans, it's a benefit no other pilot has.

Instinct, others call it.

A blessing, his fellow pilots say.

Steve being who he is, is his Wingmates' explanation.

And him… he can't really find a way to describe it, feeling like he has to agree with all of them.

No one knows anything about Black Beasts, because no one has even seen them, ever. None of their crafts has any kind of windows or panes, because they are useless in their poisoned black atmosphere.

Only screens with the radar information, and many different scans that show the Black Beasts as blobs of light with clearer spots marking weaknesses.

It would be a lot easier if those monsters weren't coated with so much Black Plague that blobs are the most their machinery can identify, but, after all, the epidemic is to them like air to humans. Or water after a shower. It doesn't hurt the Beasts, but it difficults the scans' job.

It always takes Steve to feel the Tetrajet soaring through the air to convince himself he isn't back at the simulator.

Without visual and only with the scans as guides, they need to think fast and act even faster, using calculus and strategy to navigate a world made of coordinates and data.

Another reason why the former scientist is the best, the Air Commander.

People joke that he's been at the top for so long that no one remembers who the last Air Commander was.

It's not a joke for those in the Air Force.

Steve himself doesn't know who the man, or woman, was, but he has never asked.

Every time someone mentions or makes a vague reference about the last Air Commander, all in Air Force look away.

He's begun to wonder how many do so because they don't know anything about their last superior officer, either.

But, after all, he has never asked.

Trying to get his thoughts away from the current topic, he looks up at Sanders.

The man's feverish pale blue eyes are lost somewhere on the ceiling.

Feeling as if approaching one of those damned pets that always try to bite or scratch him, Steve rises slowly, not caring that his gloves end on the ground.

Sanders doesn't react, doesn't even seem to have noticed him.

His gaze is not on the ceiling, but unfocused. Unseeing.

Unease pools at the bottom of his stomach, and starts to grow.

"Sanders?" he asks softly, a hand almost reaching for the prone man's, but stopping tremulously next to it. "It's me, Reeds. Sanders?"

Nothing.

And then, not even thinking about it, Steve decides to take a leap of faith.

"Soundwave?"

Blue eyes glinting feverishly and flecked with red lock with his, and he freezes.

Somehow, he knows whoever is on the bed is not John Sanders.

And yet, he knows that this is Sanders, the real deal, the man himself.

Only, not as much the man as the soul.

Steve's heart clenches so painfully that one hand shots to grab at the clothing over his chest, what would have been an agonized scream going through his lips as a soundless gasp as his knees lock in an effort not to throw him to the ground, his free hand curling on the sheets with enough strength to lose all feeling in it.

His eyes never leave Sanders'.

"Soundwave…" he whispers, and he can't hear himself speak, but the feverish gaze seems to focus even more on him. "'S me… Starscream."

The man on the bed snaps upright so quickly that the next thing he knows is that strong hands are grabbing his shoulders with enough strength to have the fingers dig in the joint and push the bones apart slowly.

The pain in his chest and the unadulterated terror twisting Sanders' face keep him mute and immobile, wide startled eyes never leaving the feverish red-speckled blue of the other man.

"They're coming…" the Communications Officer whispers, the machines surrounding them starting to go crazy. "They will take us… Back to the beginning… We have to"

The scream that escapes through Sanders' lips is the most agonized sound he has ever heard, and he doubts he'll hear anything like it in the rest of his lifetime.

The doctor rushes into the room as the man falls unconscious against his chest, the Air Commander quickly grabbing him before he topples off the bed, but his body betrays him by letting him know of the damaged tendons in his shoulder joints, and his legs bend under the added weight.

Fortunately, the white-haired man is there to keep Sanders from falling to the ground, even as Reeds grunts and curls into himself, wrapping his arms around his torso as he feels his body seize up painfully, waves of agony coming from deep within his chest—the area where his heart is supposed to be, but he doesn't feel it beating, can't feel anything but the white hot furnace growing hotter and hotter—

He takes a deep, shuddering breath, and the burning starts to lessen, almost as if the smelting pit that has become his chest cools with every intake of cold Med Bay air and every exhale of scorching air filling his most likely molten lungs.

By the time the doctor has Sanders back in the bed, sure he isn't about to suffer a stroke or something of the like, and turns to the Air Commander, his throat is burning as badly as if he's swallowed a gallon of distilled alcohol and his chest feels as if someone had put it against a giant Bunsen burner and switched it on.

His vision is so blurry the man in front of him is just a blob of white and pink, and it takes him far too long to realize there are tears streaming down his face.

His body is still locked down, so he doesn't—can't—make any move to wipe them off.

He could have never expected a visit to a flu-suffering Sanders would end like this.

"—eeds! Steve!" someone shouts loudly enough for the sound to bounce painfully in his head, and he jerks and finally manages to free one arm enough to rub his face free of liquid, even though his shoulder protests at that. "Thank God! Are you alright? What happened?" Shepherd asks, leaning a bit closer so that their eyes can meet, although the Air Commander looks away to the prone form on the bed, eyes closed and breathing even, not a hint of emotion on the flushed face.

He tries to talk, but he has to turn to the side as the rash dryness of his throat forces him to cough, and he's never been in so much pain from such a simple gesture before.

When he manages to stop, every gasped intake of breath cutting through his throat, there's blood pooling in his mouth and dripping past his lips, and the doctor is freaking out next to him.

He hears him shout and curse and call someone he barely notices from the corner of his eye, because he feels as if he's burning from the inside out, but how can such a thing be real?

He's dragged to his feet and taken to an empty bed, where he's forced to sit down, even though he doesn't really go against the white-clad men of the Medical Department, it's his body that's still locked so tightly that it pains him to even make a finger twitch.

Before his mind manages to process enough for him to snap out of his shock, there's a small pinprick of a needle on his neck, and the world turns muddled and dark.


August Prime is not prone to panic, but he has to admit his old friend's helplessness and fear are starting to rub on him.

That Lester Storm, Supreme Commander of the Military Force, is especially worried about the situation doesn't help either.

"Ryan, old friend, calm down," he tells the doctor softly and, despite his age, the man gives him a 'puppy eyes look' that would have even a baby bending to his will.

"But how can I? I still have no answers! I understand the overextended tendons, but the fever, the throat…" he repeats for the umpteenth time, his voice almost cutting off before he manages to take a deep breath. "Those were burn marks, August. While he was in my Med Bay, with a flu patient that was unconscious and without anything that could have done that kind of damage. And you want me to calm down?" he asks in almost a whimper, and the taller man doubts for a second.

"You have to, Doctor Shepherd. We need you. Even if you don't know how it happened, yet, you can still treat my men, can't you?" Lester cuts in, his deep voice, usually ordering people around and filled with power, now softer and more soothing somehow.

The doctor doesn't even need a second to nod.

"I can, but… but I need to know what happened, what kind of illness is this to create a cure and eradicate it, instead of just treating symptoms."

"And you will, old friend. Just take some time to calm down, so that not even the tiniest detail slips past you," August comforts with a small smile and, after another deep breath, Ryan nods.

Lester lets out a tired sigh as he runs a hand through his white-peppered silvery blond hair, green eyes glaring at the desk.

"You've discarded all known illnesses, then?" the Supreme Commander asks, and the doctor nods once again.

"The last tests' results got in earlier today. Nothing."

And that is exactly what they'd feared when they got the emergency call from Shepherd to put the Med Bay under quarantine and the Nemesis in lockdown.

This is exactly why August is sitting in his office and Lester in his, having a three-way meeting through video-conference between them and the doctor still in Med Bay.

They were startled and skeptical about the emergency request, but you don't disobey a medical order like that just because you think it's weird. Later, once the Military Base had been closed off to civilians with all personnel isolated inside, the situation was explained in detail, and they realized it had been a wise choice.

There had been some episodes of flu all around the base, but none as sudden and wild as John Sanders' that morning, who went from perfectly healthy to an almost deadly fever in the time it had taken to brew a cup of black coffee.

And then, Air Commander Steve Reeds, the one who had been in contact with the Communications Officer the longest without sterilized equipment, just fell down with the same high fever plus a burned throat.

The first thing Shepherd had done after issuing the quarantine order was isolate the two men, in case it was a new virus, and get some blood and tissue samples sent to the laboratories of the Nemesis.

After making sure his patients were stable, he got the medical personnel outside the quarantined Med Bay to check over the rest of the Military Base's population.

They were freaked out, the Air Commander's wingmates more than the rest, but none exhibited any symptoms.

And now, a week later, no other cases have appeared, and neither has the guilty bacteria or virus or whatever had been responsible. And the two patients are healthier than ever, if bored out of their minds.

The Supreme Commander took pity on the doctor and got them back to work through the Med Bay computers.

That was all nice and good for Sanders, but Reeds…

"I'm going to have to clear them soon, before that Air Commander of yours drives me and my staff crazy, unless I find a reason to get them to stay. And there's no standing those wingmates of his. I swear, if I hear Grant approach my Med Bay whistling that accursed tune again, I'm knocking him out until next century, I don't care what you say."

"The last two attacks haven't put them in a better mood, I guess," Lester states, not even bothering to try and make it sound like a question, and the doctor's scowl is more than enough to let him know that he's right. "Well, I'd say take some more samples for whatever you think and clear them out. You'll have clearance as the CMO to get them down to Med Bay at your call, but I need them out here. Neither Carter nor Grant are half the Air Commander Reeds is, and having to juggle both my Second and Third's workloads hasn't exactly helped, mostly because they are still trying to catch up and can only get so much done from the Med Bay."

"Would you rather have this spread, or Sanders falling unconscious during an attack or Reeds being outside the Protectodome if he suffers a relapse?" the doctor asks incredulously, and the Supreme Commander sighs tiredly, a scowl on his face.

"I'd rather not have them relapsing, but the possibility that something that has only happened once happens again isn't enough to keep them quarantined and the whole base in lockdown. From what you've told us, it seems to have been two isolated incidents, and there doesn't seem to be any risk of this being contagious. At the very least, lift the quarantine and clear Reeds for desk duty, so I may get my officers back. Think of it as a trial period, give him one more week before clearing him for the field, and I'll keep someone with Sanders to halve his workload during this time," he says, but he's really pleading, because Lester may be Supreme Commander and August may be the Ark's Civilian Government Commander, but Ryan's Chief Medical Officer, and that gives him authority over both of them if it regards medical issues.

And yet, because of that same reason, he knows how badly this situation is affecting not only the Nemesis, but the Ark too.

Having the whole Military Base locked down for so long is starting to damage not only working relationships, but civilian morale, too, more so because no one, not even the Military, has answers as to when this nightmare is going to end.

The last two attacks, too close one after the other, haven't helped, either.

There have been far more losses too.

And Ron Fowler, Second in Command of the Ark's Civilian Government and Commander-in-Chief of the Enforcers has gone to their Med Bay more than once to treat the crippling migraines than render him as good as unconscious, but with a big deal more pain, when in highly stressful long-term situations. Like the one they're in now.

And the increased periods without the man are starting to take its toll in the Enforcers and Civilian Government, too.

Ryan lets out a defeated sigh, and the other two know immediately that he yields.

"Very well, I'll order the quarantine lifted and them back to duty, but I want them coming to Med Bay for a checkup every afternoon after their shifts. If they don't comply, or if I find anything, and I mean anything, I will stuff them in my ICU again. If everything's alright… well, I guess a week is as good a time as any."

"And the Nemesis' lockdown?" Lester asks cautiously, and the doctor grumbles softly under his breath.

"Give it two more days. If nothing's wrong, you can lift it," he relinquishes, and both Commanders let out relieved sighs before they exchange small smiles.

The loads of work on both theirs and their subordinates' shoulders will lift visibly, and morale will increase, too, even if they have to wait two more days.

"Also, I don't think they would be stupid enough to do so, but in case they try to hide any kind of symptoms, could you keep an eye on them?" Ryan asks, and the Supreme Commander nods without need for another word, recognizing the order despite its wording.

Crisis averted.


UPDATED 29/09/2016: Corrected Grammar.


AN: Thanks a lot to everybody that has reviewed/favorited/put on alert. Every time I see a new message about it, I can't help but smile.

More names, which means more characters! Remember, there are no OCs, which means that if someone is named, they are canon.