AN: Oh WOW! Man, if I knew that Baby Blue would be such a review hog, I'd've started this story a long time ago! *beams* Seriously, thank you all so much for the love.

On, and in case anyone wonders about missing members of the Officers meeting…let's just say some guys haven't been promoted, some need to be replaced, and some haven't been recruited yet. It's early yet in the war, after all.

Vorn = 83 years/1 TF year

Deca-orn = 10 orns/1 TF week

Orn = 2 weeks/ 1 TF day

Joor = 6 hours/1 TF hour.

Breem = 8.3 minutes.

Klick = less than a second

Ch. 2 – Caretaker

As a medic, and especially since becoming Chief Medical Officer, Ratchet has seen a great many things in his medbay. Many wonderful, more terrible, a few miracles, and one or two that were just downright bizarre. But here was a unique case that managed to be all of the above.

It was wonderful that a survivor had been found in the remains of Praxus.

It was terrible that the youngling had lost his home and family.

It was a miracle that he escaped almost entirely unscathed from the destruction.

It was bizarre that-

"Would you please stop staring already?" Prowl asked, his usual almost-monotone tinged with – dare he say it? – annoyance.

Ratchet shuttered his optics as he came back to reality, and it was only by experience and iron-will that he managed to keep a straight face.

The little youngling (really little, he couldn't have been more than six or seven vorns), having been declared fit to travel by the field medic on hand, had been brought in personally to the Autobot HQ and Ratchets medbay by the mech who found him – Prowl. Currently, the still-nameless youngling was sitting on the edge of one of the berths, watching Ratchet with optics that seemed too large for his face, giving him an especially endearing appearance of wide-optic innocence. The appearance was compounded by the makeshift "doll" he still held loosely at his side with one arm. Nobody had had the chance to get him cleaned up properly yet, so he was still almost completely covered in ash and dust from the city.

On his other side stood Prowl, as tall as a monochromic sentinel, posture ramrod straight and expression neutral as it always was. It had actually taken Ratchet an extra couple of klicks to notice the younglings free hand being loosely but comfortably held in Prowls own, the little hand almost being entirely swallowed up by the larger.

Ratchet didn't use the word freely, or even out loud, but there was no other way to describe it; the picture was irredeemably adorable.

Which, actually, was the very thought that almost forced Ratchets own CPU to lock up as it tried to reconcile the fact that he had managed to use "Prowl" and "adorable" in the same sentence and in all seriousness.

"Sorry Prowl," Ratchet said, the grin still valiantly fighting for its life. "I'm just a little surprised to meet mini-you."

Prowl, ever the humorless one, frowned minutely. The youngling didn't react at all. He just kept intently staring at Ratchet. Okay, it was a little cute at first, but it was starting to get a little creepy. Ratchet wasn't THAT scary looking, was he?

With the intent to ask for his name, Ratchet bent down slightly with a smile to speak to the youngster at his level, hoping to come across as less intimidating.

But when Ratchet moved in closer, the younglings optics widened in alarm and he slide sideways into Prowl, away from Ratchet. His grip on Prowls hand, once loose, tightened with metal bending force.

Ratchet immediately backed away, the youngling not once taking his optics off of him.

"He's not comfortable yet around strangers," Prowl explained simply. "Not even Hound or Beachcomber had been allowed to come too close. The only one he's even moderately comfortable with is Jazz."

"Somehow I'm not surprised," Ratchet said dryly. The Special Ops mech practically oozed charisma, and had a special talent for making friends with anyone with a spark pulse. Assuming they weren't a Decepticon who was actively trying to kill him off course, and considering how many scraps he's gotten himself in and out of already, even that was up for debate.

"Don't be afraid, Ratchet only wants to help you," Prowl said to the youngling. "He is not going to hurt you."

Still the youngling pressed against Prowl, pulling his hand closer until his face was half hidden by the appendage. Ratchet took another step back.

"This could be tricky," Ratchet said. He looked at Prowl. "Can I at least get a name for the kid?"

The black and white considered for a moment, before pulling out a datapad from his subspace. He held it down for the dirty youngling, who peeked at it with one optic from behind Prowls large hand.

"Write it out your name for Ratchet, just like we were doing before," Prowl instructed. The younger doorwinger looked up at him, to the data pad, then back up at Prowl, before he finally took the datapad. He laid it flat on his lap, and carefully typed out one long word on it. When he was done, he looked up to Prowl for approval (he nodded curtly) before holding it up for Ratchet too read:

BLUESTREAK

"Bluestreak," Ratchet read aloud. "A good name."

The youngling, now known to be Bluestreak, practically melted with relief at Ratchets approval, doorwings lowering and shoulders falling with released tension. Whatever it was he needed to hear, it would appear Ratchet had more or less managed to give it – not that he had a clear idea of why, exactly, Bluestreak needed to hear...whatever it was.

It didn't escape the medic's notice that he still hadn't let go of Prowls hand.

"So what's with the datapad?" Ratchet asked.

"It's how he communicates," Prowl answered. "As far as we know, he can't talk."

"Can't talk? What do you mean he can't talk?"

"He hasn't spoken once since we found him," Prowl explained. "We've been using a blank datapad to communicate up to this point. The field medic couldn't figure out why without a more thorough examination, but he didn't have the tools to give one. The only thing he could find at all was his clogged intakes."

"The state of a bot's intakes shouldn't have anything to do with his vocal processors," Ratchet mused aloud. "Not unless he's got something else going on."

Ratchet picked up the hand held scanner from the table and adjusted the settings for the patient. Since the youngster had a rather wide radius for his personal space, this would be his best tool for the moment.

But as soon as Bluestreak saw the medical tool in his hand, his optics flashed pale blue in fear as he violently flinched back, and he scrambled backwards onto the table and crawled completely behind Prowl, keeping the adult Praxian between himself and the medic.

The adults stared at him.

"Primus. What does he think I'm going to do?" Ratchet wondered, sincerely distressed that he inadvertently kept frightening the young survivor.

"Considering what he may have seen after the city was attacked, many would probably prefer not to know," Prowl said rather darkly.

It took awhile, but the tactician finally managed to coax Bluestreak out from behind him and to sit still long enough for Ratchet to run the necessary scanner. The CMO tried to keep it short for him, but as soon as he felt the light tingle of the scan, Bluestreak went completely rigid and didn't relax until it was over.

Terrified of strangers, scared of unknown tools, apparently can't talk…thank Primus they managed to avoid the rest of the base population on the way to the medbay. Ratchet did want to think what effect a few dozen well meaning mechs crowding around him would have had. Wait a klick…

"Come to think of it, how did you two manage to make it to the medbay without half the army following you?" Ratchet asked, honestly curious.

Prowls one-word answer was explanation enough: "Jazz."

oOoOoOo

The interesting thing about good news and good stories is that they tended to travel at mind-boggling speeds and spread faster that a mutated case of cosmic rust. Once word got around of a survivor being found, and a little youngling to boot, every mech and his drinking buddy wanted a chance to see him, even if it would only be a glimpse of him coming down the hall. In less than a joor he became symbolic of a ray of light, a small figure of hope in the middle of a horrible tragedy.

Which is why, when Prowl and everyone came into sight of the Autobot HQ, they all stopped dead in their tracks at the sight of at least fifty if not a hundred mechs milling around pretending they had Important Reasons to loiter there.

"Wow." Hound commented.

"Don't any of them have better things to do?" Prowl asked irritably. He felt movement shifting, and he looked down to his left where the youngling had been standing. The dirty youngster, upon seeing the crowd waiting to see him, had started inching behind Prowl like a shield, his grip on his hand tightening further as he tried to hide, his door wings dropping low and his other hand on his chest, the doll held close to his body in the crook of his elbow.

The four adults watched the youngling try to disappear into Prowls shadow, and then looked up at each other.

"We can't let him face them all like this," Beachcomber said, speaking what everyone had already thought. "He's already starting to freak out, and I really don't want to stress him out even more."

"Indeed." Prowl said. He beckoned Jazz to come closer.

"Jazz, take Bluestreak in through one of the special entrances for Special Ops, one no one else will think to stake out. The rest of us will just have to wait out here until he's safely in the medbay."

Beachcomber peered over to the milling crowd. "I'm not sure even Ratchet would be able to hold them ALL back." He said doubtfully.

Jazz, Prowl, and Hound all looked at him blankly.

"…You haven't been to Ratchets medbay yet, have you?" Hound asked slowly.

"We've got one nice backdoor that'll drop us off a skip away from th' medbay," Jazz broke in. He came over and knelt down by the hiding Bluestreak. When the youngling peeked at him with one optic, Jazz gave him a warm smile.

"Hey Blue, we're gonna play a little game. We're going t' pretend we're spies on a mission, and we're going t' go through a top secret entrance so we can get to the Prime. Does that sound like fun?"

Bluestreak shyly smiled and nodded a little. Jazz's smile grew even bigger.

"Fantastic. Knew you were an adventurous little kid." Jazz straightened and held out a hand. Bluestreak contemplated for a moment, and then held up his doll for Prowl. It actually took the black and white an extra couple of klicks to realize he was supposed to take it.

"Don't you want to take that with you?" he asked, honestly puzzled. Bluestreak frowned slightly, shaking the doll a little as if to emphasize that he was serious about passing it over. Prowl slowly took it, holding it by one arm and letting it dangled limply in his hand. But, Bluestreak seemed content that his doll was in safe keeping (as confused as it was) and turned around to take Jazz's still waiting hand with his now free one.

"Ya know what that means, right?" Jazz asked Prowl with a significant look.

"Enlighten me," Prowl said flatly.

"'Kay. He's saying he wants ya to visit him later. He's expectin' ya t' give it back t' him, y'know."

"...I see. Still, it's hardly necessary, he doesn't need to use sentimentality to extract a nonverbal promise of meeting me again, or an attempt to trick me into coming down by giving me something to return to him-"

"Prowl. Jus' take it."

"…Very well then. Though I don't know why he didn't think I wouldn't come see him anyway."

Jazz blinked behind his visor, before he grinned.

"Good. See ya'll in a bit then. C'mon Blue."

Jazz gave Hound and Beachcomber a jaunty wave before he led Bluestreak away.

Or tried to.

He got about two steps before he was pulled back. "Eh?"

The youngling was now stretched out between the trying-to-leave Jazz and the unmovable Prowl, both adults looking slightly confused. Bluestreak looked back at Prowl and tugged on his hand with a slight, disapproving frown, as if to say, 'we're leaving now, hurry up,' as if he was the one responsible for the hold up.

Hound discreetly took an image capture and added it to his growing "Why I Love This Kid" file.

"No Bluestreak," Prowl said firmly. "You're the only one going with Jazz. I'm staying here."

Bluestreak frowned further, and tugged more insistently on Prowls arm. Prowl raised a brow.

"No Bluestreak. I can't go, I'm not Special Ops," he explained patiently. "We're making an exception for you because you're young and these are extenuating circumstances, but it's against protocol for Jazz to show me the entrance you're about to use. Having too many unauthorized bot's using the entrance would compromise its security and secrecy. Besides, it's not as if you need me anyway; you're in capable hands with Jazz."

Bluestreak dropped Jazz's hand like a hot poker and scuttled back to Prowls side so fast they bumped together with an audible clank.

Prowl slowly shuttered his optics at the huddled mass of metal that had suddenly magnetized itself to his hip, looking utterly flummoxed. Jazz had to turn around and muffle his laughter in the crook of his elbow. Hound and Beachcomber didn't even bother trying to hide their (loud) amusement.

"Okay, maybe I was wrong 'bout Blue giving you the doll as a clever trick t' see ya again." Jazz admitted with a grin threatening to split his face in half. "Guess he just wanted ya t' hold it so he'd have a free hand. Y'know, I'd almost be offended if this wasn't just so cute."

Prowl patted Bluestreak on the top of his helm with the awkwardness of someone who vaguely knew they were supposed to do something, but weren't quite sure what it was.

Jazz clapped his hands together, grabbing everyone's attention.

"Well, that settles it!" he proclaimed cheerfully. "Makin' Blue go through the crowd would be just plain cruel, he won't leave Prowl, and technically Prowl ain't allowed t' go through our Super Special Secret doors 'cos they're, y'know, secret. Which leaves one option."

"Create a hologram of line dancing Decepticons and get everyone to look the other way?" Hound guessed.

"Temptin', but no. Prowl comes with me and Blue, but wears a blindfold so we're not breakin' any rules."

"I will do no such thing!"

oOoOoOo

"I'm still not entirely sure how he talked me into it," Prowl confessed. Bluestreak managed a little smile at the memory, the first real expression Ratchet saw on him other than blankness or fear. As if on impulse, Bluestreak turned and briefly rubbed his chevroned forehead against the back of Prowls hand. Prowl glanced down at him, and his face softened minutely at the sign of affection.

This didn't escape Ratchets notice either.

"Prowl?"

"Yes?"

"Out of curiosity, has Bluestreak let go of your hand since you found him?"

"Only when we've traded hands."

"You're a remarkably patient mech, you know that?"

"Hardly. I was bringing him here anyway. The constant contact didn't take anything out of me but gave comfort to him. I had no logical reason to deny him this."

"Of course. You're just being logical about this, as always."

"Why are you grinning, Ratchet?"

"No reason. By the way, where is Jazz now anyway?"

"Keeping everyone away from here by making them think Bluestreak is in my office, with me. On the other side of the base."

"Heh. Least now I know I won't have to deal with the nosy freaks popping in every half breem for every inane reason they can think of and then some just to grab a peek."

Ratchet read over the results of his initial scan of Bluestreak thoughtfully. "Well, I don't know how he did it, but except for some superficial scratches he's completely fine. Even the clogged intakes aren't so bad, though we need to get those cleaned out and the filters replaced as soon as we can before they create a whole new mess. I'll set up the equipment. Prowl, get him cleaned up."

"Very well, Rat…wait, excuse me?"

Ratchet leveled Prowl a steady look. "Bluestreak may be physically fine, but we've already seen just how uncomfortable he is with just me, to put it mildly. So for now, you're stuck here helping me until Bluestreak says otherwise. Sinks over there; go clean all that dirt off of him, I can't do anything else when he looks like a walking pile of slag, and I'm certainly not going to be able to clean out his intakes without you keeping him calm enough to even let me come anywhere near him."

Well, when Ratchet put it like that, Prowl didn't have any to say against it. He still needed to write up a report of his observations and another for the mission, and to prepare for the command meeting he was invited to sit in (again) later tonight, but Bluestreak took precedence over all that right now.

"Very well then," he said instead. "Come along Bluestreak, let's do what the medic says."

Bluestreak obediently hopped down from the table and trotted along-side Prowl, still hugging his doll.

Ratchet watched the pair appraisingly for several seconds, before turning back to his task of preparing the vacuums and scrubbers to clean out Bluestreaks intakes of every speck of dust that had accumulated over the last couple of orns. Behind him, he could hear Prowl filling up the large sink with diluted solvent solution, a splash as Bluestreak was settled in, then the soft sound of brushes rubbing back and forth against metal. Curious, Ratchet snuck a peek over his shoulder.

Apparently, Bluestreak had decided he didn't want to let go of his doll, even while bathing. Rather than argue the point with more than a cursory warning that it would get wet, Prowl had let him take it into the sink with him. So while Prowl used one of the larger brushes to clean off Bluestreaks back, shoulders, and wings, Bluestreak himself was using a smaller brush (meant for detail work) to wash his doll in the corresponding places, his movement imitating Prowls almost perfectly.

Ratchet discreetly took a few image captures of yet another irredeemably adorable moment.

He took another one of the look on Prowls face when, after over half a breem of scrubbing in the same spot, he finally realized that it wasn't just the ash and dust; Bluestreak, despite his name, was supposed to be grey.

Still, the youngling was clearly most comfortable with Prowl, for reasons many bots probably wouldn't be able to fully understand. Not that Ratchet could blame the young one – he was probably latching onto the closest familiar figure around, even if it was a total stranger. More so, Prowl was demonstrating himself to be remarkably adept at handling the youngling. Granted, he had his awkward moments, and he kept needing hints as to the appropriate reactions, but all in all he was doing better than…well, just about everyone else would have expected, considering his less-than-flattering reputation regarding interpersonal relationships. Even more remarkably, he managed to obtain, and keep, Bluestreaks trust. The only time the youngling seemed able to relax was when he was with Prowl.

Actually…hmm…

oOoOoOo

The officer's meeting was a relatively quick, straight forward affair. It had been dedicated almost entirely to reactions to Praxus, what their next move should be, listening to Prowls presentation of what he had seen and what it had added to earlier hypothesis (which, admittedly, wasn't much, but every little bit counted where military intelligence was concerned), and what could be done to prevent or anticipate future such attacks, if it was even possible.

Optimus Prime, naturally, sat at the head of the table flanked by his two Sub-Commanders, Ultra Magnus on his right and Elita One on his left. On Ultra Magnus' side of the table sat special guest star Prowl and the Head of Special Ops, Sidestep. On Elita's side were Optimus' official 2iC Lockout, CMO Ratchet, and Weapons Specialist Ironhide.

It should be noted that, due to the realities of fighting a war on multiple fronts, Ultra Magnus and Elita One were not actually at the meeting. Instead, they remained at their respective bases and communicated via advanced hologram projectors set up on their respective seats. The holograms had been Hounds brainchild, so it was no surprise that the holograms were so realistic and well done it was easy to forget that the two military leaders were not actually there.

Once the main meeting was finished, it came time to discuss the final outstanding issue: what was to be done with Bluestreak.

"What's the issue?" Lockout asked. "We'll just do what we intended to do in the first place: send him to the Contingent to take care of, since they already have the systems and resources in place. They were already going to take whatever refugees we found in Praxus. That it's only one youngling only makes this easier for them."

There was a very good reason why Bluestreak being sent to Elita's Contingent was considered a foregone conclusion. The Contingent had not started off as a military unit, but as a non-profit organization created by Elita in the early stages of the war dedicated to helping those most vulnerable – femmes and younglings – to escape the fighting and find safe havens in neutral cities. Over time, the organization started teaching the femmes coming through how to fight and escape, in case the war should catch up with them anyways. Eventually, more and more of the femmes started staying on to help with the work, instead of just passing on and through. Over time the organization evolved into a serious fighting force, taking a more active role in protecting the neutrals and turning the traditional weaknesses of the femmes – lack of firepower and pure physical strength – into advantages, concentrating on speed, stealth, infiltration and sabotage.

In short, by sheer necessity Elita's Contingent became masters of Guerilla warfare, and continued to operate largely independent of the main Army.

However, they still stayed true to their original purpose of helping those caught in the crossfire's of the war and protecting the refugee camps for those who had run out of places to go. As such, they had the experience, resources, and contacts needed to help any lost sparks – such as young Bluestreak. Due to the overwhelming percentage of femmes serving under Elita, her force had been colloquially termed the Femme Contingent, which was either met with pride, amusement, or frothing-and-the-mouth fury, depending on who you talked to.

"Unfortunately, that isn't an option anymore, at least for now," Elita said. "Our situation has slightly changed from three orns ago when we decided this. Shockwave has been cracking down in our area, trying to find our base. He's not too close to us yet, but we've already had to evacuate one camp, and a couple of others are on ready alert. Until he passes us by, it's too risky for us to move too much, let alone sneak a youngling in from three city-states away."

Prowl sat up a little straighter at Shockwaves name. It was fairly common knowledge the mech was one of Megatron's most loyal and trusted (well, as trusted as someone like Megatron could trust) officers he had. Unfortunately, that was ALL they knew about him. Unlike Starscream, who practically called attention to himself like a magnet to iron shavings, or Soundwave, who was a constant shadow by his leader, Shockwave was so behind the scenes that they actually have very little information on him. They didn't even know what he looked like! That Elita's Contingent was pinned down by him, while bad in and of itself, could potentially yield fruits of this mysterious officer if her team was able to take advantage of it.

"Is it safe for you to be communicating with us now?" Ultra Magnus asked in slight alarm.

Elita smiled. "This channel has been secured by the best minds using the most cutting edge technology available. This channel is as secure as it can ever get, and at the very least, it won't be touched, let alone hacked, without everyone knowing it."

"How long until it's safe for you to move again?" Optimus asked, leaning slightly forward in his seat.

"Optimistically? A few deca-orns at the very soonest. We can probably take Bluestreak then, but he's still going to need someone to take care of him in the mean time."

"With all due respect, ma'am, we can't very well just keep him here," Prowl pointed out. "A military base is not the place for younglings. He needs to be someplace where he'll be safe."

"Like Praxus was?" Sidestep asked.

That earned him a few horrified looks for his incredible tactlessness.

"Sorry if I offend," Sidestep went on. "But you get my point. After what happened, can we really say any place is safe anymore? If anything, right now the kid's in the safest place on the planet. Might not be the best place, but it's the safest. But if anyone is bursting with ideas of where else he can stay for the next four or five deca-orns, I'm all audio's."

"That wouldn't be the best for him either," Elita put in. "After what he's been through, what he needs most is a sense of consistency, security, and routine. He won't get that if he keeps getting uprooted as we play potshot in placing him in possible havens."

"Our priority, regarding the youngling, should be getting him to a safe, distant place," Lockout put in. "This army shouldn't be expected to waste time and mech-power keeping him comfortable."

"This isn't a matter of Bluestreaks 'comfort', Lockout," Ironhide said icily. "It's about helpin' an orphaned youngling instead of makin' everythin' worse. Bad enough we couldn't save his home 'n family. Least we can do is protect him best we can."

"Obviously, we don't want to bring any more harm to the youngling than what he's already suffered," Lockout said blandly. "But there is only so much we should be willing to do. We're an army, not a day care center."

If Ratchet hadn't been sitting between the two, Ironhide may very well have punched him out of his chair.

"That's enough, Lockout." Optimus broke in firmly. "While you bring up valid points, it doesn't change the facts: the Contingent can't take Bluestreak yet, and since he has nowhere else to go, he has to stay with us, pure and simple. That just leaves the matter of what happens in the meantime."

"If Bluestreak is going to be staying on your base for the immediate future, then the biggest thing to figure out is who's going to be his Caretaker," Ultra Magnus brought up thoughtfully. "You would know better than me, Optimus, but I can't imagine you have a whole lot of mechs with the time, energy, and experience to give Bluestreak the care and attention he needs right now."

"Bluestreak has thus far shown himself to be nothing if not obedient, well-behaved, and eager to please," Prowl brought up. "Yes, he has shown signs of separation anxiety, but he will not be a burden to whoever takes him in."

"Outta curiosity, 'bout how long do you think it'll take ya'll to find a home for him?" Ironhide asked Elita.

The femme tilted her heat a little thoughtfully. "Not too long, I should think. We've already been looking into homes for a pair of brothers that came through here not too long ago, and while none of the families I spoke with couldn't take two at once, they might be more willing to take one. Still, it will also depend on his physical, mental, and emotional well being. Not all homes will be equally ready to care for all types of hurt. Ratchet?"

"Physically, he's fine," the medic answered. "Perfectly healthy 8 vorn old youngling."

Prowls head snapped around. "He can't possibly be eight already, he's too small for his model."

"He's a bit behind on his upgrades, but it's nothing that'll threaten his health right now," Ratchet explained. "Still, I'd prefer if he was caught up as soon as possible."

"That'll have to be a duty for his future foster family to see to," Lockout put in. "We don't have the supplies to spare to do it ourselves right now."

"Prowl, you've spent the most time with him so far, from what I understand," Elita continued, looking at the doorwinger across the table. "What is he like when he talks to you, or to others?"

"He doesn't."

The femme shuttered her optics. "Excuse me?"

"He's not talking. At all." Prowl elaborated. "He can write, but his answers tend to be short and to the point. He might also be having memory problems as well; he could tell me his name, but when I asked him his age or about any family he might have outside of Praxus, he couldn't answer me."

"I only figured out his real age because I knew what to look for," Ratchet confirmed.

Lockout frowned. "How can you be so sure it's an actual memory lapse? It could be your assessment of his "obedient" and "well-behaved" nature is inaccurate, and he's just choosing to not answer. If so, it could be a precursor to less tolerable acts of rebellion or attention seeking antics."

Prowl stiffened in his seat, his wings flaring angrily behind him in an unconscious move to make him look bigger and more threatening, fingers curling slightly on the table even as his expression sharpened into laser-like intensity right on Lockout.

Before Prowl could say anything, Optimus spoke up first.

"I understand you're trying to play the necessary role of Unicrons advocate, Lockout, but you can't make such assumptions without having ever met the youngling." Optimus said, his voice even but with a subtle undercurrent of anger, reflected in the identical harsh glares Lockout was getting from Ultra Magnus and Elita One.

"Optimus Prime is correct, Lockout," Prowl said slowly, his tone conveying volumes of what, exactly, he thought of the mech right then. "Bluestreak has been at my side for several joors now, and while I don't claim that's a long time to get to know anyone, and certainly not enough to fully understand him, I've seen enough to know he is not playing mute must for the sake of it. For whatever reason, he can't talk, and he's suffering from genuine memory lapses. After surviving the total annihilation of his home city and probably spending two orns believing he was the last bot alive in the world, it's incredible he's doing as well as he is. I only wish more of the mechs I knew were half as strong as he is!"

The other mechs, and femme, stared at Prowl, some with slightly open mouths, as the taciturn "walking calculator" gave what was easily the most impassioned speech any of them had ever heard out of him.

Lockout held Prowls gaze for several seconds, lips pressed together angrily. But, he dropped his gaze after a few seconds as he ducked his head in head in humble acknowledgement.

"You're right, Prowl. My apologies, I went too far."

Prowl nodded once stiffly, doorwings lowering slightly but still rigid. The offense had been forgiven, but not forgotten. Infamous reputation aside, it looked like Prowl had already developed a bit of a protective, soft spot for the youngling. The usual-Prowl wouldn't have gotten nearly so upset or demonstrative about it, and it was throwing everyone through a bit of a loop.

Ratchet leaned back in his seat as he watched Prowl, resting his chin on his knuckles, expression serious in contemplation.

Slowly, he smiled.

Ratchet held up a hand. "If I may, Optimus, I'd like to make a Caretaker recommendation based on my observations up to this point."

"Very well, Ratchet," Optimus allowed. "What's your recommendation?"

"Since Bluestreak is going to be staying here for the foreseeable future, he's going to need a Caretaker who spends the majority of his time on-base, is not an officer, and would be able to give him the structure he needs as he starts to emotionally and mentally recover, but without coddling him."

"You got any names?" Sidestep asked.

"Just one: Prowl."

Ratchet patiently waited for everyone's CPU's to catch up with what he just said.

"Are you out of your fragging PROCESSOR?!" Ironhide burst out, looking genuinely horrified. "Bluestreaks might've taken a shine to him fer now, but he's the LAST mech on the planet who should be allowed to take care of a youngling!"

Pause.

"Outside the Decepticons, anyway," he amended.

Sidestep patted Prowls shoulder in mock comfort.

"Don't worry Prowl, I'm sure he's saying that with nothing but love and affection in his spark."

"No offense taken," the Praxian said blandly. "If anything, I'm in full agreement. Ratchet, while I appreciate the show of trust, I don't have the qualities of a proper caretaker, or the time."

"You told me in the medbay just how clingy he is to you already, and you admitted yourself he has separation anxiety," Ratchet reminded him, arms crossed over his chest. "Frankly, after seeing how freaked out he was with me, I doubt he'd allow us to assign him to someone else."

"You do spend almost all your time on base, with few exceptions," Optimus noted thoughtfully. "As a tactician, you don't see the front lines as often as most soldiers."

Prowl snapped his head around to stare incredulously at his commander.

"Sir, you can't honestly be considering this!"

"Technically, he's not an officer, so that's already two out of three requirements," Ultra Magnus added, sounding just a little bit too amused for Prowls taste.

"And he's the most 'routine' and 'structured' mech I know," Sidestep added – and he was full out grinning, the slagger.

"Am Ah the only one who sees a problem with this??" Ironhide exclaimed. "Look, yer all right that Prowl checks off all the boxes, but the only reason the kid glued himself to Prowl is because he found him first. Prime, let me take care of the kid. At least Ah'll know what Ah'm doin'!"

"I agree with Ironhide," Prowl put in. "I don't know anything about younglings. Ironhide would be a better choice. If not him, then perhaps Jazz. Bluestreak likes him too, and they already seem good together. In fact, just about anyone would be a better choice, within reason."

"Ironhide's an officer, and his duties as such need to come first," Optimus reminded them. "And while I'm sure Jazz would have made a good caretaker, his place in Special Ops gives him a less than consistent schedule. He's gone five or six orns out of ten."

"Even if he wasn't, I wouldn't let you put Bluestreak with him," Sidestep put in candidly. "Jazz's spark would be in the right place, and he'd have a grand time of it, but he'd be too busy being the kid's friend to be his parent."

Prowl shook his head in disbelief that this was actually happening.

Optimus leaned forward until he was resting on one elbow against the table.

"Prowl, you won't be doing this entirely on your own," he said seriously. "I can think of a dozen mechs off the top of my head who, while they can't be Bluestreaks Caretaker, would be more than happy to lend their support and assistance. Believe it or not, you are a great deal more qualified that you're giving yourself credit for. Besides, this isn't a permanent arrangement. It will only have to last for a few deca-orns. You can last that long at least."

"How can you possibly know how qualified I am?" Prowl asked.

Optimus' optics twinkled mischievously.

"Prowl, where exactly is Bluestreak right now?" he asked innocently.

The Praxian stared at him blankly.

"Respectfully sir, you know just as well as I do where he is," he said, sounding honestly confused by the question.

"Refresh my memory," Optimus replied patiently.

Still looking slightly confused, Prowl did so: "He's under the table."

Dead silence.

Almost all at once everyone scooted their chairs back a bit and ducked down to check, the only exceptions being Optimus and Ratchet (Ultra Magnus and Elita were bitterly disappointed to remember that, as holograms, they couldn't actually look under the table like everyone else).

At Prowls feet laid Bluestreak, on his stomach with his pedes up and swaying gently back and forth, smiling and happily drawing and coloring away on a drawing tablet, completely caught up in his art and wholly oblivious to the multiple sets of optics on him. Lying next to him was the now-cleaned knot doll he'd brought with him, the same shade of grey as its owner.

"I don't know if that's cute or just plain bizarre," Sidestep admitted once everyone was sitting back up, Optimus having finished describing the image to his physically absent Sub-Commanders.

"Where did you get the tablet?" Lockout asked, honestly curious. It wasn't like they had a secret storage of toys on hand, after all.

"I borrowed it from Hoist before I came here," Prowl explained. "He's even going to let Bluestreak keep it, since he seems to like it so much and he recently managed to get a brand new one."

"Did you know he was down there this whole time?" Elita asked her bondmate.

"Prowl came early so he could ask my permission to bring him," Optimust replied, and while his mask hid his face, there was no mistaking the bright smile him his optics.

"Bluestreak has a great deal of anxiety about being alone, and I knew he wouldn't cause any problems," Prowl explained reasonably. "It's not as though I did anything that no one else could have."

Optmus and Ratchet exchanged a look. Actually, everyone was exchanging looks. With a sinking feeling, Prowl realized he had somehow managed to seal the deal all on his own.

"I will be taking Ratchets recommendation then," Optimus said. "Prowl, you are to act as Bluestreaks Caretaker until the Contingent is able to take him or finds a foster family for him, whichever happens first. If there is nothing else, this meeting is adjourned."

The officers all stood to leave, Sidestep patting Prowl on the shoulder and mentioning something about sending Jazz down to help out, Ironhide shaking his head at the whole affair and sending pitying looks to the youngling hidden under the table top. Ultra Magnus flickered out of sight as he cut his communication link. In less than a breem, the only ones left were Prowl, Optimus, and Elita.

"Is there something else, Prowl?" the Prime asked.

Prowl hesitated. Elita took the hint.

"If you mechs will excuse me for a few moments," she said, before flickering out of sight as well.

Once they were alone, Prowl leaned forward to rest his weight on his elbows against the table, body language conveying seriousness and gravity, and sent a ping over Optimus' comm. asking for a link. Optimus opened it up, and Prowl wasted no time on preamble.

*Optimus, you and Ratchet know perfectly well that I am…uniquely unsuited for this. Forgive me if I'm being too forward, but why are the two of you pushing so hard for this?*

*Your 'unique unsuitability,' as you so put it, doesn't change the other facts,* Optimus said. *Be honest Prowl, and forget facts and logic; do you believe that Bluestreak would be willing to accept anyone else at this point?*

Prowl was silent.

*I'm not doing this simply because it's what Bluestreak wants, but because I truly believe you are the best choice for this, whatever your personal evaluation is,* Optimus went on kindly. *However, if you truly feel inadequate, or sincerely do not want to do this, say the word and I will assign guardianship to someone else.*

Prowl was silent for a long, long moment.

*I would…prefer not to inconvenience anyone else with what should be my duty, and I would prefer not to upset Bluestreak more than necessary.* he said at last.

Optimus smiled.

"I'll have someone bring a cot to your room tonight then," Optimus said aloud.

Prowl stood. "Thank you sir."

He rapped his knuckles twice against the tabletop. "We're done Bluestreak. It's time to go."

As summoned, the youngling crawled out from under the table, arms full with doll and drawing tablet.

"You did very good Bluestreak," Optimus complimented him warmly. "You were very well behaved."

Bluestreak smiled a little in thanks and hid shyly half behind Prowl. The tactician placed a hand between his doorwings and led him out of the room, letting the door shut automatically behind them.

Optimus leaned back in his seat and patiently waited.

Almost half a breem later, Elita flickered back into existence.

"So, will he do it?" was the first question she asked.

"He finally agreed to it."

Elita frowned lightly in concern. "Optimus, are you sure this is such a good idea? He did protest quite a bit about taking Bluestreak."

"It's not that Prowl doesn't want to do it, it's that he's not sure if he can," Optimus said. "Prowl is used to working with calculations and probabilities he can plan around. Now he has so many uncertainties about what he's supposed to do he doesn't know where to start. I'd be more surprised if he didn't protest."

"But don't you think he might have protested a bit too much?" Elita pressed. "Ironhide is right, Bluestreak only attached himself to Prowl because he found him first. It could have just as easily been Jazz, Beachcomber, or Hound. If we make Prowl take Bluestreak when he honestly doesn't want to, then it's not fair to either one of them."

"I've only worked with Prowl for about a vorn now, but it's been enough to learn a little about how he works," Optimus replied. "Believe me, Elita, if Prowl really didn't want to do this, nothing short of Primus awakening and personally telling to do it or be smited on the spot would have made him."

"Or a direct order from you."

"Good thing I never made it a direct order, then. I gave him a chance to back out. He didn't take it."

"Didn't he? Interesting."

"I think this will do the both of them a great deal of good before this is over. Bluestreak is not the only one who could use a little bit of help."

oOoOoOo

Ratchet gathered up all this tools and put everything back for the night. It was late, but no medic worth his coolant left his tools out overnight or allowed his medbay to remain a mess, no matter how chaotic the day had been (and he'd had some doozies).

The last spot he addressed was the sink. Not that Prowl left a mess; the mech was so tidy himself, all Ratchet expected to do was a cursory inspection to make sure everything had been put back in its proper place and the clothes sent to be cleaned.

Except…

Well, this was odd. It seemed that Prowl had forgotten to put the cap back on the bottle of solvent he had used. Odd, Prowl didn't strike him as the type to make such a careless oversight. Annoyingly enough, Ratchet couldn't find the cap anywhere in the sink or the counter. It must have fallen to the floor and rolled under something, but Ratchet wouldn't know until he started rolling equipment around, and he did NOT have the energy for that tonight.

So, Ratchet improvised with a piece of foil and wire to cover the open bottle and set it aside for later. The cap would probably turn up in its own due time.

AN: Regarding the tablet…yes, I know there is a real artist tool out there called a tablet (people on deviantart seem to love them), and it seemed to work in the context of the Transformers. Seriously, can anyone really imagine them using paper and crayons?

Just so you know, the idea actually came from greenapplefreak on Deviantart. She made the point with her picture, "Extra Hours." Check it out, it's adorable. Just copy and paste the link (and remove the spaces):

http : // greenapplefreak . deviantart . com / art / Extra - Hours – 124177823

Regarding the origins of the Femme Contingent…it was something I came up with for when I was writing "To Protect What is Precious" (movie-verse) to explain why, exactly, there's an all-femme fighting force in the first place. I liked it so much, I continued it in "Elita One, 28 Times." If you're curious about it, it's explained in more detail in chapter 6, "Playing with Kids".

Reviews are love. Reviews that say more than just 'more please' are even better.